by Parnell Hall
“I just don’t want you getting hurt.”
“I won’t get hurt.”
“I don’t mean emotionally. I know you can cope with that.”
“Sherry, Dennis would never hurt me. I know that’s hard for you to accept. The idea it would be different with me. But I swear, he’s never laid a finger on me.”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I do believe you.”
“Then what’s your problem?”
“Dennis never hit me until after we were married, either.”
“Either?”
“Sorry, I forgot. He hasn’t hit you yet.”
“Yet? Damn it, Sherry. That’s not fair.”
“Not fair? Brenda, this is not a game. I got a restraining order against the guy. As far as I know, it’s still in effect. If so, he’s in violation of it. I could call the cops and have him taken in.”
“You’d do that to me?”
“I’m not doing anything to you. Jesus Christ, get it through your thick head! You think he’s back at the bed-and-breakfast waiting for you? More likely he’s out back trying to listen in at the window.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake!”
“He’s sick, Brenda. It’s a disease. He’s a sick son of a bitch. He needs help. Psychiatric help.”
“Oh, please . . .”
“You think it’s normal to come here, shove his wedding in my face?”
“That’s the problem,” Brenda raged. “That’s what’s eating you. You’re taking this whole thing personally. It’s not something Dennis is doing, or something I’m doing, it’s something the two of us are doing to you! Well, guess what? You’re not that damn important! If Dennis wants to have the wedding here, it’s because he thought it would be nice. A fun thing to do. But I guess you’ve spoiled that, haven’t you?”
“Is that how you see it? Good God, he’s got you so brainwashed.”
Brenda hurled the coffee cup. It shattered against the wall.
“Oh, my God! Look what I did. . . .”
Sherry nodded grimly. “Maybe you’re what he needs. Beat him the hell up.”
“Sherry—”
“You know what, Brenda? This is all too sudden. That’s the problem. It’s all too sudden. And I’m not dealing with it well. I’m not sure I ever will deal with it well, but right now I know I’m not.”
Brenda was picking up pieces of the broken cup. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”
“Brenda, I don’t care about the damn cup. I care about you.”
Sherry held out the kitchen garbage can.
Brenda dumped in the shards of glass.
“So tell me, how do you get on with his parents?”
“I haven’t met his parents.”
A cold chill ran down Sherry’s spine. “You’re getting married next weekend, and you haven’t met his parents?”
“They aren’t coming to the wedding. They all but disowned him since he joined the band.”
“Brenda. I married Dennis without meeting his parents. When I finally did, they disapproved. That’s what set him off.”
“Things have changed, Sherry. Dennis isn’t looking for their approval anymore.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You sound like you don’t believe me.”
“I believe you. It’s Dennis I don’t believe.”
“He’s changed, Sherry. He’s really changed.”
Sherry sighed.
“Oh, for your sake, Bren, I really hope so.”
5
BECKY BALDWIN CAME OUT THE FRONT DOOR OF THE COUNTRY Kitchen and skipped down the steps, as the youthful attorney was wont to do when walking by herself and having no client she needed to impress. She reached the bottom, turned toward the parking lot, and stopped.
Dennis Pride was perched on the top rail of the fence. When he saw her, he grinned and waved. “Howdy, Miss Lawyer Lady. You have some business in this corral? Perhaps one of these fine steeds is yours?”
“Nice try, cowboy.” Becky jerked her thumb at the country restaurant, fashioned to look like a huge log cabin. “But the motif’s not Wild West, it’s New England Early American.”
“What, they didn’t have horses?” Dennis said. “Come on. Which stallion here is yours?”
“That would be the gelding,” Becky said. “You will be, too, if you don’t get out of my way.”
“Oh, tough stuff. If I ever need a lawyer, I’m calling you.”
“Do that.” Becky headed for her car.
“Can I have your number?”
“I’m in the book.”
Dennis trotted after her. “I didn’t catch your name.” “I guess I’m not memorable.”
“I was looking at your eyes and missed the introduction. All I know is you’re the town lawyer, and you’re not going with what’s-his-face.”
“Right.” Becky jerked her car door open. “Because he’s going with your ex-wife.”
Dennis frowned.
“Bothers you, doesn’t it?”
“Hey, you’re close to somebody, of course it leaves a scar.”
“Interesting choice of words.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Sherry told me about the divorce.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“I try not to,” Becky said serenely. “Listen, why are you hanging out in the parking lot, preying on unsuspecting women? Aren’t you engaged to be married?”
“Yes, I am. And my bride-to-be ran off with my ex-wife. I’m not sure where they went, but she’s driving the rental car.”
“Oh. Your fiancée left you here.”
“That she did.”
“Do you need a ride?”
“I’d like one.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Bed-and-breakfast. I’m not too clear on the address, but I could find it.”
“Then why didn’t they drop you off?”
Dennis shrugged. “You’re asking me why women do things? I gave up trying to figure that out long ago. Can you give me a ride?”
“Sure. Hop in.”
Becky and Dennis drove out of the lot, headed back toward town.
“All right, where is it?” Becky asked.
