by Deeanne Gist
The last thing Rylee wanted was to appear as if she couldn’t do her job. If she couldn’t walk her dogs at night, the Davidsons and all her other clients would hire someone who could.
“I’m fine,” she said. “See? Nothing to worry about.”
A few minutes later, she headed for her car, Daisy. The old yellow Honda Civic was parked out on Meeting Street, which meant threading her way through the dark alley to get there. She flicked the flashlight up and down the lane, then set off. Her footsteps echoed on the uneven cobbles. Halfway to the street, she glanced behind her and froze.
There he was again. Just outside the Davidsons’ gate. Another snapshot of a man’s silhouette dashing from light to dark.
Her breath caught.
And then she ran, breaking through to Meeting Street, her heart pounding in her chest. She reached Daisy, jabbing the lock with her key. Finally she wrenched the door open and jumped inside.
The car came to life with a sputter, then threatened to die. Her headlights flared and dimmed.
Don’t die on me, Daisy.
She crammed the car in gear and gunned it, mentally daring the man to step out of Prices Alley and show his face.
He didn’t.
She passed the entrance without so much as a glimpse of him.
Breathing hard, with a white-knuckled grip on the wheel, she drove home, wondering what to do. Calling the police was out of the question.
Perhaps she should call Logan, but what would she tell him? She couldn’t identify the guy. No facial features. No distinguishing marks. Not even an ethnicity.
She could call Karl, but again, she didn’t want her clients thinking she couldn’t do her job.
She sighed. There was nothing she could do. No one she could call. No one she could lean on. She was in this all alone.
While his mom banged pots together in the kitchen, Logan stood on the deck with his dad. The backyard of his childhood, a damp and muddy patch of ground that sloped down to a vast marsh, had been fenced in with wrought iron. The swing set was gone, the ground now carpeted with stone pavers and exotic plants.
“The next thing is gonna be lights all around the perimeter.” Dad drew a line in the air with his index finger. “I had them already picked out, but your mom said they looked too modern.”
They stood over a water feature. A slender stream gushed out through a rock wall, tumbling into a pool with glowing bulbs underneath.
Dad slid his hands into his pockets. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen you at church.”
Logan glanced at him. “I do make an effort. It’s just with the job, I work some crazy hours, and when I’m not on the clock there’s the book to work on.”
They gazed down onto the water’s rippling surface, their heads tiny and their legs huge.
“I know how it is, son. You get so busy, you think you can do it all, then suddenly you don’t have time for anything else in life. I’ve been there. The thing is, you can’t do it all, not alone.”
“I know that, Dad.”
“Now your mom, she’d be happy as a clam if you’d just attend church. But I didn’t raise my boy to be one of those one-day-a-week Christians. I’m talking about starting every morning in a sit-down with your Bible and the good Lord above.”
Logan tilted his head back and looked into the huge branches of an oak he’d spent many an hour climbing. From anyone else the words might’ve sounded like a sermon, but he knew how important it was to his father. Knew how the old man actually lived what he believed. And besides, it was true he hadn’t spent any time reading his Bible lately or driven down to James Island these past few Sundays—maybe more than that, come to think of it.
But the omission wasn’t intentional. His hands were full at the moment, that’s all. Still, his dad was right. He needed to get his priorities in order.
“Okay, Dad. I’ll do better.”
“That’s great, son.” He gave an approving nod. “So tell me what’s going on with this Robin Hood stuff. Everybody at the office is talking about it. I should be pumping you for inside information.”
“I’m working on a new draft of my manuscript,” Logan said.
“With the Robin Hood story right at the center.”
“That’s a great idea.”
“Yeah? I thought so, too, at first, but now I’m having doubts.
I’d be tying my future to a story that hasn’t ended yet, one that might not ever have a proper end if the police don’t figure out who’s behind the burglaries. Not only that, I’m beginning to think the crime angle sort of cheapens the rest, if you know what I mean.”
