All The Stars In Heaven

by Michele Paige Holmes

  “I did feel somewhat inspired to come this morning,” Jay said, giving the reverend a wry smile. He turned to Sarah. “And definitely inspired now. Hearing you sing made all the drama worth it.”

  “Perhaps you’ll join us again?” the reverend asked. “Sarah blesses us with a solo the last Sunday of each month. And our choir sings each week.”

  “I’d like that,” Jay said. “If it’s all right with Sarah.”

  She was taking another drink of tea and looked at him over the brim of her cup. “Yes.”

  “In the meantime,” the reverend continued, “we’ve got to see what we can do for you, young lady.” He swiveled his chair around to face Sarah. “I doubt your father was serious when he told you not to bother coming home. However, after this morning’s display, I don’t think that’s the best place for you to be. Are you prepared to go out on your own?”

  Sarah waited a minute before answering. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her shoulders sagging.

  “There are campus organizations that can help,” Jay offered. “And I can think of several places you can stay temporarily until we find you an apartment. You can apply for financial aid, and I’ll help you file a restraining order.”

  “I can’t do that, Jay.” The hand holding the teacup trembled. “He’s my father.”

  “I’m not talking about your dad. I’m talking about your cousin.” Jay faced the reverend again. “Her cousin nearly ran us over last week—and it was no accident.”

  “Did you tell your father about this?” Reverend Daniels asked Sarah.

  “I tried.” She placed the saucer and teacup on her lap. “It didn’t go well. I don’t think he believed me.”

  A bit of an understatement, Jay thought. But he couldn’t exactly tell Sarah that he—and a couple of other people—had been privy to that conversation with her father. Instead, he tried to fill in the details Sarah was avoiding. “Her father has assigned his nephew as Sarah’s bodyguard. He follows her everywhere, threatening her if she doesn’t do what he wants, threatening anyone else who gets too close to her.”

  “Is this true?” Reverend Daniels asked.

  “Yes.” She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “Between my father and Carl, I have someone with me nearly every minute of the day. I’m only allowed to go to school if Carl is with me, and then it’s only to my classes and occasionally the library. I’m never allowed to go anywhere else or do anything—unless I’m working for my father.”

  Reverend Daniels pulled a notepad and pencil from his desk. “I don’t quite understand. You attend church as your health permits, and I’ve never seen your father or this cousin attend choir rehearsal with you.”

  “One of them usually waits in the car outside. And my health always permits me to come to church.” Sarah glanced at Jay, then down at her lap. “I’m hardly ever sick. Those times my father told you otherwise, he was lying. Whenever he’s displeased with me, he takes away the privilege of singing in the choir. And he’s been threatening to cut off my tuition since the semester began.”

  “Tuition he doesn’t pay,” the reverend mused.

  Sarah ran her finger around the rim of her teacup. “The ladies must think I’m so ungrateful.”

  “Not at all,” Reverend Daniels assured her. “On the contrary, they’re most impressed with the time you continue to dedicate to our little choir. Without your talents, I’m afraid our Sunday services would be somewhat less—inspiring.” He cast a wry grin in Jay’s direction.

  “Thank you,” Sarah murmured. She lifted her face to the reverend’s. “Please tell them for me—please explain.”

  “Perhaps. When the time is right.” Reverend Daniels leaned back in his chair, a hand to his mouth. “Your father is a well-respected member of the community, and I think it would be wise to proceed with care. Fortunately, we were the only ones left in the chapel this morning.” He glanced at Jay. “I am very grateful to the Ladies’ Aid, and may the Lord bless them for all they do, but my, how their tongues can wag sometimes.”

  Jay chuckled. “So,” he said, attempting to summarize the plan that had been forming in his mind. “I’ll help Sarah find a place to stay for the near future. You’ll talk with her father later this week, and we’ll go from there.”

  “What about my books and clothes and everything I need for school?” Sarah asked. “I can’t get by without my music or lecture notes or—”

  “I’ll take care of that,” Jay said. “You concentrate on keeping up with school so the Ladies’ Aid feels like they’re getting their money’s worth.”

  “How are you—”

  “I don’t want you to worry about it,” he said. “I’m going to pay a visit to your father, and I’m fairly certain he won’t have a problem letting me bring your things to you.”

  “Are you crazy?” Sarah asked. Her knees shook, and the teacup clinked against the saucer on her lap. She picked up both, put them on the table, and turned to Jay. “Carl will most likely be at my house too. Have you forgotten he beat you up once already?”

  The reverend’s eyebrows rose at this.

  “It was an unfair fight,” Jay assured him. “And besides, there won’t be anyone punching anyone else. There’s a much better way to handle things.”

  “Really?” Sarah sounded skeptical. She looked at him, waiting for an explanation.

  He wasn’t going to give it.

  “Diplomacy,” he said simply, rising from his chair. He held his hand out for Sarah. “And a simple economic principle called supply and demand.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  At exactly 5:15, Kirk rang the bell at Chief Morgan’s house. “Hi, Chief,” Kirk said as the door opened. “May I come in for a minute? I know it’s Sunday, but there’s something that’s been bugging me all weekend.”

  “Talk to me on Monday.” The chief started to close the door.

  “I brought you a loaf of my wife’s fresh-baked bread. Payment for your time . . .” He held up the still-warm loaf.