“Just down here,” Dennis replied casually. “But, tell me something. Is there anyplace I could get a cup of coffee first?”
“Coffee? You have got to be kidding. We were just at the Country Kitchen.”
“Yeah, but I’m a recovering alcoholic. It bothers me to sit in the bar.”
“Is that so?”
“This town doesn’t have someplace to get coffee?”
Becky hesitated. She had a coffeepot in her office, but she wasn’t about to take Dennis there. “There’s a diner just outside of town. One cup of coffee and that’s it.”
“Fantastic. You’re too kind.”
Becky drove to the diner, an all-night greasy spoon on the edge of Bakerhaven. They went in, got a booth, ordered coffee.
The waitress who brought it raised her eyebrows at the handsome young man Becky was dining with.
As the waitress moved off, Becky frowned. “You have a sponsor?”
“No.”
“You should have a sponsor.”
“I’m doing this myself.”
“Ever try to quit before?”
Dennis dismissed this with a smile. “Let’s not talk about me. Let’s talk about you. You’re a native, right? You grew up here, know everybody?”
“You make it sound like I spent my life here. Actually, I just got back.”
“Oh? Where were you?”
“Harvard.”
“Impressive.” Dennis regarded his coffee as if it were castor oil. He took a sip, made a face. “God, that’s vile. So, anyway, how’s your love life? You got a steady boyfriend?”
“I wouldn’t exactly say that. I’ve got a TV guy who’s interested.”
“TV guy? That’s not the guy tonight?”
&
nbsp; “No, he’s a newspaper reporter.”
“What’s his name?”
“Aaron Grant.”
“That’s the newspaper reporter?”
“Yeah.”
“Funny. You two look like a couple. Did you ever date?”
“We went out in high school.”
“Went out? My, my, what a lovely euphemism.”
“Now, look here—” Becky began.
“And you’re not still involved?”
“No. Like I said, Aaron’s involved with Sherry.”
“Oh, really. Is that serious?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Yes, you would.”
The timbre of Dennis’s voice had altered ever so slightly, but it was enough that Becky noticed. She looked up sharply.
“You women always know,” Dennis told her. “It’s your business to know.”
Becky pursed her lips. With her finger, she absently twirled her coffee cup around in the saucer. “Drink up. I’ll drive you home.”
“No offense meant.” Dennis kept his best smile on.
“Sure,” Becky said. “So you were in a band?”
“Yeah. Tune Freaks. We weren’t all that bad.”
“You cut a record?”
“There’s the thing. That’s what needed to happen. We were this close.”
“Uh-huh.” Becky imagined Dennis with long hair, strumming his guitar, blasting music through an amp. Distorting the features of his pleasant-looking face to belt out the raw angst of his tortured soul. It was a troubling image, both repellent and attractive. For the first time, she could empathize with Sherry’s plight.
“Come on, let’s go.” Becky’s voice was firm and steady. She hoped Dennis wouldn’t sense the nervousness she actually felt.
They got in the car, drove to the bed-and-breakfast.
“That’s it right there.” Dennis pointed to a three-story wood-frame house, white with green shutters, set back from the road.
Becky pulled up in front to let him out. Was glad he didn’t try to kiss her. She didn’t really think he would, but she wasn’t sure quite what to expect from this volatile young man.
As she drove off, it occurred to Becky she had never been so relieved to get someone so handsome out of her car.
Dennis watched her go, then strolled up the walk and in the front door.
Mrs. Ramsey, the elderly owner of the B&B, met him in the foyer. “You’re back early,” she observed.
“Yes, ma’am, but I have to go out again. May I use your phone?”
“Is it a local call?”
“Yes, of course.”
Dennis called a car service, had them come pick him up, drive him to the Country Kitchen.
He didn’t go in, however. Instead, he walked out into the parking lot. He took his keys from his pocket, unlocked his rental car.
Dennis smiled as he drove out of the parking lot.
6
CHIEF DALE HARPER PULLED HIS CRUISER TO A STOP IN front of the police station, set the brake, and killed the motor. He got out, yawned, stretched, and squinted into the early-morning sun. A cool breeze was blowing down the street, and as Chief Harper stepped up on the sidewalk his nose twitched.
Damn.
He could smell the coffee brewing in Cushman’s Bake Shop just down the street. The shop was a terrible lure. Mrs. Cushman couldn’t bake a lick, but the muffins she had trucked in every morning from New York were fantastic. The chief was particularly partial to the orange cranberry.
Chief Harper exhaled in exasperation.
The problem was that he had just had breakfast at home with his wife and daughter, just as he did every morning. He didn’t need a muffin. Particularly since his pants were starting to get a little snug in the waist. More than a little snug, if truth be told. He really didn’t need any more breakfast.
The ideal thing would be to have a muffin for lunch. Of course, there wouldn’t be any muffins by lunchtime. The muffins sold out quickly, and if he didn’t buy one now they’d be gone.
He could get a muffin and keep it for lunch, but that wouldn’t work. The longest one had sat on his desk was an excruciating thirty minutes—actually closer to twenty-three—before he had succumbed to its allure.
