The Whistle Blower

by Robin Merrill

“Can you please put the phone away?”

  Peter sighed dramatically and turned the screen off.

  “Thank you. Now, can you please tell me what has happened in your immediate vicinity since we came out of the store?”

  “Uh, we came out of the store, we got in the car, and then you told me to turn the phone off.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Peter, you are grounded from all electronics.”

  “What?” he shrieked. “Why?”

  “Because your mother could have been murdered by a random lunatic, and you wouldn’t even have noticed. You would have just sat here until the phone battery died.”

  Peter was quiet for a minute. Sandra could feel him fuming behind her. Finally, he said, “How long?”

  “How long before the battery would have died? How should I know?”

  “No, how long am I grounded?”

  “Oh. That. Forever.”

  Chapter 3

  Sandra couldn’t wait to tell her husband about her supernatural parking lot encounter, but when the time came, she was scared to bring it up. She wasn’t sure if he would believe her. To her knowledge, he’d never doubted anything she’d told him before, but this? This would require a whole new level of faith in his wife.

  So, when they finally crawled into bed late that evening, Nate said, “You’ve been awfully quiet. Everything okay?”

  She sat up and scooted back to lean against the headboard. “Actually, I wanted to tell you something, but I’m kind of scared to.”

  He laughed. “Scared? You shouldn’t be scared. You can tell me anything. You know that.”

  She took a deep breath and then let it all spill out: “So what Peter didn’t tell you is that the referee ended up dying, and he said something to me before he did, but it wasn’t any big deal. But people saw him say something, and they thought it was a big deal. The other ref asked me what he said. And then I was approached in the grocery store parking lot by a man named Bob, only he wasn’t a man ...” She took another big breath. “And this is the part I’m scared to tell you. He was an angel, Nate, an honest-to-God angel. As soon as he told me, I just knew it was true—”

  She stopped. She didn’t like the look on Nate’s face. Amused. Condescending. Entertained.

  “Fine.” She lay back down and rolled away from him. “I told you that you wouldn’t believe me.”

  He gently shook her shoulder. “Hey, don’t do that. I do believe you.”

  She looked over her shoulder at him. “No, you don’t.”

  “Well, I’m not sure he was really an angel, but I believe that you thought he was.”

  “Never mind. I’m sorry that I told you.”

  “Hey, Sandra, don’t do that. Don’t pick a fight. I do believe you, but come on, the guy wasn’t really an angel. Angels don’t hang out at the Piggly Wiggly.”

  They didn’t even have Piggly Wiggly stores in Maine, but Nate thought the name was hilarious and called all grocery stores Piggly Wiggly. When they’d first started dating, she’d found that adorable.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could rewind time about twenty minutes.

  “Would you please finish your story?”

  “That was it. That’s the end of the story.”

  “An angel approached you and then didn’t say anything?”

  “He asked me what the ref had said, and I told him.”

  “And what did the ref say?”

  “He said we had to stop the white team.”

  “Why would he say that?” He sounded critical, as if she was making up a story that didn’t make sense.

  “I don’t know,” Sandra said in a tone bordering on cranky. “I think he was delirious. The game was really physical, lots of elbows. Maybe he thought white was being too rough. The man was dying. His brain might not have been in tip-top shape.”

  “Did he have a heart attack?”

  “I don’t know. He was a hundred and five years old. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’m tired.” She closed her eyes again.

  He took the hint, lay down himself, and turned off the light. “Good night,” he said. She didn’t answer. A few minutes later, he said, “We’ve got to get up early tomorrow. It’s my turn to teach Sunday school.”

  She groaned. Not because she didn’t want to get up early, although she didn’t. Not because she didn’t enjoy Sunday school, because she did, but because she was frequently annoyed with how involved Nate was with everything and everyone other than his own family. He didn’t neglect them or anything; he showed up to the major events. But he seemed to find the day-to-day grind beneath him. But if the church, or his school, or the multiple nonprofits he volunteered for needed him, he was Mr. Service. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, trying to rein in her thoughts. She didn’t want to mentally complain about her husband. She loved him. He was a good man, a good husband, a good father. And while mentally cataloging all his attributes, she drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 4

  “I’m sick,” Peter said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Sandra replied, distracted. “I’ll call your coach and let him know you won’t be at practice this afternoon.”

  “No!” Peter said quickly, and then realized he was betraying himself and said more slowly, “I might be better by then. Don’t call him yet.”

  She looked at her son. “You’re going to church.” The look on his face concerned her. He looked more crestfallen than he should have looked from such a benign pronouncement. “Honey, why don’t you want to go to church?”

  He shrugged and looked at the floor.

  She gently lifted his chin toward her. His eyes came with it. “Sweetie, you know why we go to church, right?”

  “Because there’s power in group worship, and because iron sharpens iron,” he recited dutifully, sounding too much like a robot.

  She smiled, proud of his response even if it hadn’t come from the heart. “That’s right. So we need to go, okay?”

  “Okay. Can I sit with you instead of going to junior church?”

  This surprised her. “Of course you can. Why?”

  “Junior church is for babies,” he said and walked away, presumably to get ready for church.

