Caught Redhanded

by Gayle Roper

  I studied him for a few seconds, thinking what a mixture of wisdom and hardheadedness he was.

  “What?” he demanded. “Did I say something wrong?”

  I spoke carefully because I thought we were on very important ground here. “Given Gia’s story, I understand why you’re so concerned for Bailey and I understand why you see forgiveness as so important between her and her parents. But, Mac, what I don’t understand is why you have so much trouble with forgiveness when it relates to you. Why can’t you see that you can be forgiven?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “We are not talking about me.”

  “Yes, we are. Mac, don’t you see? You want everybody to forgive everybody, but you won’t let people or God forgive you. Doesn’t that sound a bit strange? Or contradictory?”

  “Drop it, Merry.”

  I ignored him. Sometimes things just needed saying. “The very thing you want others to offer and receive, you refuse to receive. For some reason you seem to think you’re too bad to be forgiven. It’s like God looks at you and says, ‘Oh, I can’t handle Carnuccio. He’s too much for me.’ Or Jesus says, ‘I died for everyone but Carnuccio. He’s beyond my power to save.’ Right? It’s like you’re telling God, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’”

  “Merry, you’re meddling.” His voice was as cold as a refrigerated meat locker. “No one talks to me like that but Dawn.”

  “Well, as of now, me, too.” I leaned forward in my chair. Dear Lord, let him hear me. “Mac, in a sense it doesn’t matter what you’ve done in your past. The Lord wants to forgive you for any and all of it. Jesus became our great guilt bearer when He died on that bloodstained cross. It may sound clichéd that all you need to do is believe in Jesus and be saved, be forgiven. But like many clichés, it’s the truth.”

  “Thank you, Reverend Merry.”

  I should have felt flash-frozen, but I didn’t. “That nasty attitude of yours used to work,” I said as I stood, knowing it was time to leave. “But that was back before I realized you were a chocolate-covered cherry.” I smiled. “Just do me one favor. Think about what you’re telling God when you say you’re too bad to be forgiven. Think about what that says about the great sacrifice Jesus made for you. Do you really want to say no thanks?”

  He glared at me.

  “I’m going right now,” I assured him and fled to my desk. We could talk about Esther Colby later.

  At lunchtime Jolene and Edie walked to Ferretti’s with me, keeping so close in their effort to protect me that it was all I could do not to trip over them.

  “How come this guy isn’t trying to get me?” Jo asked as we slid into our booth. She looked slightly put out that she was being left out. “I’m the one who tripped over Martha’s foot.”

  I’d voiced the same question to Mac, but since I had no more answer today than when I’d originally asked, I merely shrugged. Edie looked at her as though she was a few rhinestones short of a necklace.

  “It’s a fair question,” Jo shot back, just a tad defensive.

  “Read the menu, Jolene,” Edie ordered. “I’ll contact the demolition guys after we get back to the office and get your bomb ticking.”

  Jo gave her a sour smile, but she did get busy considering her order and forgot the questions.

  Later that afternoon when it was time for me to go see Tony Compton, Jolene offered to walk me down the street.

  I politely declined. “I’m walking a few doors down on Main Street. What can possibly happen?”

  Mr. Weldon was in the front hall up in his stepladder changing a ceiling lightbulb when I arrived unscathed. Of course, I’d spent the three-minute walk looking over my shoulder every ten seconds, but who’s telling?

  “Merry,” he said as he saw me. “I need to talk to you!”

  I was in no humor to hear more slander about Mac. I smiled vaguely up at him. “I can’t stop right now. I’ve got an appointment.” I hurried to the stairs.

  “Well, I’ll look for you when you leave. It’s important,” he called after me.

  I just bet. More bash-Mac stuff.

  I walked into the reception area of the law firm. Annie was wearing a skirt again today and it reminded me of the article idea on dressing for work that I needed to pitch to Mac.

  “Mr. Compton is expecting you,” she said. “Just knock.”

  I knocked, pleased that today I didn’t have to wait around for Tony to return from court. His deep voice called, “Come in.”

