“I can do that.”
“You’re not here to clean. You’re here to write Aunt Myrna’s history.”
“I could do both.”
“Doesn’t sound like efficient use of your time,” he said, and came down to move the ladder again. “I’m sure you have better things to do than clean an old apartment.”
He moved it under the last section of pipe, then climbed back up to wrap the end of the cable around the end of the pipe. When he glanced down at her, her wonderful green eyes looked all uncertain and worried. Damn. She was leaving soon. He couldn’t forget that, and neither should she. But when she looked at him that way…
“You know what I’m thinking about?” he asked as he climbed down the ladder.
She was just watching him, her soft, full lips partially open. It seemed so natural to kiss her. So he did. And again. Then still again.
“Umm,” she murmured, and lay against his chest. “I like the way you think.”
“Actually, I was thinking how great a hot cup of chocolate would taste about now.”
She sighed.
“Hey,” he said. “Us guys like chocolate.”
“In the house or out here?”
“I think it would be much more comfortable in the house.”
“Umm.” She looked around the garage. “Are you done in here?”
“There’s always tomorrow,” he replied, kissing her.
And then he kissed her again before she slipped out of his embrace and hurried out the door.
“I’ll clean up out here and then come in,” he called after her.
“Don’t be too long.”
He stared after her as she walked across the yard. Even wearing jeans, a bulky jacket and boots, she could raise his temperature to the boiling point. Maybe he needed to roll around in a snowbank before he went inside.
A soft clicking on the bare wooden stairs told him that Gus was awake and coming down.
“Good thing she’s not going to be here too much longer,” Mike told his dog. “A woman like that can get to be a habit.”
“Everything’s been digitized,” the librarian said. “And you can do a search by name or date.”
“Wow!” Casey said, and meant it. The library at Andrews University here in town was far better than she’d expected.
“Isn’t it great? We got a grant a few years back for some computer-science students to enter all the back issues of the Herald Palladium. We are really lucky.”
“I’ll say,” Casey said. “This is going to make my job a whole lot easier.”
“And you can make copies of anything you find,” the librarian said. “Just put a dime in the slot here.”
In the past Casey had spent days going through microfilm copies of old newspapers and had expected to do so here, also. Of course, all this progress had a downside, too. The faster she was done with her research, the sooner the job would be over and the sooner she’d be gone.
She tried telling herself that it would be good to get home, but her heart didn’t seem to believe it. Things had been going so well with Mike for the last few days; it was hard to imagine just walking away from it all.
Best not to think about it then, she told herself, and got down to work. She searched the back issues of the newspaper for the name Van Horne and was overwhelmed with data. Articles and articles in which they were mentioned, giving her a unique sense of what life was like back in the early part of the century. Photos of Simon and his brother at all different kinds of community events; each of them separately at family affairs. She discovered that Simon had loved peppermint and that Stella had founded the local garden club. Casey followed through with searches for Simon’s brother’s children and then for Stella, her brother and her brother’s children.
Casey spent hours poring over the computer screen, delving even further into the lives of the family. There were just too many articles and too much information to figure out what was important and what wasn’t. She began making copies of everything, slipping dimes into the slot until she had a thick stack of printouts. When she went to get change from yet another dollar bill, a slip of paper fell from her wallet. It was her clipping from the South Bend Tribune about her abandonment. She frowned at it for a long time, then thought, Why not? She’d found lots of articles about Benton Harbor in this paper. Grabbing up her change, she went back to the computer.
She told it to search for abandoned babies, in Benton Harbor and in the year after her birth. It would find one similar to the one in her wallet, she told herself. And maybe a follow-up one when she’d been placed in foster care. Why was she even doing this?
That was a good question, she thought as she watched the machine whir through its search. Why was she doing this? Was she looking for pain? No, she didn’t think so. Maybe she was feeling strong and ready to handle whatever came up.