“In what way?”
He shrugged. “I started off with this idea about the city, all the history, the eccentric people. The ones in my book just happen to be criminals. But they’re Charleston criminals. To me, the Robin Hood story doesn’t fit. It’s not a Charleston crime.”
“What’s a Charleston crime, then?”
Logan rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. A crime of passion, I guess.”
“Just because nobody’s been killed doesn’t mean there’s no passion behind it, son. Think about what has to go into crimes like these. Somebody knows these houses or has a way of researching them. He chooses these specific items to steal. Like they have meaning, only it isn’t monetary. Whatever’s behind this, I bet it’s fascinating. I bet it is a Charleston crime.”
“So you think I should do it?” Logan asked, his voice tinged with skepticism.
“You want to know my opinion?” Dad clapped him on the shoulder. “Nothing you choose is gonna cheapen your book, so long as it’s you doing it.” They turned to go back inside, Dad’s hand still gripping his shoulder. “You know what would really sell some books, don’t you?”
He couldn’t help but smile. “What would sell some books, Dad?”
“If you somehow managed to solve the crime yourself. Ahead of the police.”
Logan eyed him curiously. “Seth told me the same thing. I’m not too sure I could manage it.”
“Sure you could. You’re an investigative reporter.”
“Technically, I’m not.”
Dad smiled, putting his hand on Logan’s chest. “In here you are.”
Driving home, Logan could still feel the pressure of his father’s fingers against his sternum. His heart quickened at the memory. For all his spreadsheets and interest schedules, Dad was sentimental to the core, much more so than Mom, despite appearances.
Where she had perfectly reasonable dreams—wanting the same thing any mother would—his dad still thought his son could turn out to be a baseball star, snag a beauty, and solve a crime. When it came to their vicarious thrills, Mom’s were pretty ordinary, whereas Dad’s had a touch of the daredevil.
Still, reporters had been scooping policemen since the daily paper came out in cuneiform on clay tablets. And one thing his dad had said kept coming back to him.
You can’t do it alone.
Of course, Dad meant something like, you can’t it do without Jesus. But the principle rang true. A big break would require more than waiting on a fresh tip from Nate Campbell.
Rylee’s face rose unbidden to his mind’s eye.
He needed to know if she was holding something back. He needed to know if she had some sort of connection to the Robin Hood burglar. He needed to know . . . her.
Chapter Six
Rylee pulled into a visitor’s spot at the Bishop Gadsden retirement community, the brakes of her Civic squeaking. On the porch, Mr. Lusky, in a short-sleeved, plaid button-down, perused his newspaper.
She sighed, knowing she’d get yet another lecture from him on the importance of regular car maintenance. She’d have to bear it, though. She could hardly tell him that keeping her grandmother at Bishop Gadsden took some creative manipulation of her finances.
She turned off the key, the engine coughing like a lifelong smoker.
Mr. Lusky dipped the corner of his paper. “That car needs some attention, Ryle
e-girl,” he called. “If one of your dogs made a sound like that, you’d take him to the vet, wouldn’t you? It’s downright cruel to make your car suffer.”
She strode up the walkway, then stopped beside him. “Looks like it’s going to be another scorcher today.”
He wrestled with the paper, folding it back.
Her breath caught. A picture of Logan took up a small corner at the bottom of the page. He was sliding into home, his face in a grimace, the catcher clearly tagging him out.
He had on his Mets uniform. The same one he’d worn the night Toro had chased him. In the stillness of the shot, the muscles in his arms and legs bulged. She leaned down to read over Mr. Lusky’s shoulder.
Logan Woods of the Charleston mabl Mets was tagged out at home by Oriole Harold Hearn in Sunday’s game. The Orioles went on to knock the Mets out of the playoffs with a 4-3 win.
Mr. Lusky sniffed. “You follow the Men’s Adult Baseball League, Rylee?”
She straightened. “What? Oh, no.”
