by Edie Claire
Armed with new and valuable knowledge, she pulled out the December Post reels for 1970 and started digging. A bank in Monroeville had been robbed on the fourth; the lone gunman had managed to obtain only a few hundred dollars from the frightened teller before he had become spooked and fled. The teller described the man as short and thin, with a dark toupee and false mustache.
Leigh read the account with a rapidly beating heart. Could this have been Mason too? She had no way of knowing. She scanned through several more weeks of microfiche, her head beginning to throb again as the tiny, slightly blurred print flashed by. On the front page of the Post from December 21, 1970, she halted.
Bank Manager Shot in Butler Robbery. It was in the right hand column, prominently displayed. Her stomach did a quick flip-flop, and she swallowed uncomfortably. Her father hadn't said that anyone was hurt.
Richard M. Kirk, a manager at the First Liberty Bank on Main Street in downtown Butler, remains in critical condition today after receiving a gun shot wound to the chest during a robbery at that location late yesterday afternoon. According to several witnesses, two men wearing dark clothing and hairpieces entered the front door of the First Liberty Bank shortly before closing time and drew guns on the bank staff.
One of the men, whom witnesses describe as being in his mid to late twenties and around six feet tall, approached Millicent Knable, a teller, and demanded cash. The other man, described as five feet nine or ten inches tall and in his late teens or early twenties, remained by the door of the bank watching the front of the building.
Witnesses say that Knable was attempting to load cash into a bag when she became flustered and began to fumble the money, agitating the tall gunman. When Kirk stepped away from the other employees to assist her, the gunman fired. He took the bag from Knable, and both men fled.
State police currently have no comment on whether the robbery could be linked to the holdup of the East National Bank in Monroeville earlier this month. Anyone having seen men matching this description in the Butler area yesterday are encouraged to contact the State Police.
Leigh's hand trembled slightly as she scrolled through the microfiche to the next day's headlines. Armed robbery was bad enough, but actually shooting someone?
In critical condition.
She took a deep breath. Had the man died? Surely not, or her father would have mentioned it. She was no scholar of criminal justice, but she did know that a death, intentional or otherwise, definitely raised the stakes on the average felony—for the accomplice as well as the perpetrator.
And Mason Dublin was the accomplice. It was all she was willing to accept. Her father had said that Mason had fallen in with a bad actor, so it made sense. He had stood guard at the door, that was all. He had had no part in the shooting. He had probably felt terrible about it.
Leigh stopped scrolling for a moment and rubbed her aching eyes. She knew she was being silly. No one had ever told her that Mason Dublin was a decent person. In fact, her family had always tried to instill the opposite sentiment, however gently. But he was Cara's father, and that had to count for something. Was it so wrong of her to hope for the best?
Suspect in Butler Shooting Takes Own Life
The headline jumped off the page the moment she opened her eyes, and she read it with a rapidly beating heart.
Facing apprehension by State Police at a motel in Bridgeville, Jerry Lem Donovan, formerly of Kilbuck County, fatally shot himself in the chest with his own handgun. An all-points bulletin had been issued for Donovan in conjunction with two recent bank robberies, one of which resulted in the shooting of an employee...
So, Mason was the accomplice, she confirmed, breathing a little easier.
Descriptions of the two robberies followed, but Leigh's attention was drawn quickly to the end of the article.
No suspects have as yet been identified in the search for Donovan's accomplice in the Butler robbery. The shooting victim remains hospitalized in fair condition.
Fair condition. Her hopes rose. So, the bank manager had probably recovered. The State Police had failed to finger the accomplice, and Mason Dublin left town with his reputation—such as it was—intact, never to be seen again.
At least not until now.
She scanned through the next three weeks' worth of news, but could find no follow-up on either the bank manager's condition or the hunt for Jerry Donovan's accomplice. The lack of press was encouraging; if the victim had died of complications later, it would almost certainly have been reported. Whether any progress the police might have made identifying Mason would have made the papers, she wasn't sure, but she did know from the PI's research that Mason was never arrested.
At least not for armed robbery.
Stop trying to minimize this, she commanded herself in frustration. Mason was scum of the earth, and she would be better off to accept that and move on. He wasn't her father. He wasn't even a blood relative. And if she wanted to keep Cara from going through ten times the anguish she herself had been feeling in the last few hours, Leigh had to keep her own emotions out of it.
She rose, considered whether she should make copies of the article, and decided against it. The last thing she needed was to have a copy of the story lying around for Cara to stumble onto someday. Besides, it was ancient history. She needed to concentrate on the present. And at this very moment, Gil was probably back at the farm, trying desperately to make Cara believe his part of their carefully edited version of events. Gil wasn't inept, but Cara wasn't gullible, either. Pulling the wool over her eyes would take serious finesse.
Leigh collected her things and headed out of the library. She would go out to the farm herself. She wanted to know what the private investigator had said about the ridiculous letter the second blackmailer had sent to Lydie, and she wanted to know what Gil's plan was for the drop-off tonight. He might need her help, after all.