What came up was a slew of articles. Maybe there’d been more abandoned babies at that time beside her, she thought as she flipped through the articles. Then stopped. The headline screamed out at her: Mother Charged with Child Endangerment.
It was her mother, Casey realized as she read, dumbfounded. They had found her. Two weeks after she’d abandoned Casey in that church basement, they’d found her, when she’d had to seek medical attention. Rosemarie Widdington. She’d been sixteen and looked about fourteen in the photo.
Casey tried to read Rosemarie’s eyes, tried to see something in them that said she was scared or sorry or anything, but what could you see in a lousy newspaper photo that had been digitized and further blurred? She just looked sullen and slightly defiant.
Casey sat back with a sigh. She stared at the screen for one more moment, then hit the button to kill the search. She didn’t need to read any more. But the image of her mother’s face didn’t disappear when the screen cleared. It continued to dance in Casey’s mind.
Her mother. She had a face now and a name. Did it make it easier or harder?
It made it time to leave, Casey decided, and she gathered up her stuff. She wanted to be home all of a sudden, then stopped with a quick laugh. No, it wasn’t home. It was Mike’s house—silly mistake to make. But that was where she wanted to be, someplace she felt safe and able to think.
It was later than she’d thought, she realized as she hurried out to the car, and she hadn’t even thought about dinner. Well, she’d see what was in the fridge and whip something up. If she hurried, she’d have time to bake some quick bread in the bread machine.
The animals were all waiting for her when she got in. She let Gus out and refilled the cats’ dry food before checking out the refrigerator. There were lots of ingredients, but no ideas popped into her head. She flicked on the kitchen TV as she let Gus back in, then pulled a cookbook off the shelf.
“There’s got to be an idea in here someplace,” she said, as voices from some talk show or other filled the kitchen. “Do we have flank steak? Do we have chicken tenderloins? I don’t think so. It looks like I’m going to have to go to the store if I want something edible.”
She picked up the remote control, but before she could turn off the set, the regular program was interrupted by a news flash—images of men milling about, smashed up cars and a police car upside down on a snowy country road. Her breath caught.
The announcer’s voice seemed to fill the room, but made little sense. “High speed chase…police from various departments…a serious accident off the interstate…state police…”
The words were a blur as Casey stared at the TV. It showed a dark blue police car lying in the road. A Michigan State Police cruiser. Fear clutched at her stomach, stealing her breath away.
Don’t let it be Mike. Don’t let it be Mike.
The camera panned back to the disabled car again. Number 9348. Her heart stopped. Mike’s car.
Chapter Ten
“Oh, Gus, it can’t be him,” Casey said, hugging the dog to her and trying to keep back the tears. “Mike will be fine. He has to be.”
But her assuran
ces couldn’t stem the flow from her eyes. She looked around for a tissue, settling for a paper towel.
“Don’t you worry none,” she said, after blowing her nose. “That big lug of a guy will come through that door in a couple of hours. And the first thing he’ll say is what’s for dinner? You just wait and see.”
She went into the living room, though, turning on the larger television, as if the bigger screen would contain more information, then sat on the floor with Gus on one side and her cats climbing into her lap. The Christmas tree was a silent reminder of the joy they’d shared, and she tried hard not to let it into her line of vision, but it didn’t matter. The smell of pine was enough to bring Mike into the room.
On the TV screen, images of ambulances and emergency crews now danced. No one said anything about Mike being hurt, but then they didn’t immediately give names in situations like this, did they? Didn’t they wait until the next of kin had been notified?
And who would that be? His father? Mrs. Jamison? Certainly not herself. Casey wouldn’t learn anything until they announced it to the public.
She could feel the fear build up in her body, coming out not as a shiver but as a good old-fashioned case of the shakes.
Oh, God. Please don’t let Mike be hurt.
Gus woofed sharply and ran from her to the back door. For a moment Casey danced with hope, but then quickly came back to earth and followed Gus out to the kitchen. It wouldn’t be Mike. Gus never barked when Mike came home.