He lifted his chin, peering through the lower half of his bifocals.
“That’s Logan Woods. He’s the center fielder. Good player. Power hitter. Played for the Trojans over at the high school.”
Rylee blinked. “James Island High School?”
“Why, sure. They almost won State his senior year.”
“When was that?”
“Ninety-nine, I think? Good team that year. One of their players went on to play for the Rockies.”
She looked again at the picture. She’d attended James Island High School, too. Doing the math, she realized he’d have been a senior her freshman year.
With jihs being the only high school on the island, its enrollment was always on the high side. So it was no surprise she hadn’t known him. Still, she’d have to look him up in her old yearbook.
“He writes for the paper now.” Mr. Lusky narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “Matter of fact, he had an article about one of those breakins down where you walk your dogs. Saw you were quoted in it.”
She’d read the article over coffee this morning. A photo of the bronze jockey dominated the page, the text wrapped on either side.
She was quoted twice—once at the opening, talking about how she’d recognized the statue at the church, and a second time in the body of the story: “ ‘Whoever did this took more than a jewelry box from that family.’ ”
She hoped Karl didn’t read it. Seeing the comment in black-and-white, she felt as if she’d exploited his pain somehow.
“Rylee!”
She turned at the sound of her name. One of the nursing staff jogged toward her. “I thought I saw you pull up. Come quickly, dear. It’s your grandmother.”
Rylee hurried toward Room c5 of the Cloister. This wing of the facility was reserved for residents who needed round-the-clock care. It resembled a hospital, with an octagonal nurses’ station at the hub and halls radiating out like spokes. The rooms had hospital beds, many of their doors open.
But that’s where the similarities ended. The Cloister didn’t smell like a hospital. The halls were carpeted. There was no intercom system blaring. No dinging elevator.
She checked the numbers posted beside each door, catching brief impressions of the rooms inside—a television playing reruns of I Love Lucy, a walnut chest of drawers belonging to a long-term patient, a pair of lonely feet wrapped in pink slippers propped on the footrest of a recliner, and then Room c5.
The door was closed. She gently tapped, then pushed it open. Monitors beeped.
Dr. Craig Morris looked up from the clipboard in his hand.
Nodding to him and Nurse Melanie, Rylee went straight to her grandmother’s bedside. Nonie’s eyes were closed.
“Is she all right?”
Dr. Craig nodded. “She’ll be fine. She was making some cookies and forgot to use a hot pad before she removed them from the oven.”
She glanced at her grandmother’s hands. The right one was wrapped in gauze.
“How bad is it?”
In his late forties, the doctor was young enough to be approachable, yet old enough to instill confidence. “It’s a second-degree burn.
She has some blisters that’ll be red and painful for a while. But it doesn’t appear she suffered any nerve damage.”
“Thank goodness.” Rylee released a long breath. “How could she have forgotten the hot pads?”
He exchanged a look with the nurse.
Rylee looked up sharply. “She hasn’t been wandering again, has she?”
“Not wandering, no,” Nurse Melanie said. “But she’s been losing track of time and events. I’m afraid her bad spells are getting to be more frequent. Not as many lucid moments as before. We make sure she doesn’t miss mealtimes. . . .”
Rylee brushed a tendril of hair from Nonie’s face. She’d been at Bishop Gadsden for almost three years now. The decision to move her here had not been an easy one. But she couldn’t support her grandmother and take care of her at the same time.
The sale of their Folly Beach home had financed Nonie’s entrance into Bishop Gadsden and subsequent stay.
For now. But when Rylee had originally done the math, she hadn’t taken any future medical problems into account—and there had been plenty. Now the funds were dwindling, and the new healthcare bills would deplete their resources even more.
“Can she hear us?” she asked.
The doctor shook his head. “I gave her something for the pain. She’ll sleep comfortably for a while if you need to return to work.”
