In Harm's Way

by E J Kindred

  About a week before Mo moved back to Charbonneau, we were at the kitchen table having lunch when there was a knock at the door. Grandma Natalie went to check it out and came back with Dean Jarrett.

  “Coffee, Detective?” Grandma asked.

  “Yes, please.” He pulled out a chair and sat at the table across from Mo and me. “How are you two doing?”

  “They’re overgrown brats, that’s how.” Grandma Natalie put a full mug of coffee in front of Dean and slid the sugar bowl and creamer within his reach. She took a seat next to him. “And what can we do for you today, Detective?”

  “First, please call me Dean. I think we’ve been through enough together that we can dispense with the formalities. As for why I’m here, I have news.” He stirred his cof fee and sipped, wincing at the heat. Putting the mug down, he said, “He took the deal.”

  I leaned back in my chair and inhaled deeply. I held it for a few seconds before letting it out. The most amazing feeling of relief swept through my body. Judging from her expression, Mo felt the same way.

  “He’ll do the maximum,” Dean said.

  “He’s not likely to ever get out, is he?” I knew the answer, but I had to hear it.

  “Probably not. He killed his own father for money and kidnapped the two of you. There were other charges, but any one of those would have been enough to put him away for a long time.”

  “No trial?” Mo’s voice wavered.

  “No trial,” I said. I took her hand, which was trembling. “You don’t have to see him ever again.”

  She tried a brave smile. “Good. I’m fresh out of car batteries.”

  Dean gave her a concerned glance, but didn’t ask. I wasn’t sure I’d want to explain it to him.

  “It was the video, wasn’t it?” Even after so many weeks, I could still see the grainy images of Doctor Wentworth stumbling down the stairs, followed by his murderous son.

  “Video?” Mo sounded curious.

  “From the security camera,” I said in a low voice.

  She took in a breath and became still. “I don’t want to see it.”

  “No, trust me,” I said, “you don’t.”

  Dean said, “Once his defense attorney viewed it, the party was over. There’s no way a jury could see that and let him go. Oregon has the death penalty, though we haven’t used it for a long time—”

  “Thank goodness,” I said, interrupting.

  “What do you mean?”

  “For one thing, too many people have been sent to death row who were later exonerated, so mistakes happen. In this case, of course, there’s no chance of that, but I want that evil bastard to sit in prison for the rest of his miserable life and think about how he got there.”

  “Fair enough,” Dean said, raising an eyebrow in my direction. “Looks like you’ll get your wish. Anyway, between the video and the fact that he left two witnesses, there was no way he wouldn’t agree to the plea deal.” He turned to Mo and repeated. “No trial. It’s over.”

  Mo relaxed again and I released her hand. She had a great job waiting for her in Charbonneau, and Ada had found her a charming little house to rent. She was going to be okay.

  “One thing I don’t understand,” I said.

  “Why he left you alive?” Dean asked. “I know, it’s a puzzler. Once the plea was signed, I asked his attorney about that. He’d talked about it with Carl, of course, and the answer makes as little sense as the rest of it. He said neither of you had done anything to hurt him except be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He hated his father, thought he’d been cut out of the will, but you two were innocent. In the end, he applied a skewed version of the Hippocratic Oath to you.” He paused, thinking. “Makes as much sense as anything else, I guess.”

  “Do no harm, eh?” I said. Mo exchanged a glance with me, and I turned back to Dean. “I’d argue with him on that point, but we’re still here, so I’ll take it.” Another thought came to me. “What about Elise? Was she in on it?”

  “No, amazingly enough. I thought for sure she had to be, but it turned out that this big love affair they had was only Carl manipulating her. He figured if he’d been cut out of his dad’s will, she’d inherit the money, and he could get it from her.”

  “I can’t imagine how she reacted when she found out.”

  “From what I heard,” Dean said, “she went white, clammed up, and left the room. Later she wrote checks for everyone on the staff, packed some stuff into her car, and left town.”

  I said, “Given what I’ve seen of her behavior in the time I worked there, I’d have expected her to throw a fit that could register on Richter scales in Colorado. She must have been caught totally off guard.”

  “She’s not entirely innocent,” Dean said. “Remember when her favorite jewelry was stolen? All a sham. She was sure that she was the next ex-Mrs. Wentworth, so she stashed it away. She said that she made up the whole thing so the doc wouldn’t wonder why she wasn’t wearing it.”