Casey took a deep breath and opened the door. It was an older woman she’d met at the Pickle Festival.
“I’m Dorothea Kinder,” she said, putting a plate of Christmas cookies into Casey’s hand. “I just heard the news.”
Casey stared down at the little green Christmas-tree cookies and then back up at Mrs. Kinder, who was coming into the house. “Thank you—”
“I don’t supposed there’s been any further word,” she said. “All I saw was Mike’s car on the news.”
Casey just shook her head. “That’s all I saw, too.”
“You have the TV on?” She peered around the room, then nodded. “Good, we’ll know as soon as there’s something to know. Oh, what pretty little pussycats.” She petted the cats, then frowned at Casey. “Tea. That’s what we need, a nice cup of tea. You just sit down and I’ll make us some.”
“You don’t have to—”
There was another knock at the door, but Mrs. Kinder just shooed Casey over to the kitchen table as the cats fled for upstairs. “Sit. Sit. Sit,” the older woman said. “We’ll take care of everything.”
Casey was about to ask who the “we” was, but soon found out. Mrs. Kinder opened the back door to two other ladies, both carrying casseroles—which Mrs. Kinder put in the refrigerator—and offering pats on the back and hugs to Casey.
“He’ll be all right, you’ll see.”
“He’s such a strong young man. Takes more than a car wreck to stop him.”
An elderly man came in with a basket of apples. “Have you eaten?” he asked. “You need to keep up your strength.”
“She’s having tea first,” Mrs. Kinder said, pushing a steaming mug into Casey’s hands before peering at the old man’s apples. “These look delicious, Theo. Perhaps we’ll slice some up for nibbling.”
“Good idea.” He nodded, then looked at Casey. “Where are the knives? No, don’t you bother. I’ll find them.”
Gus came over to sit half under Casey’s chair as people streamed into the house. Stan from the Daybreak Café came over with a pot of chili. Chuck from the hardware store brought a coffee urn and paper cups. Mrs. Randall was there with a ham and someone else brought a gelatin salad.
The news was rerolling the footage from before, showing the accident scene, and everyone stopped talking for a long horrible minute. The cameras seemed frozen on the overturned police car.
“My Margie’s cousin’s brother walked away from a wreck way worse than that,” someone said.
“And Mike, he’d be wearing his seat belt.”
“Sure, seat belts stop everything.”
“Along with air bags.”
“Right, those cop cars got air bags.”
But the assurances just rolled right off her like rain off a slicker. Now that fear had taken hold of her heart, it wasn’t letting go. Casey had seen his police car. How could he be all right? There was no way he could be. Everyone was fooling her, fooling themselves.
Someone else came in. Casey heard Mrs. Kinder fussing about a casserole, but Casey’s eyes were glued to the TV set. How long did it take for them to name names?
“Casey?”
She turned. Darcy had pulled a chair up next to her. The other woman’s eyes were shadowed, as if she knew some terrible secret.
“Have you heard something?” Casey asked.
Darcy just shook her head. “About the accident? No. But how are you?”
What kind of a question was that? Casey wasn’t the one in the accident. “I’m fine,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
The phone rang and Casey started, clutching her hands together. But she couldn’t move to answer it. What if it was bad news?
“Shall I get it, dear?” Mrs. Kinder asked, and picked up the receiver. It must have been another neighbor, for the old woman just repeated the little bit of news they all had.
“You see what it’s like,” Darcy said softly. “You know now, don’t you? The waiting, the awful waiting.”
Casey just turned slowly toward the other woman, taking in her pale skin, the worried eyes, the unsteady breath, and knew it was all a reflection of herself.
“You love him,” Darcy continued, almost too quietly to be heard. “I can see it in every terrified inch of you.”
“That’s crazy,” Casey said. “I’m worried, yes, but we all are.”
“Your worry is different.”
“No, it’s not. He’s just a friend,” Casey insisted.
