“You know the police are looking for you?”
She nodded.
“In fact, I think you might be the prime suspect in the murder investigation.”
Sally pulled the cap off her head, her hair was matted in clumps. Her eyes looked hollowed out. “I didn’t do it.”
“Then come in and talk to Chief Thompson. He’s a fair guy. He’ll listen to you.”
“I can’t. No one will believe me,” she said.
“I believe you,” I said.
Sally regarded me warily. “I don’t know why.”
“I have good instincts and those instincts tell me you aren’t capable—physically or emotionally—of stabbing that man. And then watching him bleed to death.”
She swallowed. “I’m not.”
“Even though you know the victim,” I added.
She rotated in her seat to face me. “What?”
“Sally, we spotted Gordon Weeks, that’s his name, although I guess you know that, Sunday afternoon across the street from the theater. You were shocked to see him. So tell me what happened in the theater,” I pleaded.
Sally twisted her still-gloved hands. “I wanted to meet to tell you I was innocent. I wanted to explain everything to you but…” Her voice faded away to nothing.
I went for a different, less direct tactic. “Where are you staying?”
“I have a room,” she said.
“Here in Bernridge?”
She didn’t answer.
“You can trust me,” I said, the same words Bill had said to me hours earlier.
“Please don’t push me.” Sally’s words were thrust into the space between us.
I exhaled slowly. “All right. Let’s start from the beginning. I know about your family background, your mother, the inheritance.”
“It was only a matter of time before word got out.”
“So you were running away from home when you arrived in Etonville?” I purposely avoided mentioning Andy and entangling him in Sally’s predicament, whatever it might turn out to be. Besides, he’d warned me to stay out of the whole mess.
“I told you. I needed a change in my life,” Sally said.
“And everything was going well. You had a room, a job, you were a part of the theater, and then Gordon Weeks came to town.”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“And you freaked out.”
“Yes.”
“And he came to visit you at the rooming house,” I said.
Sally gasped.
“Angela was helpful. And she really likes you a lot.”
Sally started to cry, burying her face in her hands. I tentatively reached for her and, startled, she cringed.
“It’s okay. Things will work out if you’ll come back and talk with Chief Thompson.”
Sally sniffed. “He wanted to meet me so I went to the theater and saw him…like that…and I panicked…and then you came in and I ran.”
A car cruised down the street past us, slowing ahead at a stop sign. Sally ducked down and recoiled into her coat. “I have to go now,” she said, eyes on the vehicle down the street.
“Go? But we haven’t settled anything and you haven’t told me who Gordon Weeks is.”
“I’m not sure who he is,” she said, sobbing again.
“I don’t believe that. I saw the way you looked at him last Sunday. It was the look of someone who—”
“Please!” Sally begged.
“Why did you want to meet with me if you won’t tell me anything?” I asked, frustrated. I clutched the door handle.
“I wanted to tell you in person I’m not guilty. And I need a favor.” She’d stopped crying, her voice low and steady.
“A favor? Look, Sally—”
“I dropped something that day. I need it,” she said vehemently.
My neck hairs tingled inside the collar of my jacket. “What is it?”
“A photograph. It was small, like maybe three inches square and folded. I had it in my hand but when I ran, I was so scared…I must have…”
I flashed back to the day of the murder. I remembered Sally had been holding something. “But why are we talking about a picture when you might be facing murder charges?” I asked.
“Please. Text me when you find it. It’s got to be in the theater,” she said, desperation creeping into her voice.
I gave up. “Promise me you’ll at least think about coming in.”
Sally’s head bobbed vigorously.
I slipped out of the car and had barely shut the door before she took off, speeding down the street. I stood on the sidewalk, discouraged. What had been the point of the meeting? Other than to ask me to search for a photo. There was no way she was appearing at the Etonville Police Department and admitting she knew Gordon Weeks. She couldn’t even admit it to me and I saw proof of their association.