The other theory, that he would have one now and skip lunch, didn’t seem to work, either. Even though no muffin would present itself at lunchtime, something else would. And who could work from nine to five on nothing? It was totally unrealistic.
Chief Harper hesitated in front of the police station, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as indecisive as Hamlet.
Another waft of bakery air tipped the scale, helped with his decision. He would have a muffin today, and tomorrow he would begin doing without.
Chief Harper had been making that decision for months.
He hurried down the sidewalk to the bakeshop, queued up in the line of townspeople waiting to be served. Which did not take long. Mrs. Cushman, the plump, robust, good-natured proprietor of Cushman’s Bake Shop, had the chief’s muffin in the bag before he even reached the counter. A shrewd businesswoman, Mrs. Cushman kept the early-morning line moving by anticipating the regulars’ requests.
“Here you go, Chief,” she said, handing him the bag.
The fact he was so predictable didn’t trouble Chief Harper. His step was light as he approached the station. Now, to wash out the pot and make the coffee. It was a beautiful summer day, there was no immediate work to be done. He might even sit outside and drink it. Chief Harper skipped up the front steps rather lightly for a solid policeman whose pants had become a bit tight.
The Bakerhaven police station was a former antiques shop, and not too much work had gone into its transformation, aside from installing holding cells in the back, and hanging up a decorous sign in front that said POLICE. It was still a white, wood-frame building just like all the rest on Main Street.
Chief Harper fished his keys out of his pocket, unlocked the door.
The letter was lying just inside. A white envelope, business size, address side up. The name had been typed on the envelope in capital letters. Chief Harper picked it up and read it.
Great. Absolute gibberish.
It occurred to Chief Harper that his young officer, Dan Finley, loved word games, so the letter was presumably to Dan. Harper wondered if it was from a young lady. He grinned at the thought. Dan was eager, earnest, and easily embarrassed. He had sandy hair and freckles. The idea of him getting a mash note at the police station was delightful. It would be delicious if he shared it, but it would be almost better if he refused to.
Chief Harper flipped the letter onto Dan Finley’s desk, went into the pantry, and washed out the coffeepot. He filled it, switched it on to perk. Checked the mini-fridge to make sure there was milk.
Great.
All systems were go for Operation Orange Cranberry.
Dan Finley came in carrying a brown paper bag.
“What you got there?” Chief Harper asked.
“Muffin.”
“What kind?”
“Blueberry. You make coffee?”
“It’s perking now. How do you stay so thin?”
“Don’t know. Just do.”
Dan Finley set his bag on his desk, picked up the envelope. “What’s this?”
“I don’t know,” Chief Harper replied innocently. “What is it?”
“Beats me. How did it get on my desk?”
Harper hesitated a second. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be going. “I put it there.”
“Oh?”
“Someone slipped it under the door. I figured it must be yours.”
“IMBBOP OFXQ? Why would it be mine?”
“Well, it sure isn’t mine.”
“Maybe it’s Sam’s,” Dan suggested.
They both laughed. Sam Brogan was a particularly cranky police officer. The thought of anyone sending such a letter to Sam was ludicrous.
“Well, should I open it?” Dan asked.
“Guess you’re right.”
Dan Finley picked up the letter opener, slid it in the slot, slit the envelope open. He pulled out the letter, looked at it, and frowned.
“Well, what does it say?” Chief Harper asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Just read it.”
“Here, you read it,” Dan said. He handed the letter to Chief Harper.
Harper looked at the letter.
His mouth fell open.
It read:
7
SHERRY CARTER WAS BEHIND ON HER PUZZLE LADY COLUMN. It wasn’t like Sherry to fall behind, but what with her aunt’s nuptials and the arrival of Brenda and Dennis, she hadn’t been able to work last night, and hadn’t finished the column she was supposed to fax this morning.
Sherry was working on it now. She was sitting at her computer creating the crossword puzzle. She was using Crossword Compiler, a handy program that allowed her to type right into a crossword grid, search for words and definitions, and even fill in parts of the puzzle if she was pressed for time. Sherry never went so far as to turn in an electronically generated puzzle, but the resources helped.
Sherry had almost finished the grid when she heard gravel crunch in the drive. She went to the window, expecting to see her aunt. Instead, Chief Harper was climbing out of his cruiser. Sherry frowned, opened the front door.
“Hi, Chief. What’s up?”
“Hello, Miss Carter. Is your aunt home?”
“No, she’s not.”
“Oh? Her car’s here.”
“Yes. She’s out with Raymond.”
Sherry hesitated only slightly when coming up with this obfuscation. While quite true, it was also a deliberate piece of misdirection, aimed at preserving Aunt Cora’s reputation, if any remained. Cora had in fact been out all night with Raymond, instead of the early-morning after-breakfast drive Sherry’s lighthearted remark implied.
“Well, I hate to leave this,” Chief Harper said. “Should have made a copy.”
“Leave what?”
“You don’t have a copy machine, do you?”
“No. But our fax machine makes copies.”
“Really? I wonder if ours does. I’ll have to ask Dan.”
“What do you need to copy?”