“Sure.” Darcy got to her feet, then reached over for Casey’s hand. “Just remember the fear never ends. It’ll be there every time he goes out the door.”
“As it is for every friend,” Casey said.
Darcy just gave her a searching look, then went over to the coffee urn Chuck had brought in and began passing around filled cups. Casey watched her for a moment, then turned her gaze back to the television. No matter what Darcy thought, she was wrong. Casey cared about Mike, sure. But she wasn’t in love with him. He was a friend. A confidant. A buddy.
A hand fell on her shoulder. “Casey?” It was Dubber. “There ain’t no need to worry, Casey.”
Casey just hugged him. “I’m fine, honey. I really am.”
Dubber’s face turned bright red, but he stood his ground. “We’re gonna find out what’s going on.”
“I’m sure one of the stations will report something new soon.”
“Nah, reporters don’t know nothing,” Dubber said dismissively. “We’re getting a scanner. A police scanner. Tiffany’s pulling the one out of her father’s car.”
Even as he spoke there was a sharp, insistent banging on the back door, as if someone was kicking it. Dubber opened it and Tiffany strode in, carrying an electronic-looking black box with wires hanging out of it.
“What took you so long?” Dubber scolded as he followed along.
“It was a built-in kind,” Tiffany replied. “So I had to get a battery. It’s sitting on the sled outside.”
Dubber hurried outside while Tiffany put the box on the counter, then began emptying her coat pockets of wires and electrical clips.
Dubber staggered in, carrying a black box that looked like—
”Tiffany,” Casey said. “Did you take the battery out of your father’s car?”
“Uh-huh.” The girl helped Dubber place the battery on the countertop next to the scanner. “This thing only works on DC power.”
“Isn’t he going to be mad when he finds out what you did?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Tiffany slipped off her
boots and busied herself with attaching the scanner to the car battery. “But a woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do.”
She fiddled for a few tense moments, then stepped back. “There. It’s all hooked up.”
Some people had drifted in from the other rooms, and now all waited for information to come spewing out of the scanner. But all the unit did was squawk, putting out an uninterrupted stream of static.
“It needs an aerial,” Dubber said. “Casey, got some coat hangers?”
“Upstairs.”
Tiffany smiled after Dubber, then turned to Casey. “That’s the thing I really like best about my guy,” the girl said. “He’s not just a pretty face. He’s smart, too.”
Dubber was back quickly, and after a few minutes of fiddling, he and Tiffany were able to reduce the static to intermittent bursts. Casey didn’t find the words any more intelligible than the static had been. Most of the talk consisted of numbers, almost all preceded by a ten, and other code words.
“What’s going on?” she finally asked.
Tiffany began translating. “Bank robbery in Dowagiac,” she said.
“Policeman shot there,” Dubber added.
“Three robbers escaped in a pickup.”
“Going west.”
“Heading for the interstate to Detroit.”
“Local police joined in the chase.”
“Perps tried to run a police blockade.”
“Got caught.”
“Three perps injured.”
“And some cops.” Dubber just looked up at Casey. “No names released yet.”
“Man, oh, man,” Mike exclaimed, shaking his head. “Those mutts sure made a mess of my cruiser.”
“Just be glad you got out before they hit you,” his sergeant replied.
The cops had been chasing the perps all over the back roads of Berrien County, but they’d been so familiar with the roads it had been impossible to set up any effective roadblocks.
Mike had been afraid that the jerks would take out a school bus or a civilian, so, when they got close to the Christmas-tree farm, he’d cut across it, using the farm’s series of private roads. Luck had been with him, and he’d popped out on the county road less than a minute before the perps’d come roaring down in their monster truck. Mike had heard the truck before he saw it and had parked his cruiser across the little, two-lane blacktop before diving into the ditch. The driver of the getaway vehicle hadn’t seen the cruiser until he came around the curve, and by then it’d been too late. They’d slammed into his car, sending it rolling while they did an end over end. The capture hadn’t been a problem then.
Christmas Magic Page 16