  He rose to greet me, his smile going full bore. “It’s so good to see you again!” Like it had been years. He shook my hand and ushered me to the chairs before his desk, but I was too busy looking around the office to sit.

  There was no sign of all the boxes and clutter of his moving in. Impressive legal tomes and reference books lined the shelves. Awards and diplomas hung on the walls or sat in strategic breaks on the shelves. A file cabinet fronted with wood sat along the far wall beside a closet. And my handprint had disappeared.

  “Very nice,” I said. “Someone’s been working hard.”

  “Annie,” Tony said, smiling that charming smile. “She unpacked it all. I just put the books on the shelves where I wanted them.”

  On the edge of his desk sat a very healthy philodendron; a flourishing ficus tree stood by the window. I indicated them with my hand. “Annie?”

  “Annie.”

  A pair of signed baseballs sat on little stands on the corner of the filing cabinet. I walked over and saw Cal Ripkin Jr.’s autograph on both. Next to them was a black Baltimore Orioles cap with an orange oriole embroidered on it, and leaning against the cabinet was a baseball bat, also autographed. On the wall beside the filing cabinet was a shadow box holding a baseball jersey bearing the legandary orange number 8 and the same autograph.

  “Not from Annie, I trust?”

  He shook his head. “Never. I got them on a couple of my many trips to Camden Yards. Caught that ball when Cal hit a foul.” He pointed to the one on the left. “I got the shirt right off Cal’s back at a charity auction night.”

  I was impressed. Even I knew about the legendary and now-retired Ripkin, one of the good guys of baseball.

  “I got the other ball at a baseball card show where Cal was autographing. I got the bat on eBay. Four of my proudest possessions. There was never anyone like Cal.”

  The way he said Cal, you’d have thought they were best personal buds, but that’s the way it was with true fans. They did feel like best buds with whomever they idolized.

  I walked back to the chairs by Tony’s desk and sat. My eye fell on the fancy metal name plaque sitting on his desk. M. Anthony Compton, Esq. “Annie?”

  He frowned and shook his head. “My mom. Law school graduation. But Annie put it there.”

  “Ah. And the M stands for?”

  He tried to force a smile, but something had angered him. Hadn’t I fawned over his Ripkin trophies enough? “Michael.”

  Michael Anthony Compton.

  My breath hitched.

  MAC.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Mac? Tony?

  Words from Martha’s diary raced through my mind: No wonder he can convince people so well. Words are his stock in trade.

  They didn’t have to refer to an editor as some seemed to think. They could refer to a lawyer just as readily.

  Then another memory popped up and I felt my skin grow chilled.

  “He always wears a cap with some logo on it,” Mrs. Wilson had said of the new boyfriend. “It was a bird.”

  Since we were in suburban Philadelphia, I’d automatically equated bird with eagle, picturing the stylized eagle’s-head logo of the city’s football franchise. But Tony had lived in Harrisburg, right up the interstate from Baltimore. And I’d never asked Mrs. Wilson what color the bird was, only the cap. I was willing to bet that the bird was orange, an orange oriole just like the one stitched on the black cap sitting on the file cabinet. Oriole, not eagle. Baseball, not football.

  I bent quickly to pull my camera out of my
purse. I didn’t want Tony to see my face since everyone said that what I was thinking showed there clearly. I needed a few seconds to wipe all expression away.

  But my mind kept churning. What possible motive could he have for killing Martha? By all accounts she was as threatening as a newborn pup.

  Well, for one thing, if it came out he was beating on her, there went his career and his reputation. I wondered suddenly about Valerie Gladstone, his dead fiancée. Had he been abusive to her? I made a mental note to contact the Harrisburg police and Representative Gladstone, Valerie’s father. My blood started to fizz as I contemplated the story I might be about to break.

  Easy, kid. You’re jumping to conclusions—big ones.