  Sandra went to refill her coffee mug, and Nate started hollering at everybody to hurry up. She looked at the clock. “We’ve still got plenty of time.”

  “I can’t be late. I’m teaching today.”

  She closed her eyes to avoid rolling them. “I know that. But we’re not going to be late. We’ve still got fifteen minutes before we have to leave.”

  “I want to leave now, Sandra, so we’re not running in right at the bell”—

  She hated it when he used school metaphors.

  —“and so that I can be friendly and greet people when they walk in.”

  Thinking that he could stand to be a little more “friendly” with his own family, she resignedly dumped her coffee into a travel mug and went to get the baby.

  Seven minutes later, Nate, in even more of a tizzy, climbed into the minivan’s driver’s seat and asked Sandra to hurry up with buckling Sammy in.

  “Sorry, this thing has seventy-five snaps.”

  “You use hyperbole too much,” he said, looking at his phone.

  She had heard this complaint before, didn’t remember what hyperbole meant, kept forgetting to look it up, and so never tempered her use of it.

  “Shoot!” Peter cried and reached to open the sliding door. “I forgot my iPad.”

  From the front, Nate pressed a button that shut the door Peter had just started to open. “You don’t need to bring your iPad to church.”

  “Dad, it’s got my Bible on it!”

  Nate leaned back against the headrest and hit the button again to open the door. “Fine. Hurry up.”

  Peter jumped out of the car and ran back inside. Sandra climbed into the front. “It’s okay. We’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Doesn’t that ki
d own a print Bible?”

  “Of course he does. He has like six of them. But all the kids are using tablets for their Bibles at church.”

  “That’s just foolish. We don’t even let them have tablets in school.”

  “I know, but this isn’t school.”

  Peter reappeared and climbed back into the van. Nate started to back out of the garage before the sliding door had even clicked shut.

  “Thank you for hurrying, honey,” Sandra said over her shoulder. Peter ignored her gratitude. He just stared out his window like he was on the way to the coal mines.

  Church was only a few miles away. They pulled into the parking lot, which wasn’t crowded yet, as many people didn’t go to Sunday school, and of those who did, the majority showed up late. Nate parked close to the door and then wordlessly jumped out and headed inside, leaving Sandra to unpack the children. Peter was helpful, though, and grabbed the diaper bag without being asked. Then he followed her to the nursery, while Joanna ran off to find her class. There was no one in the nursery yet. Of course there isn’t. Because we’re early. Sandra sat in a rocking chair. “You can head to class, Peter. I’ll wait for the nursery person to get here.”

  “I’ll wait!” Peter chirped.

  Sandra looked up, shocked. “What?”

  “Dad’s teaching today. I know he wouldn’t want you to be late. So I’ll wait with Sammy if you want.”

  Sandra looked at Sammy’s chubby, drooly face and then at Peter’s. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. Definitely.” He held out both hands for his little brother.

  “Wow, Peter. Thanks. You are a good big brother.” She handed the baby to him and got up. Peter immediately took her seat. Sandra left her two sons in the otherwise empty nursery, beaming with pride.

  No one had shown up yet for Nate’s adult Sunday school class, but they did start drifting in soon after Sandra joined him. She greeted her friends warmly, genuinely excited to see them.

  Nate did a great job teaching the class. He was organized, a good communicator, and had a good sense of humor. Sandra admired him while he taught. She was proud of him. He’d taught high school math for ten years before becoming a principal. At first, he’d had no aspirations of going into administration, but then he thought it could be his gift to the world. There was so much need in the public schools, and he had such a servant’s heart. He was a good principal—a great one even. He’d made a lot of positive changes in their school district’s high school, and was respected by all the teachers and most of the students and parents. Sandra hadn’t weighed in on the decision, had thought he probably knew best about whether to make the move from teacher to administrator, but she now believed he’d made the right decision.

  When class finished, Sandra went back to the nursery to check on Sammy, and found Peter still there, holding his brother. “Peter! What are you still doing here?” The nursery was now full of tiny humans, not Peter’s favorite demographic, and Odetta, this week’s nursery volunteer, was also there, directing toddler traffic.

  “Oh, Sandra! Thank God for this little saint of yours!” she gushed, tousling Peter’s hair with her free hand.

  Peter blushed, and Sandra couldn’t believe he didn’t flinch away from her slightly invasive display of affection.

  “He has stayed with me the whole time, and he’s been such a huge help! Can he help more often? He’s been rockin’ babies and wipin’ hineys!”

  Sandra’s jaw dropped. Peter had never changed a diaper in his life. What on earth was going on?

  Chapter 5

  Thanks to Sammy, Sandra was up early on Monday morning, and though she was exhausted, it was nice to enjoy the soft early morning sunshine streaming through her kitchen window—before the alarms went off and anarchy ensued. She had to get two kids dropped off at school on time while fighting the traffic of the hundreds of other mothers trying to do the same thing. She could put them on the school bus, of course, but she’d tried that years ago with Peter, and he’d learned far too much about the birds and the bees on that five-mile ride to school.