“No, no. I don’t have to be back until two. So if it’s all right with you, I’ll stay with Nonie. Thanks so much.”
The doctor slipped out, followed by Nurse Melanie, who promised to check in after a bit, leaving Rylee to contemplate Nonie’s fragile form under the covers, the hum of the overhead lights punctuated by the beep and hiss of the machinery at her back. She reached to take her grandmother’s hand, then remembered the bandage. Even here, Nonie could manage a minor catastrophe.
She sat and listened to her grandmother’s breathing, the irregular in and out, worrying at every overlong pause that this would be the last. Nothing would erase that dreadful possibility from her mind. Rylee struggled as a sense of loneliness and abandonment swept over her again.
Please, Lord. She’s all I have.
Chapter Seven
Rylee let herself in the Petries’ front door, cocking an ear, trying to determine where the mewling was coming from. She slipped her key ring back into her messenger bag, listening.
Tin Man—a gray tabby with a ringed tail—ran to the door, doing continuous figure eights through her legs. She picked him up, then looked for the other three cats Mrs. Petrie had named after characters from her favorite movie, The Wizard of Oz.
She found Dorothy in the parlor curled on the seat of an upholstered armchair, too supercilious to be bothered.
The mewling continued. Probably Lion. He’d been mauled by a Rottweiler as a kitten, so Latisha Petrie had coaxed the Persian into eating by petting him the whole time. Now he wouldn’t touch his food without being stroked through the entire meal.
Passing through the dining room, she released Tin Man and dropped her bag on a sideboard. “Li-on?” she singsonged. “Here, kitty-kitty-kitty.”
Stepping into the kitchen, Rylee noticed a suitcase by the back door.
She glanced toward the sunroom. “Lion?”
The cat came through the doorway, apparently fine. But the mewling kept up. It was coming from the other side of the half-open door. Rylee edged forward, then gasped.
Latisha sat curled in a fetal position on a padded wicker armchair. Her slacks were rumpled, her hair in disarray, her black suede pumps lay haphazardly at her feet.
“What’s wrong?” Rylee rushed to her side. She knelt on the seagrass mat that served as an area rug. “Are you all right?”
“That robber . . .” Latisha looked up, tears flowing down her ebony cheeks.
Rylee sucked in her breath. �
��He came here?”
Latisha nodded, her long black ringlets bobbing.
Rylee glanced around. “When? Were you here?”
Scarecrow leaped from Latisha’s lap, leaving a layer of red hair on her white cashmere pullover.
“I flew back early from London because of a work emergency,”
she began.
Rylee pictured the suitcase in the kitchen.
“When I got to my room, it was, was . . .” She covered her face, her shoulders shaking.
The hairs on the back of Rylee’s neck prickled. “Was he still here when you arrived?”
“No.”
“Have you called the police?”
“They’ve been and gone. But they did nothing. Nothing.” She slammed her hands on the arms of the chair. “They just took down enough to file their reports, then left.”
That was exactly what they’d done at Karl’s house, too. It hadn’t occurred to Rylee until now that they probably should have done more.
“They told me to call if he comes again,” Latisha said. “Can you believe that? They aren’t going to dust for fingerprints or take pictures or post a guard or anything.”
“I wonder why.”
“They said what he took wasn’t valuable enough for all that.”
Rylee’s lips parted. “That shouldn’t make any difference. A crime’s a crime no matter what was taken. Breaking and entering and all that.”
“That’s what I thought, too. But all they said was that they’d let the local nonprofits know to keep an eye out for it. Evidently, the stolen item has to be worth a lot more than my mourning brooch for them to do anything. It simply boggles the mind.”
“Mourning brooch?”
“Yes. It’s an old Victorian one Paul’s mother gave me. I always wear it with that red cape. You know the one I mean?”
Rylee nodded as comprehension dawned. “Of course. The onyx one. Did he take anything else?”
“Nothing.”
“And you’re sure you didn’t misplace the pin?”