The Whistle Blower

by Robin Merrill

  She raised an eyebrow. “Is this God asking me or is it you?”

  “Not God,” Bob said quickly.

  “Is God going to be upset with me for helping you?”

  “Absolutely not.” He sounded so sure.

  But could she be sure? Why was she even considering this? This was madness. But she had to admit, she was curious. And as busy as her life was, she was also often bored. This intrigued her. Plus, she liked hanging out with an angel. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “No time for that.”

  “Mom?” A squeaky voice called down the stairs. “Who are you talking to?”

  “I’ll be back,” Bob whispered, and then he was gone.

  Chapter 6

  When Sandra returned from dropping the kids off at school, struggling under the weight of the baby carrier hanging off her hand, she looked up to see Bob sitting on her porch swing. She knew she should be annoyed by his persistence, but she was happy to see him. How many people can say they’ve been stalked by an angel? “I suppose you’re invisible to everyone but me?”

  He nodded and smiled. “Everyone but you and Sammy.”

  Sandra looked down at her son, who was smiling broadly and gazing right at Bob.

  “Are you ready to go?” Bob asked.

  Sandra took a deep breath. Part of her wanted to do this. Part of her knew it was sheer madness. “I’m not sure I’m the right girl for the job.”

  “I’ll be right there beside you.”

  She came up the steps, set Sammy down so he could still see Bob’s face, and joined the angel on the swing. She stretched her legs out in front of her and looked at Bob, who was making silly faces at Sammy. “What exactly are you expecting us to find out at the widow’s house?”

  Bob shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe she killed him.”

  What? This angel was nuts. “You want me to have a chat with a murderer?”

  “Like I said, I’ll be right there with you.”

  That didn’t make Sandra feel much better. “What do you want me to ask her? Hey, I’m sorry for your loss, but did you kill your husband?”

  “No, I can’t help but think there was more meaning to his final words than you think. Maybe she’ll know something about it. Just go and offer your condolences, tell her you’re really upset about it, and tell her that you thought she might want to hear his final words.” This all came out quickly. He had obviously thought this through.

  Was she really considering this? She looked down at Sammy. “I’m not taking my baby to visit a murderer’s house.”

  “Of course not. Is there a grandparent you could leave him with?”

  That was annoying. “Sure. In Ohio.”

  He frowned and looked around the neighborhood, apparently scanning for anyone who looked like they wanted to babysit an infant right now.

  “Never mind. I know a homeschooled teen from church. Let me give her a call.”

  An hour later, Sandra was driving down the road with an invisible passenger. Was she losing her mind? This was too unreal.

  “Don’t feel guilty about leaving Sammy. He’ll be fine.”

  Sandra’s eyes snapped toward Bob. “Can you read my mind?”

  He put one hand on the dashboard. “Look at the road, please.”

  She snickered. “Why? Are you afraid of crashing? Can’t you just disappear at the last second?”

  “I’m not afraid of me crashing. I’m afraid of you crashing.

  “Okay, I appreciate the concern, but you didn’t answer my question. Can you read my mind?” She really didn’t like that idea.

  “Of course not. I can see your face. You have the guilty mom look, but you have nothing to feel guilty about. You never leave your baby, and you’re only doing it this time because you’re doing a really big favor for an angel.”

  A thought occurred to her. “Why don’t you just do it? Why do you need me? Why don’t you just appear to her and ask her questions?”

  “Because you have an in. You were there when he died.” He paused. “Besides,” he said, his voice growing so quiet she could barely hear him, “we’re really not supposed to appear to people unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “It was absolutely necessary for you to appear to me in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot and make my ice cream melt?” Oh great. Now she was doing the stupid Piggly Wiggly thing too.

  He squirmed in his seat. “Like I said, I might be in a bit of trouble here. This hasn’t been my finest hour.”

  She felt bad for him then and stopped interrogating him. She pulled her minivan into the driveway of a very nice home. It wasn’t a mansion, but it was big and modern and looked expensive. “What did he do for work, other than refereeing?”

  Bob vanished, and for a second Sandra panicked that he had left her. Then she realized that he’d just gotten out of the car. Of course. Why would an angel open the door? She got out of her car the non-supernatural way, and Bob answered her, “He’s retired.”

  “I could’ve guessed that much. What did he do before he was retired?”

  “He was a teacher.”

  She looked up at the house and then back to Bob. “You’re kidding. Well, his wife must make a lot of money.”

  “I don’t think she works.” Bob cast her a knowing glance. “Like I said, something hinky. Also, you should stop talking to me, in case she’s looking out a window.”

  Sandra took a deep breath. Having an imaginary friend was going to take some getting used to. Maybe she should ask Joanna for some pointers.

  Chapter 7

  Sandra lifted a trembling hand to knock on the late referee’s door. What was she doing? She didn’t do stuff like this! It was entirely irrational. It occurred to her then that maybe Bob was using some supernatural mind control over her. She looked at him over her shoulder and opened her mouth to ask, but he shook his head slightly. Oh yeah, she probably shouldn’t talk to him right now. She returned her attention to the door, which was still shut. How long was she supposed to stand here and wait? She’d never felt more foolish, and yet, there was a weird thrill coursing through her veins too. As absurd as this was, she was having a bit of fun.