  She took a gulp of her coffee and tried to focus on the psalm in front of her, but Mr. T kept sliding his body between her eyeballs and her Bible. Nate had named the cat Mr. T because of the thick black stripe down its back. When Sandra had reminded her husband that the cat was a female, Nate had said it was too late. The cat’s name was Mr. T.

  She placed the persistent animal on the floor for the fourth time and brought her Bible closer to her eyes. She tried to read, but after only a few lines, she was thinking about that poor referee again. What had Bob the angel said his name was? Frank Fenton. He’d been old, had probably died doing what he loved, and Bob had said he was in heaven. So, why did she feel so sad?

  A tapping on the window startled her, but when she turned to look through said window, what she saw startled her even more. Did angels really need to knock? Maybe he wasn’t an angel after all. No, he was. She knew it. She gave him a look that she hoped communicated both confusion and irritation. Her kids knew that look well. Bob didn’t appear to understand. He pointed toward the door.

  Shaking her head, she went to the door and cracked it open. “Why are you knocking on my window? You scared me.”

  “Sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t want to wake everybody up.”

  She frowned, not understanding.

  “If I knocked on the door,” he explained, “it would be too loud. So, I saw you sitting there, and thought I would just need to tap on the glass to get your attention. And it worked.” He looked smug. “Anyway, I need your help. Can we chat?”

  She looked around her neighborhood. “I don’t know, do people think I’m talking to myself right now?”

  “If anyone’s looking, then, yes. I should come inside.”

  She stepped out of his way and watched him softly close the door behind him. Part of her was elated at the idea of an angel in her home. Part of her wished he’d waited until she’d gotten dressed. She folded her arms across her chest self-consciously. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need your help.”

  “You mentioned that.”

  “I’m in a bit of trouble, I think.”

  “Why? Trouble with whom?”

  He stared upward. At first she thought he meant her family asleep upstairs. Then she understood. “Oh. God?” She glanced nervously at her ceiling. “Really?”

  He nodded. “I shouldn’t have left the soccer game, but I was overseeing several events at once, and there was a scuffle on the golf course.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Golfers scuffle?” She found that difficult to believe.

  He nodded adamantly. “But this wasn’t a bad one. I should’ve stayed put. I should’ve known trouble was brewing.”

  “How could you have known the ref’s heart was going to give out? Are angels psychic?”

  “Frank Fenton didn’t just drop dead of natural causes,” he said, deftly dodging her second question.

  “Are you saying there was foul play?” On some level, she knew she’d just made a pun, but she also knew it would be in incredibly poor taste to celebrate it.

  “Poisoned.”

  Sandra gasped. “How do you know all this?”

  “I hear things.”

  She considered that. “You mean, you can invisibly lurk in places and eavesdrop?”

  He shrugged. “We’re only supposed to do it when necessary, but yes.”

  “So, why can’t you just lurk and eavesdrop and find out who poisoned him?”

  Bob exhaled quickly. “We just can’t, okay! There are rules that we have to follow, and we can’t get to all places at all times to all people—”

  “We? Just how many of you are there, Bob?”

  “How many middle school sports angels?”

  “No.” He’s a bit daft for an angel of the Lord, isn’t he? “How many angels in all?”

  His eyes widened just a little. “Many.”

  Wow, that was helpful. “I’m sorry to
hear that he was killed on purpose, but I don’t see how I can help.” She was having trouble even believing the news. Who murders an ancient soccer ref?

  He took a step closer to her, glancing at the stairs to make sure they weren’t about to be interrupted by little feet. “I can’t figure out what he meant. That you had to stop white? What did that mean?” He was so over the top with his earnestness that she almost laughed at him, but a man had been killed.

  “It meant,” she said slowly, “that he wanted someone to stop the white team. They were fouling a lot.”

  Bob scowled. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Sandra didn’t say anything. What did this guy want from her? Angel, she corrected herself. What did this angel want from her? “I know it doesn’t make any sense, but he was dying. He probably wasn’t in his right mind. Or maybe he was really dedicated to the job.”

  “I need you to talk to his wife.”

  Sandra laughed in his face. “Absolutely not.”

  “Come on, I really shouldn’t do it.”

  “I’m assuming that the conversation you overheard involved law enforcement? So, the police know that he was murdered? So, let them figure it out. That’s their job.”

  Bob shook his head dramatically. “It’s my fault he died. I need to—”

  “It’s not your fault!” Sandra cried, too loudly. “How could you possibly stop a poisoning?”

  “I don’t know,” Bob said, also too loudly. “All I know is that he died on my watch, and I need to show some initiative and try to set things right.”

  Sandra didn’t know what to say. She was most certainly not going to talk to some grieving widow. “Just out of curiosity, how old is his wife?” she asked, thinking she too had to be ancient and might really be in need with her husband gone. Maybe she should go see her, just to check on her.

  “Twenty-six.” He cocked his head to the side and raised his eyebrows.

  Sandra almost tipped over backward and grabbed the stair banister for support. “You’re kidding. He had to have been at least eighty.”

  “Seventy-nine to be precise. I’m telling you. Something hinky is going on. Please, help me.”