  My new mini-tape recorder tumbled out of my purse as I rooted for the new little camera I’d gotten to replace the one that had been in my old purse in the car. So did my new cell phone. I grabbed the phone and slid it back in the pocket in the lining I’d designated as its home. Unfortunately the soft-sided purse I had just bought was always collapsing and the phone was always sliding free. I grabbed the little recorder, too. Then, face as bland as I could manage, I straightened, giving him a small smile, trying not to fidget as he studied me.

  “Where do you want to stand for your picture?” I asked brightly. I sounded very false to my ears and I fretted that he heard the same phony tone.

  He blinked and broke his stare, then gestured behind him. “I thought I could stand by the bookshelves with an open book in my hand, like I’m researching something, you know?”

  “Good idea,” I said, trying not to remember that someone had destroyed my car and my apartment and this man might be the one who had done it. “Different from the static head shot.” And, I couldn’t help thinking, it keeps a full face shot from being in the paper to be recognized by someone like Mrs. Wilson.

  Tony walked over and stood by a shelf lined with legal references in matching bindings. He pulled one down and opened it.

  I looked through my viewfinder. The light from the window fell across him, creating interesting light and shadow contrast. I also saw the clenched jaw and tense shoulders of an angry man.

  Didn’t killers usually follow the same pattern in their crimes? Snipers stayed snipers. Stranglers stayed stranglers. If Tony did kill Martha with that rock, then what about the bombs for me?

  A new thought made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. What about Valerie Gladstone, his dead fiancée? Could Tony have killed her? Again the question was why. Perhaps he had roughed her up as he had Martha. Perhaps she called him on it or was going to tell people and in a fury he killed her.

  Perhaps I’ve read too many mystery novels.

  “Relax,” I said to him even as I tried to take the word to heart myself. The last thing I wanted was for my nervousness and suspicions to be obvious to him. “Smile.”

  He gave a reasonable facsimile of his usual smile and I took several shots. “Turn a little toward me. Look up. That’s good.” I clicked away like I had nothing on my mind but making him look good.

  Could Mrs. Wilson pick him out in a lineup? Very questionable with the baseball cap and the evening visits to impede her view of him. Even if she did identify him, a good defense lawyer would make a big deal of her age and eyesight.

  I thought of all the times I’d felt uncomfortable around Tony. I’d thought it was because he came on too strong. Had it been because he somehow gave off evil vibes?

  Get a grip, Merry!

  “How did things work out Saturday night with Ken Mackey at the police station?” I asked. After all, I was a reporter, so I’d better ask questions and this one seemed safe enough. He’d seen me there, even talked to me. “Did his statement check out?”

  “It did.” The answer was clipped, almost snarled.

  “It would be an easy alibi to verify,” I said as I snapped away. I walked around the desk so I was facing him head-on. Snap. Snap. “Not like some.”

  “Like Carnuccio?”

  I hadn’t been thinking of anyone or anything in particular when I made that comment. I was just talking to fill the time until I could get myself safely out of here, but I bristled at his Mac comment. Here was one too many people jumping on a man I liked and admired and I became defensive before I thought.

  “Don’t say things like that about Mac, Tony. He’s a good man and I don’t believe he had anything to do with Martha’s death.” I heard myself and ordered, Shut up, woman!

  Tony closed the book in his hand and slid it into its place on the shelf. “Your loyalty is commendable, if misdirected.”

  I gave a tight smile of acknowledgment. “Well, I think that does it,” I said as I took a step toward my purse. “I’ve got everything I need.”

  “Really?” Tony said as he walked around the desk toward me. “I thought we were going to do some more interview stuff.” He picked up his name plaque and began fiddling with it, his fingers running over the inscribed letters. He glanced down as if checking that they hadn’t changed.

  “I’ve got more than enough,” I said, forcing my eyes away from the plaque. “And if I have any questions, I’ll just give you a call.” I shoved my camera in my purse.

  When he looked up from the plaque, his eyes were cold and flat. I shivered.

  “Thanks for your time, Tony.” I turned and practically ran to the door. I was reaching for the knob when Tony, alarmingly close, said, “I knew you’d be trouble. I knew it.” He sounded almost regretful. Almost.