  She was about to give up and leave when a sports car pulled into the driveway and a long-legged blonde climbed out. “Can I help you?” she asked, sounding notably suspicious.

  Sandra froze. What was she supposed to say again? Why was she here again?

  The woman approached, scowling, her arms laden with shopping bags from multiple department stores. She came up the steps with a confidence Sandra envied. “Who are you?”

  Suddenly, Bob was standing very close behind her. Had he crept up on her or just materialized there? She didn’t know, but the hand he placed on her shoulder brought incredible reassurance. “I’m sorry, I’m not very good at this sort of thing,” she stammered.

  “What sort of thing might that be?”

  This woman was unpleasant. She’s grieving, Sandra reminded herself. I think. “I was there ... when your husband died, and I’m so sorry for your loss, but I just ... I’m really shaken by the whole thing, and well ...” She glanced at the closed door. “Could we talk inside?”

  The woman hesitated.

  “Only for a minute.”

  With body language that made it clear she wasn’t into the whole thing, she unlocked the door and swung it open so that Sandra could step inside first. Suddenly, Sandra was sure the widow was going to stab her in the back. If that happened, would Bob protect her? Could Bob protect her? He didn’t look like much of a fighter. Did he have an invisible sword tucked away somewhere?

  Sandra stepped into the cool darkness and then stepped aside until the woman could join her. “My name is Sandra. Your husband was reffing my son’s soccer game when he died.”

  The woman dropped her keys on a counter and set her packages down on a bench. “Isabelle,” she said, without looking at Sandra. “And?”

  “And ...” Really, what was the and? Why was she here again? “And, well
, I was the last person he spoke to before he died”—

  Isabelle’s eyes snapped to attention at that.

  —“and that’s kind of a personal moment, and I thought you’d like to know what he said.”

  “I would like to know,” she said with notable eagerness.

  Sandra took a shaky breath. Oh boy, no turning back now. “He said, ‘You’ve got to stop white.’”

  Barely a flicker, but it was there. That meant something to this woman. But what? What could that possibly mean other than the interpretation Sandra had? “Is that all?” Isabelle asked.

  Sandra nodded. “I’m sorry. I wish there were more. It just seemed like such a strange thing to say, and I thought, as his wife, you might want to know. If it were me, I would want to know my husband’s last words.”

  Isabelle nodded. “Right, well, thanks for stopping by.” She put one hand to Sandra’s back as if to shoo her out of the foyer. Was that fear in her voice?

  Sandra stood firm. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  “No, nothing at all,” she said quickly. Too quickly.

  Sandra tried not to look suspicious. She didn’t want to tip her hand.

  “He’d been saying lots of weird things lately. Getting older, you know,” she said, as if she had the first idea about what it meant to get older.

  “I see.” Sandra looked at Bob for further cues, but he was just standing there.

  “So, is that all?” Isabelle opened the door.

  “Uh ... yes. Thank you. Again, I just wanted to say sorry for your loss. If there’s anything I can do, just—”

  “Thank you.” She slammed the door in Sandra’s face.

  She stood there for a second and then turned toward the driveway. Bob had already seated himself in her passenger seat. He was an assuming angel, wasn’t he?

  She had the sudden urge to leap over the steps and run to her minivan, but she forced herself to take normal, even steps. Once she’d backed out into the road, though, she turned to Bob. “Did you see that? She flinched when I said the thing about the white team! She totally knew something! She was hiding something!” She slammed the steering wheel with her open palm. “I knew it!” Then she wondered why she’d just said that. She hadn’t known anything at all.

  Bob was smirking. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were enjoying this.”

  Sandra tried to keep the joy out of her voice. “Would you prefer I be miserable?”

  He shook his head. “Of course not. I just think it’s funny that you’re having fun. Anyway, you’re right. She did flinch. She does know something. But whereas she won’t tell us what she knows, I don’t see how that little visit helped us much.” He made it sound as though the whole thing had been her idea, and had been a bad one. This was obnoxious.

  Even worse, she felt defensive of the idea. “It helped us by suggesting that she’s the one who killed him.”

  “Then I’m off the hook,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “What?” What hook was he off, exactly?

  “If she’s the one who killed him, she didn’t do it on the soccer field, so it’s not my fault—”

  “Is that all you care about?” she cried, indignant. Then she folded her lips in. She’d just interrupted an angel. Maybe that wasn’t advisable.

  “Of course not. But if it’s not my fault, then I’ll let the police do their thing. I don’t need to try to make up for my lack of diligence if it wasn’t my lack of diligence that got him killed.”

  This made perfect sense, of course. But it also made part of Sandra sad. She didn’t want to leave it up to the police. She wanted to figure out the puzzle herself. “We need more information,” she said, mostly to herself.

  “We do. And I have no idea where to get it.”

  “Me neither.” They rode along in silence for several minutes. Then she remembered the mind control. She cleared her throat. How should she phrase her question, exactly?

  “Go ahead, spit it out.”

  “I thought you couldn’t read my mind.”