Chapter 6
It wasn't easy to sneak up on someone at Snow Creek Farm; the gravel drive wound all the way down the side of the property and around the back of the farmhouse, and the Cavalier's tires crunched noisily as Leigh progressed. Gil's Saturn was parked in the drive, the official garage being large enough to hold only Cara's van and a few boxes of Christmas decorations. The farmhouse was small, much smaller than the stately Avalon Victorian the couple had lived in before Mathias was born. But it was an antique, and Cara loved it. And whatever Cara loved, Gil managed to tolerate.
Leigh parked her Cavalier next to the Saturn and walked up to the back door. She hadn't been particularly successful on the trip over at planning what she was going to say, but winging it often served her well. She had just raised her hand to knock when her cousin opened the door, took hold of her wrist, and propelled her forcefully into the family room.
"You need to get on the phone to your friend Maura right now," Cara instructed, her blue-green eyes blazing. "My husband will not listen to reason. The police have to be contacted, or else we'll never find out who's really behind this. And I want whoever plans on slandering my mother's good name to get what's coming to them. You agree with me, don't you, Leigh?"
The lump that rose in Leigh's throat seemed far too big to swallow. She turned her eyes from her cousin's fierce gaze to Gil, who stood mutely on the opposite side of the room. His hazel eyes, which were radiating husband-on-the-spot misery, sent her a clear plea. Stand firm.
"Well?" Cara demanded as she hesitated, "don't you?"
Leigh somehow managed to swallow the lump. "I…" she began uncertainly. Then she stopped. Winging it, indeed. Blasted overconfidence!
"What is it with you two?" Cara said with frustration, knowing full well when her cousin was stalling. "What can it possibly hurt to get the police involved now? I'm telling you, my mother has nothing to hide. Nothing!"
Inspiration suddenly dawned, and Leigh spoke up. "No one believes your mother is a criminal," she said gently. "There's no way. But maybe there's something in her past that's likely to be misunderstood, or maybe it's just so
mething silly and embarrassing. Either way, going to the police would open up a whole can of worms, and you know how your mother values her privacy. Don't you think—if she were here—she would want to keep all this nonsense as quiet as possible?"
Cara's determined face faltered for a moment, and Leigh was heartened. Gil cast her an appreciative glance, and she went on. "I know you're angry, and you want to see this person punished, but I doubt your mother would feel that way. You know how she hates a fuss. Can you imagine her having to fill out police reports, being worried that the whole crazy story might get out to the press somehow? Wouldn't she rather we just deal with this person privately? Call their bluff and be done with it?"
Red flared over Cara's high cheekbones, but the storm in her eyes calmed. She lowered her chin and sank down on the couch. "Maybe so," she said with resignation.
Gil crossed over quickly and sat down next to his wife, wrapping an arm comfortingly around her shoulders. "I'm sorry I didn't confide in you about this earlier," he said softly. "But I really do think we're handling this the way Lydie would want us to. What the PI suggested makes sense. Please—let's just see if the plan works before we get the police involved. All right?"
The plan?
An unhappy, high-pitched wail erupted from upstairs, and Cara rose instantly. "Matt must have had a bad dream," she said sadly. "I'll take care of it. Excuse me."
Leigh wasted no time. "What plan?" she whispered, accosting her cousin-in-law as soon as Cara was out of sight. "What did the PI say?"
Gil looked at her, his eyes not concealing a slight reservation in answering the question. "He thinks our best bet is to play dumb," he said finally. "We should make the drop-off minus the money, leaving a note instead. It will explain that we don't believe Mason really has anything on Lydie, that she's unreachable, and that we're not ponying up any cash unless he can provide some solid proof for his claim."
Leigh considered. "I suppose that might work. But what if he gets mad and carries through with his threat?"
"It's a risk," Gil answered soberly. "But it's unlikely. If he has something real, he won't want to squander it and gain nothing. He'll give us more information, then put the screws to us again. If he doesn't have anything real—which I hope to God is the case—there's a good chance he'll just disappear."
If only, Leigh thought. How convenient if Mason would disappear as quickly as he had reappeared. "So, when does all this happen?" she asked.
"Midnight," Gil answered quickly, as Cara's footsteps began to descend the farmhouse's wooden stairs. "The PI's going to handle everything personally. I think it will work."
"And what about the letter to Lydie?" Leigh asked quickly, "What did he think about that?"
Gil cut her off with a head shake as Cara's footsteps approached the room. "Later," he mouthed.
A much calmer Cara strode through the doorway with an angelic-looking Mathias cuddled sleepily into her shoulder. She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner, then looked at Leigh quizzically. "No offense, but what are you doing here? I forgot to mention it this afternoon, but when I saw Warren he asked me to remind you about some dinner party you'd promised to go to tonight. Shouldn't you be getting ready?"
Leigh's eyes widened. She ran through a long string of mental curses, but being mindful of the toddler in the room, uttered only a single "shoot." "Thanks so much," she said hastily, jumping up to leave. "Warren hardly ever asks me to play Mrs. Politician, but this event is really important for some reason. If I don't make it he'll have my head on a platter."