The temperature was dropping and the wind was picking up. I flipped up the hood of my jacket and stared down the street. It wasn’t late—not even eight o’clock—but the darkness felt as if it was well into the night. I began to retrace my steps up the street. A few yards into the alley I noticed shadows to the right of me. The backyards of houses that faced the street where Sally and I had sat in her car and talked. A few bare trees with snow-laden branches dipped to and fro like dancing skeletons. I hadn’t noticed how eerie this back lane was earlier. I was too busy trying to keep up with Sally. But now, a spooky sensation creeped me out. The only sound, at first, was the scraping of my boots on the slushy gravel, stones and chunks of ice rubbing against each other. Then I could swear I heard an echo of my footsteps. I turned backward and saw nothing; never mind, I told myself, and broke into a light jog. My hairs began to twitch and my heart pounded. Every step I took seemed to be answered with another one, a fraction of a second behind mine.
I was puffing heavily, cold air painful in my lungs as I increased my speed. I could see the end of the alley ahead and almost laughed. In my relief, I didn’t detect the sheet of black ice in the middle of the lane. I’d missed it trailing Sally, but now I was moving quickly and carelessly. Unknowingly, I placed one foot on the ice and skidded forward, landing facedown on the gravel and freezing mud. I could taste the muck on my lips and my left cheek felt raw and sore. My ears were ringing; I knew I wouldn’t be able to hear someone stalking me. I rolled onto my back and faced the night sky, the moon covered in a sheer layer of clouds, and battled to stand up and regain my footing. I gingerly moved to the end of the alley and onto the street. The diner was up ahead on my left, the car wash on my right. I must have looked a fright—two young guys left the diner and stared at me. I ignored them and ran across the street. I fumbled with the door key and collapsed into the front seat, gasping. The street was uninhabited now. The diner had posted a Closed sign in the window. Could it all have been a figment of my overactive imagination? Bill would probably think so…
I turned the key in the ignition and the engine sputtered as it had done on many occasions in the last few days. But this time as I cranked the motor, it wouldn’t turn over. I pumped the gas pedal and tried again. The Hyundai stubbornly refused to start. My dread returned. I didn’t feel safe in a deadbeat car on a street that was deserted in a town I wasn’t too familiar with. If I had to call for help, how was I going to explain my presence here? Meaning, what would I tell Bill if I got caught texting and meeting with Sally? Not to mention how mortified I’d feel with my face in this state. I switched the ignition key to Off. The evening had been a bust and all I had to show for it were a scraped cheek and a split lip that was swelling slightly. I rested my stinging face on the steering wheel and my great-aunt Maureen’s words came to mind: Dorothy, you must accept that some days you are the pigeon and some days you are the statue. Right now, I swore I could hear wings flapping.
As if the Hyundai took pity on me, I cranked the engine aga
in and it sparked to life. I limped back to Etonville, careful to keep gunning the engine even at red lights. No sense giving the car the opportunity to stall.
It was a quarter to nine by the time I pulled into my driveway. I’d argued with myself all the way home from Bernridge: cancelling on Bill versus cleaning up and creating an excuse for my appearance. Date night won out and I decided to suck it up, no matter how Frankensteinish I looked. I’d laugh it off as though falling on my face were an ordinary event.
I texted Bill that I was running a little late and confronted my bathroom mirror. I had to promise myself an extra caramel macchiato in the morning to get me to open my eyes. I squinted at first; maybe if I couldn’t see well, I’d miss a few marks…no luck. My cheek was red and scratched with a bruise that might turn some shade of blue by morning. My upper lip was cut with bits of dried blood clinging to the perimeter of my mouth. Altogether not a pretty sight. I needed to compensate. I washed my wounds gently, applied ice to my mouth, a bandage to my cheek, and slipped into a red silk blouse. With my black leggings, I thought I was looking pretty hot from the neck down. I gave my hair a once-over, grabbed my coat, cashmere scarf, and purse, and prayed that the Hyundai had forsaken its balky behavior. The car gods were listening and we made it to the Municipal Building without incident.