  “I can’t, but I’m intuitive enough to know you have something on your mind.”

  “I was just wondering ... do angels ... I mean ... can angels do ... mind control?”

  He barked out a laugh. “Of course not!”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. “Excellent.”

  He was still laughing. This annoyed her. It hadn’t been that stupid of a question. She decided to ask him another question, to get his mind off her last one. “Peter has another home game today. Is that one of yours?”

  “It sure is. Middle school soccer has never made me so nervous.”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Are you serious? Haven’t you been battling big scary demons for millennia?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Those weren’t my missions.”

  “Really. So what kind of missions did you do in Old Testament times? They didn’t have middle school soccer then, right?”

  But Bob didn’t answer, and when she looked in his direction, he was gone.

  That trick was going to get annoying.

  Chapter 8

  Missing the adrenaline rush she’d just experienced, Sandra stepped into her home to find Sammy screaming in the Pack ’n Play and the teenager watching Pretty Little Liars on Netflix. Gritting her teeth, she forced a smile at the young woman, handed her a small amount of cash that was still too much, and bid her adieu. Then she scooped Sammy up to find his diaper soaked. Guilt rushed over her. What had she been doing, acting like some kind of secret super sleuth? She was a mom. She didn’t have time for other adventures—motherhood was enough of an adventure in and of itself.

  She got the new diaper in place and then squeezed her son to her chest. “I’m sorry, punkin. I shouldn’t have left you.” She kissed him on his soft temple and soaked in the miraculous smell of him. This was enough. For a moment, she’d thought her life was too boring, but this was enough. She moved Sammy to her left hip, and he flashed her a giant gummy smile. “Want to go help me make the pot roast?” She would be far too tired to cook when she got home that night, so she wanted to get supper going now. Thank the Lord for Crock-Pots.

  She pushed his walker into the kitchen with her toe and then began the slow, complex task of putting Sammy’s chubby legs through the small holes. She’d get one in, and he’d curl the other one up and into himself like a shy, stubborn turtle leg. Then, as she unfolded that leg and stuck it in the hole, the first would boing back up to his waist. This was a game they played, and, though Sandra had long grown tired of it, she knew too that this season would soon pass and she’d be dealing with Sammy’s stinky soccer cleats instead. With Sammy finally nestled into his colorful fabric seat, she turned toward the cutting board.

  As she chopped garlic, onions, carrots, and potatoes, Sammy babbled nonsensically beside her, and she thought about poor Mr. Frank Fenton and his mysteriously young wife. Sandra silently scolded herself. An age discrepancy didn’t necessarily mean that something sordid was going on. Maybe Isabelle liked older men, or maybe Frank Fenton was just that good of a catch, no matter what his age. Or maybe there was simply no accounting for taste.

  Her phone rang, startling her out of her thoughts so suddenly that her knife slipped and she almost parted with her thumb. She looked at Sammy. “Now, where did I put my phone?”

  He stared at her with wide eyes. If he knew the cell’s location, he wasn’t giving it up. She knew it was close; she could hear it loud and clear—but where was the blasted thing? It sounded as though it was coming from behind her. If she didn’t find it soon, it would stop ringing. That wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. She spun away from the counter to look, but then the ring sounded as though it was coming from the counter. What on earth?

  It was then she realized that her butt was vibrating. Feeling foolish, she whipped the phone out of her back pocket and answered it in the nick of time, without looking at the caller ID. And so, she was doubly surprised when the school secretary identif
ied herself. Her heart jumped into her throat. What was wrong? Peter was never sick, and if he was, he would call her himself. Visions of all the school crises that had ever happened flashed through her mind in a second.

  “Everyone’s fine,” the secretary explained, “but there’s been an incident, and Mrs. Van DeVenter would like to speak with you. Can you come in?”

  “Of course,” Sandra said before she really thought about it. What incident couldn’t be discussed over the phone? Keeping her annoyance and resentment to herself, she promised to be there as soon as possible and then began the great project of getting the baby into his little autumn coat and his car seat.

  By the time they were headed down the road toward the school, her resentment had blossomed into anger. What couldn’t wait until the end of the day, when she would have gone to school to pick him up? And why hadn’t she mentioned that when the secretary had called? Why hadn’t she stuck up for herself, for her time?

  She pulled into the crowded school parking lot, parked near the back, and then schlepped herself, her overburdened purse, her equally overburdened diaper bag, and the giant car seat to the front door of the elementary school, where she had to wait several minutes to be buzzed in. This too irritated her. They’d known she was coming. They’d invited her. And now they weren’t letting her in.

  As she was considering returning to her car and making a run for it, the door buzzed open. With a great effort to be pleasant, she checked in at the main office and was shown to a hard wooden bench outside the principal’s closed door. This just kept getting better.

  Sandra didn’t yet know Mrs. Van DeVenter. This was her first year as principal of Mark Emery School, and Sandra tried to be patient, imagining how busy grades kindergarten through eighth could keep a person. She knew how busy grades nine through twelve kept her husband.

  Sammy started to scream. She scooped him out of his car seat, but made no effort to shush him. People tended to work faster at customer service when Sammy screamed.