  Grandma Natalie said, “Can’t you charge her for fraud or filing a false police report or something? I mean, what a terrible thing to do—blaming her own theft on the staff!”

  Dean said, “The DA could have charged her, but she hasn’t as of yet.”

  “She also cut Lupe’s face,” I said. “What about that?”

  “The DA is working on it. To Elise’s credit, she met with Lupe and apologized. She also paid the hospital bill. Lupe said she seemed sincere. I don’t know if there will be any legal action against her at all.”

  “So much drama,” I said. “And for what?”

  “I could almost feel sorry for her,” Mo said.

  I gave her my best deadpan look.

  “I said almost. She’s not a nice person and the doc was too good for her, but she didn’t deserve to be used by Carl like that. I do feel sorry for his wife and kids, though. They’re good people.”

  “I agree. He killed his father and faked an affair for money, and in the end, lost it all.”

  Dean said, “If he hadn’t let his ego as a doctor and a surgeon get the better of him, he wouldn’t have left witnesses behind. And he might have gotten away with it if you hadn’t pushed us to check that security camera.”

  “Well, then,” Grandma Natalie said. “We must celebrate.” She opened a seldom-used cupboard and took out a bottle of amber-colored liquid and a stack of glasses. She poured each of us a shot of Scotch.

  “Here’s to nosy parkers,” she said, raising her glass. “May they live long and prosper.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  On a warm mid-June day, I parked in my usual spot under the trees and gazed through the windshield of my car at the burned-out shell of my dad’s shop. The counter and other things I’d rescued were safely stored, but I’d kept with me the remnant of the sign he’d so carefully created. I’d kept it securely wrapped and stowed in my car where it wouldn’t be damaged any further.

  Unlike past visits, though, I wasn’t tearful. I’d always mourn the loss of my father, but I was learning to carry it with me, make it part of myself, rather than consider it a burden. He’d been the center of my universe, along with Grandma Natalie. Death couldn’t take that away.

  No, this time I felt hopeful.

  I hadn’t waited long when a ten-ton flatbed pulled into the parking lot. The driver maneuvered the truck into position and carefully deposited a giant dumpster close to where the other, smaller one had been. I’d used the first one for the debris I’d cleared from inside the shop.

  This one was for the shop itself.

  I opened the sun roof and the windows and let the early summer breeze waft through. I had enough time to once more leaf through the papers that occupied the passenger seat. I felt no pressing need to do it, because I’d created most of them myself, but I enjoyed thinking through the project again.

  Patrick and Joe arrived in Patrick’s Mercedes along with Grandma Natalie. Patrick was dressed, as always, in an expensive suit and Joe in jeans and a t-shirt.

  “
What, no Team Three and a Half?” I asked. “I almost don’t recognize you in civvies.”

  Joe grabbed me and made to rub my head with his knuckles, but I tickled him and he let go.

  “You two never will grow up, will you?” Grandma Natalie tried giving us a stern look, as she’d done many times when we were younger, but we weren’t fooled this time, either.

  “I won’t and you can’t make me,” I said, sounding as much as I could like a petulant teenager. I laughed at myself for being so silly. It felt good.

  “What’s going on?” Patrick checked his watch. “I have a meeting in an hour.”

  Just then, two panel vans pulled into the lot, ladders lashed to their roofs and brightly colored logos painted on the sides.

  “That’s Brad’s company.” Joe waved to his cycling team buddy. “Why are they here?”

  Both trucks rolled to a stop away from the charred building. Half a dozen well-muscled men emerged. They gathered around Brad for a few minutes. He spoke to each of them in turn while pointing to various parts of the shop, issuing instructions. The men started unloading tools and other equipment from their trucks.

  “It’s coming down,” I said. “We knew it had to. I hired Brad and his company to help.”

  Patrick nodded, ever practical, but Joe looked bereft.

  I put my arm around my adopted brother’s waist and whispered, “Wait, there’s more.”

  He raised an eyebrow my direction but didn’t speak. Tears shone in his dark brown eyes.

  I patted him on the shoulder. “Hold on, I’ll be right back.” I went inside and found Brad. “Ready?”

  “Yep. Do you have the drawings?”

  I handed him the sheaf of papers I’d taken from the car, including documents, permits, and drawings I’d made.

  “I suppose we’ll need real blueprints,” I said. “But it’s a start. You brought the mason, right?”

  “Yep. He’ll get to work as soon as you’ve made your announcement. I don’t know how you’ve kept all of this a secret, but I love it. Joe will be over the moon.”