  Then he brought the plaque down on my head with appalling power.

  TWENTY-SIX

  I don’t know how long I was out, but when I woke up it was dark. My head throbbed, and I felt nauseated. I was curled on my side, knees drawn up, on a hard surface and I had no idea where I was or how I had gotten there. I tried to sit up, but had to stop moving immediately because my stomach screamed, “No!” and a cold sweat broke out all over my body. I lay still and swallowed repeatedly.

  When I thought I wasn’t going to throw up after all, I brought up a hand to hold my head on my shoulders since it felt ready to fall off. My knuckles slammed into another hard surface. That’s when I discovered that I was in a small, cramped area, and every horror movie I’d ever been foolish enough to watch told me I’d been buried alive.

  I moved my hand around and felt surfaces on four sides and below me, but there was open space above. Taking a deep breath, I slowly, slowly pushed myself into a sitting position. For a few minutes I just sat, eyes closed, resting my head against the wall behind me. How could I be so tired and sick?

  When I opened my eyes, the nausea wasn’t as bad as it had been, an encouraging fact. I ran my hands over the four surfaces that hemmed me in, and it was the indentations on the fourth surface that told me where I was. I was in a closet, and the uneven surface was the inside to a door done in the traditional cross and Bible design.

  Where there was a door, there was a knob.

  I reached eagerly for it, only to pull back at the last minute. Whoever had put me here might be just the other side. Did I want to see him? Maybe I could look under the door and see if I was alone or not.

  Again moving very slowly, I got to my knees and bent. My mouth filled with saliva and once again I battled intense vertigo. I stayed still with my forehead resting on the floor until I felt it safe to move again.

  I turned and rested the side of my face against the floor and peered under the door. All I could see were floorboards and the edge of a light-colored rug. As I sat again, I struggled to remember.

  The floor vibrated under heavy footfalls and I pushed back as far from the door as I could, which wasn’t far at all. But the footsteps didn’t stop at the closet. Instead I heard another door open and a man say in a raised voice, “Thanks for your time, Merry. See you later.” Then the door shut again and the footfalls passed the closet again.

  The sound of the voice clicked on my memory. M. Anthony Compton. MAC, not Mac. He’d hit me! I felt outrage, a foolish emotion when I had been shoved
in a closet and was being held here.

  And what was with the see-you-later-Merry bit? It must have been for the benefit of the others in the office, Mr. Grassley and Mr. Jordan and the skirted Annie. The two men might be in their own offices, but Annie would see that I hadn’t left. She’d know something was wrong. Unless she wasn’t there to see?

  In the total silence that lingered outside my door, I heard the faint opening of a far door and the last gurgle of a flushed toilet. I was willing to bet Annie had been using the restroom and that Tony had been waiting for just that moment for me to “leave.”

  I heard a loud tap on glass.

  “Yes?” Tony said.

  “I’m leaving, Mr. Compton,” Annie called. “Mr. Grassley and Mr. Jordan have left already. Can I get you anything before I go?”

  “Thank you, Annie, but no. Have a good evening.” He sounded so nice and friendly.

  Just as I opened my mouth to scream to catch Annie’s attention before she left, the door to the closet flew open.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Tony muttered at me, a baseball bat held over his head. He brought it swinging down. For a split second I was so shocked I couldn’t move. Then I dodged as much as I could in the confines of the closet. The bat caught me on the edge of my right shoulder, sending pain streaking down my arm and across my back.

  I gasped and stared at him, incredulous. People didn’t hit people with baseball bats, not people I knew. I’d spent time with this man. He and I had had dinner together. He’d walked me to my car and kissed my red palm. He’d flirted with me!

  And now he thought he’d disabled me. Somehow in all the time we’d spent with him talking and me writing, he hadn’t noticed I was left-handed.

  “I knew you were trouble as soon as I realized you were the woman with the diary,” he said through gritted teeth, his face a mask of dislike. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you figured everything out.”