I pulled in front and texted Bill, as he’d instructed, and within a minute he was bumping down the hall and allowing Suki to open the front door as well as my car door for him. I pulled my hair around my face and kept it slightly angled away. If I could keep my eyes on the road ahead, maybe my secret would be safe until we arrived at Bill’s.
“Hey there,” I said as cheerfully as I could with a puffy lip.
“Thanks, Suki,” Bill said. “Have a good night.”
She nodded and patted the car door. “See you tomorrow.” Suki smiled enigmatically. As a Buddhist cop, it was her calling card. That and her om-like expression even under the direst of circumstances.
I eased away from the curb. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Busy night at the restaurant?”
I fervently hoped so. “The usual.”
“Pretty wild in the department too.”
Bill described Suki having to handle a traffic accident down on the highway while Ralph had to contend with Mrs. Parker’s security alarm that went off because she’d mistakenly set the motion detectors forgetting her cat, Missy, was busy running in circles.
“I spent the evening on dispatch,” he said ruefully. “I cannot wait until this cast comes off.”
“Only a few more weeks,” I said. “Patience!”
“Yeah. Not my strength.” He turned sideways in his seat. “You took off early from the Windjammer?”
“Benny likes the extra shifts. Archibald’s not covering the office this evening?” I asked casually.
“He had some personal business to take care of in New York.”
I wondered about his “personal business.”
“Have you?” Bill asked.
“Sorry?”
“I said, have you eaten?” He chuckled. “I know you work at a restaurant, but I’ve seen you get so involved in a job that you forget about food.”
I’d been so focused on Sally and a stalker tonight that I hadn’t noticed my stomach growling until now. “Actually I was too busy to eat. What do have in mind?”
He thought for a moment. “How about an herb-and-cheese omelet?”
My mouth watered. “Sounds heavenly. You can cook and hop around at the same time?”
“Is that a challenge? Watch me.”
I helped Bill out of the Hyundai and guided him hobbling to the front door. He was so fixated on his crutches that he hadn’t paused to look me in the face. Once inside his house, I closed the door and fortified myself for what was to come. I didn’t have to wait long.
He tossed his uniform jacket onto a chair in the foyer. “Make yourself useful. There’s a nice bottle of pinot noir on the center island. It won’t take long for me to whip up—” He turned to smile, then he stared at me. “What the—? What happened to you?”
“Don’t go all ballistic. I fell on some black ice on the sidewalk in front of the Windjammer. You know how treacherous that stuff can be—”
“Why didn’t you tell me? We could have cancelled,” he said sympathetically.
“And miss your herb-and-cheese omelet? Not on your life.” I attempted to sound upbeat and energetic.
I didn’t fool Bill. He regarded me uneasily. “Is that the whole story? The black ice?”
“Yep.” My great-aunt Maureen informed me at a young age: It’s only lying if one doesn’t have a good reason. Otherwise it’s just fibbing. I couldn’t bring myself to share the Sally story until I could sort out a few loose ends. Definitely a good reason.
I watched him whisk fresh herbs and grated cheeses into the eggs and milk while I uncorked the wine. It needed a moment to breathe and so did I.
“Mmmm. Looks delicious,” I said.
“The trick is a mixture of Parmesan and Asiago cheeses,” he said while chopping fresh chives.
“Maybe you need your own cooking show,” I teased.
“What, and give up policing Etonville?” he said in mock disbelief.
“You wouldn’t have to deal with the 11-26s and 20-20s and 10-40s.”
Bill lifted his head from the cutting board. “Or the homicide investigations.”
“Those too.”
We were silent for a moment. “Any new leads?”