  “I’m counting on it. I’ll let you know when we’re ready.”

  I made a brief tour of the shop’s interior, saying a silent farewell, more of a “see you later” than “goodbye,” but no less poignant for that. I picked up the bundle that I’d deposited inside the shop and stood in the front doorway for a moment, watching as Brad’s men began their demo work at the back, in the most damaged part of the shop, first dismantling the added reinforcements, and then tearing the damaged structure apart. Two men on the roof tore away what was left. The sounds of saws and hammers and protesting nails reverberated in the morning breeze as the debris pile grew.

  Outside the front door, I stooped to pick up one of the light-colored bricks that had come loose from the facade. It still carried traces of soot from the fire, but rain and time had cleaned most of it away.

  Grief, I thought, was much the same way. Still there, but diminished, tolerable.

  I carried the brick and the bundle over to my waiting family. Joe and Patrick both looked puzzled, but Grandma Natalie nodded as if she knew what I was up to. I never had been able to keep a secret from her.

  “What’s going on, sis?” Joe peered at me with suspicion all over his brown face.

  I handed him the brick. “Remember you and I talked about selling the property? About how we couldn’t see ourselves doing it?”

  “Yeah, we talked about maybe selling the vacant lot or putting up a new building and finding a business tenant.”

  “And you said you didn’t want to let it go.”

  “I don’t, but it makes the most sense.”

  “Why do we always have to make sense? If I’ve learned anything lately, it’s that life seldom makes sense. I mean, I got kidnapped by a killer but other than making me eat cold soup and pee in a bucket, he didn’t really hurt me. Does that make sense?

  “You lost part of your leg in a conflict that never should have happened, so that definitely doesn’t make sense. And you’re happy in spite of it, riding your bike everywhere and startling people with your prosthesis. It’s wonderful, but not sensible.”

  “Okay, but what does any of that have to do with this?”

  He held the brick out on the palm of his hand, and I took it from him.

  “Dad came to this country not speaking a word of English, and he built this shop. He changed peoples’ lives with bicycles.”

  “Especially mine,” Joe said.

  “Especially yours and mine.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Patrick and Grandma Natalie beaming. She had tears in her eyes.

  “You don’t want to let this go and neither do I. So we’re taking this brick and all of the others”—I waved toward the front of the old building where the mason had begun taking the bricks down one at a time and stacking them on a pallet—“and we’re going to rebuild the bike shop.”

  I picked up the wrapped bundle at my feet and opened it. When the corner of Dad’s sign was revealed, showing his hand-lettered name, Joe took in a sharp breath.

  “I thought it was gone.” He sounded as if he might cry.

  “I did, too, but I found it when I cleaned up inside.” I put my arm around his waist and leaned against him, holding the remnant of the sign. “Let’s rebuild Dad’s store and put this on the wall above the checkout counter.”

  Joe was silent for a long moment, while Patrick and my grandmother took turns holding the burned sign and running their fingers over the lettering.

  I watched the mason carefully salvaging the bricks from the front of the shop, and without thinking, I said aloud, “Papá, Velasquez Cycles cabalga nuevamente.”

  He turned to me with a wide smile and tears running down his face and said, “Velasquez Cycles rides again.”

  About the Author

  EJ Kindred is a recently retired Oregon attorney. Her legal career of 26 years was spent doing her best to make rich computer companies got even richer, and she’s delighted to have left it all behind.

  She’s been a writer from an early age, penning terrible stories and wretched poems with which to torment her family, friends, and teachers. She refuses to disclose how many Star Trek scripts she wrote. Other than a first place award in a short story contest long, long ago in a state far, far away, her first published work is the story “The Other Marie,” which appears in the anthology, Time’s Rainbow: Writing Ourselves Back Into American History. The subject of the story, Marie Equi, was one of Oregon’s first women doctors, a crusader for humane working conditions, an anti-war activist who spent time in San Quentin for sedition, and an unabashed lesbian—all in the early 20th century.

  In addition to enjoying retirement and writing, EJ makes quilts, occasionally donating them to the fundraising efforts of various groups, primarily cat rescues. She enjoys jigsaw puzzles, old movies, spending time with friends, and, of course, reading anything and everything. She lives near Portland, Oregon, with an undisclosed number of cats. Her website is found at www.EJKindred.com.

  Portland, Oregon

  www.LaunchPointPress.com

  Table of Contents

  Praise for In Harm’s Way

  (Untitled)

  In Harm’s Way

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  About the Author

 

 

 
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