Cara and Gil waved polite goodbyes, and she scooted out the door. They all knew Warren wouldn't really get angry if she missed the party. He probably wouldn't even chew her out; he was too tender-hearted. He'd just tell her that it was all right—and then look really sad. She jumped in the Cavalier and revved up the engine. Being yelled at she could handle, but not that sad look.
***
The look that met her from across the crowded reception hall was worth the curling iron burns on her neck and the still-damp feel of the blouse she had wrested prematurely from the dryer. Warren covered the distance between them in a few short strides and hugged her soundly.
"I hope you didn't worry," she said quickly. "I promised I'd be here, didn't I?"
Warren looked at his watch with a sly smile. "Worry? Me? You're only forty minutes late. I don't start worrying until at least fifty-five."
She smiled back. "Good plan." The room was so packed with people that many were standing shoulder to shoulder, and the servers were having trouble getting through with the hors d'oevres. None of the food, of course, was anywhere near her. But at least, she thought optimistically, being late meant she wouldn't have to wait nearly as long for the real dinner.
He took her hand. "Are you ready for this?"
She managed what she hoped was a brave look. There was nothing she hated more than making chit chat with shallow political types dressed to the nines, but a commitment was a commitment. She was always willing to brainstorm for her husband's campaign in the PR department—in fact, she was darned good at it—but the social scene was another matter. "The little woman" was a role she despised, but if she had to choose between being an arm ornament and getting involved in politics herself, an arm ornament she would be. Warren never insisted she play the role, even though her absence at functions normally attended by couples had become rather conspicuous. But the county council election was only days away, and whatever this function was—and she was trying hard to remember—it had seemed unusually important to him.
"Of course I'm ready," she said with a smile. "Successful politician's wife: take one. Let's go." His brown eyes twinkled at her, and she took a deep breath as he began to lead her toward a cluster of strangers. She could fake it with the best of them. Really, she could.
Four hours and half a migraine later, Leigh's spirits rose as she noted that some of the guests were starting to leave. If nothing else, their absence would allow a little more oxygen in the stuffy reception hall. She had done her best, but her blouse never had dried out, and the dull ache over her right temple was portending certain doom in the near future. Perhaps it wouldn't be too much longer before Warren was ready to leave.
"You're excused."
She turned hopefully toward her husband. "I'm what?"
He laughed and squeezed her hand. "Go ahead and go home if you want to—I don't mind. You've certainly done your part for the evening, and I'll be staying another hour or two at least."
Leigh tried to conceal her enthusiasm. "Are you sure? Will it look okay?"
"We came in separate cars, didn't we? Off with you."
She smiled and gave him a quick kiss goodbye. "Donuts for breakfast," she promised as she fled. "My treat."
The cold night air felt good in her lungs as she made her way through the well-lighted parking lot and out to her car. Freedom. The throbbing in her head had ceased, and she felt an unexpected surge of energy. What time was it, anyway? She glanced down at her watch and discovered that her ordeal inside hadn't been quite as long as it had seemed. Gil's voice flashed suddenly through her mind.
Midnight.
She'd almost forgotten. The drop-off would be at the bus station at midnight. The PI would leave a note instead of money, and Mason Dublin would be there to collect it.
Mason Dublin himself.
She stole another glance at her watch, and calculated the distance to the bus station in her head. Yes, she could make it. And why not? Bus stations were perfectly public places. No one ever had to know she was there. The PI wouldn't know her from Adam, and neither would Mason, of course. She could just sit and watch. And she would finally have a real picture to replace the made-up images that had haunted her since childhood.
She started up the Cavalier and pulled out of the lot. The time had come. She was going to see Cara's father with her own eyes.
***
Warren's jacket was just long enough to cover her knees, and she was glad of that
. Her hastily concocted plan had omitted the whole concept of being inconspicuous, which she soon learned did not come easy when sitting in a plastic chair in the lobby of a bus station in formal evening attire.
Idiot.
But it was too late to turn back now. Thanks to her husband's tall frame, penchant for loose clothing, and habit of leaving a coat in both of their cars at all times, at least her suit was covered. The hose and pumps didn't fit in, but she was doing her best to tuck her feet under the chair. As long as no one mistook her for a female flasher, she thought grimly, she should be all right.
She had positioned herself in the row of chairs nearest the ticket booth, the only place where she had a clear view of the trash can in question. At least, she hoped it was the right can. There were three in the terminal, but the one near the vending machines was covered, as was the one outside the bathrooms. The waiting area had several of the short, cylindrical ash-tray cans, but they weren't big enough to hold the prize. The open wire basket–style drum in front of her was the obvious choice, even if she hadn't been pretty sure she saw the tip of a shoe box already in place near the top.
But it was five after midnight, and so far nothing had happened.
She squirmed on the hard plastic seat and looked around the waiting room, feigning boredom. The other occupants seemed to have the bored look down pat. Elderly bus-goers either snoozed or stared at the walls, while a few teens lounged in the corner, playing their boom box at a surprisingly considerate volume. The young mother who sat next to Leigh gazed off lazily into space, seemingly unaware of either the infant she was nursing or the two preschoolers who were fighting over possession of her purse. The few other singles in the room were almost all men. And then, of course, there was her. The proverbial sore thumb.