“Since a few hours ago? We’re looking into Gordon Weeks, but frankly nothing so far ties him to the ELT. The only thing to go on is Sally Oldfield. We got in touch with family members, but no one knows where she is. It’s like she fell off the face of the earth. Archibald is planning to speak to a few people up there.”
“In Boston?” I asked, cautious.
He hesitated. “Uh-huh.” Bill sprinkled a pinch of salt and some pepper into his foaming liquid and poured the mixture into an omelet pan.
My back was beginning to ache and I had a crick in my neck. It was either the fall on the ice or my fear that Archibald Alvarez would discover Sally’s hideaway before I did. We made ourselves comfortable on a couple of stools at the center island, the corner of Bill’s mouth ticking upward impishly as I moaned aloud at the first taste of his omelet. We devoured the fluffy egg-and-cheese concoction as if we hadn’t eaten all day, washing it down with the red wine.
“That was delicious,” I said, wiping my mouth as Bill refilled our glasses.
“Let’s move to the living room,” he said.
“Are you sure I can’t clean up? After all, you did the cooking…”
“It’ll keep.” He smiled.
I picked up our glasses and obediently followed him as he crutched through his early American dining room and into the comfy living room. A fire was already laid in the fireplace and, as Bill struck a match, I could feel myself oozing into the cushions of his sofa. The food, the wine, the glow from the snapping flames…
Bill hit a switch on a CD player, lowered the lights, and joined me on the couch, laying his crutch to one side. The mellow, sexy tones of Norah Jones singing “Come Away with Me” melted into the room. Was Bill trying to tell me something? His eyes sparkled in the red-yellow light from the fireplace.
“I love this CD,” he said and sipped his wine.
“You’re a country western guy.” At least that’s what he’d told me so I had gifted him a couple of Garth Brooks CDs for Christmas.
“I am. But a guy can like different artists. Besides, some occasions call for something a little more…”
Romantic?
“Relaxing…at the end of a hectic day,” he said.
Oh.
And then he slipped his arm around my shoulders, giving them a squeeze. “This is nice.”
Which part, my fuzzy brain wondered: Norah Jones, the fireplace, my shoulders? “Yeah.”
Bill angled my head slightly to get a better take on my face and his finger grazed my injured cheek with a whisper of a touch. “Does it hurt?”
Ouch. “Not really.”
He tilted my head upward and moved in, brushing my damaged lips with his. “Does this?”
Of course, but who cared? I shook my head numbly. Norah sang on, my head spun, and I closed my eyes as he pressed his mouth against mine again. Sure, it wasn’t the first time, but it had been a while, and nothing quite matched this tenderness, this concern—
I heard a soft ringing. Bill relinquished my lips and sat up, jamming his hand into his pocket to retrieve his cell phone. He cleared his throat, wiped the edge of his mouth. “Yes?”
I smiled inside. This could be the night…
“Hanging out.”
I opened one eye.
“No problem. It’s okay,” he said,
That didn’t sound good.
“What? No kidding. Sure.”
He listened for a minute, then became alert and my little hairs—that had been taking a snooze, like a few other parts of me—were now vigilant. Bill clicked off and leaned back into the sofa. “That was Archibald.”
Why was I not surprised? “Oh?” I said, trying for casual.
“Seems like Sally Oldfield has been hiding in plain sight.”
My heart slid to the bottom of my stomach and then rebounded. “Boston?”
“No. Bernridge.”
“Bern…wow…Archibald…found her?”
“Said he tailed her there earlier this evening.”
My insides were fidgety but my outside was cool and composed. Archibald had tailed Sally to Bernridge? From where? More likely he had tailed me. Now I was really stressed out. Had I led Archibald to Sally? Where else had he followed me? What else did he know? Questions were bouncing around my brain like buzzing bees.
Bill was staring at me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing…I was wondering where Sally was…when he…picked up her trail.” My explanation was flimsy at best.
“He didn’t say. Only that he found her in Bernridge near the car wash and was keeping an eye on her.”
Running Out of Time Page 15