  Chief Morgan paused, but his expression didn’t change. For a minute Kirk was certain the door was going to slam on him, even if the bread—or his hand—was in the way.

  But the chief surprised him.

  “Make it quick.” He moved aside, ushering Kirk in.

  Kirk handed the bread to him as soon as they were inside. “It’s about the Rossi case.”

  “What about it?” Chief Morgan asked.

  “Mind if I sit down?” Kirk didn’t wait for an answer but sat on the couch, where he could see down the hall and hopefully catch a glimpse of Carl. His truck was parked out front, so chances were, he was around.

  Chief Morgan closed the front door, walked to the kitchen bar, and placed the bread on the counter. He returned and sat in his chair.

  “Rossi got off—or almost, anyway,” Kirk said. “I bet he appeals the charge that stuck.”

  “I’m sure he will. So?”

  “So it’s wrong.” Kirk leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he spoke. “Doesn’t it upset you that we’re getting nowhere with these guys? We know they’re the ones introducing meth at the high school. We’ve linked Rossi to the rave parties breaking out all over student housing. And we both know it only takes once—one hit and we’ve got a whole new group of users. It’s going to keep spreading exponentially. Soon Summerfield will rival some of the worst meth pockets in LA and the northwest.”

  “We’re doing our jobs,” the chief said. “I can’t control attorneys or juries. You caught the guy. You did what you could. Case closed.”

  Kirk couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “But it isn’t closed. And you can bet—because Rossi got off so easy—that it will be business as usual, maybe even more than usual.”

  “So you catch him again and bring him in. Maybe it goes better next time.”

  “Maybe?” Kirk said, incredulous. “I want to do better than that, and we both know that’s going to take more than catching him making a deposit at the bank.” He spoke emphatica
lly. “We need a team to watch his distributors twenty-four-seven. This isn’t some operation filtering up from Mexico. It all points to a local supplier, and if we can find—”

  Chief Morgan chuckled. “Oh, to be so young and thirsty for blood. What’d you do in that big precinct in LA, Anderson?”

  “We followed leads, found pushers who’d talk—same things we’re doing here.”

  The chief nodded. “Exactly.”

  “And it wasn’t enough,” Kirk said. “You want this area to be like LA? There’s no way our small force will be able to deal with anything like that. But I think we still have a fighting chance if we jump on it now. Reassign Brandt and Simmons temporarily. Get everyone together, focused on this—even if just for the next six months.”

  The chief’s frown deepened, and Kirk knew he wasn’t enjoying being told how to do his job. Careful, he reminded himself. You’re not here to vent your frustrations. Upsetting the chief more wasn’t going to help Jay’s cause.

  “Since you seem to know so much, I’m surprised you aren’t following the news more.” The chief pushed out of his chair and ambled down the hall. He disappeared into a bedroom for a minute or two, then came back, a newspaper in his hand. He returned to his chair, tossing the paper on the coffee table in front of Kirk. “Read that,” he said, pointing to an underlined passage.

  Kirk picked up the paper, the September 24th issue of the Berkshire Eagle. “John W. Selwin’s acquittal on drug-dealing charges yesterday in Berkshire Superior Court suggests that the District Attorney’s office will be hard-pressed to get any convictions of those collected in the drug sting last year in Great Barrington.” He paused. “Yes, but—”

  “Keep reading.”

  “Jurors may have bought the defense’s argument that entrapment was used by a member of the county’s drug task force. In the end, the Great Barrington sting and prosecution has accomplished nothing.’”

  “I rest my case,” Chief Morgan said.

  Kirk set the paper down. “I had heard about that,” he said defensively. “I think it’s an opportunity to learn from their mistakes. I know we could make something like that work here.”

  “You’re a big-city boy with big-city ideas, Anderson. And while I appreciate your ambition, it’s not why I hired you. I hired you to do exactly what you did in LA. Eventually we’ll catch a big fish in the net too. We got Eddie Martin, didn’t we?”

  The doorbell rang. Chief Morgan leaned forward and eased himself out of his chair, signaling the end of their conversation. “Grand Central Station today,” he muttered under his breath. He walked the two steps to the door and yanked it open.

  Kirk watched as his expression darkened.

  “What do you want?” Chief Morgan practically growled.

  “A minute of your time. It’s about your daughter, Mr. Morgan.”

  Kirk recognized Jay’s calm, practiced, attorney voice. He looked up, feigning interest.

  The chief hesitated. “Get in line,” he said, but he stepped aside for Jay.

  “Thanks,” Jay said, coming into the room. “I’ll be brief.”

  “I don’t have time for anything else. As you can see”—Chief Morgan nodded toward Kirk—“one of my officers and I were having a meeting.”

  Jay looked over at Kirk. “Sorry to interrupt.” He returned his gaze to Sarah’s father. “If I could get Sarah’s things, I’ll be out of your way.”

  The chief’s face mottled with anger. “If she wants them, she can get them herself.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Jay said. “Reverend Daniels was concerned about our earlier conversation. Sarah is with a counselor right now.”

  “She doesn’t—” Chief Morgan broke off. He turned to Kirk. “Detective, we’re done.”

  Looking disappointed, Kirk got up from the couch and walked to the door. “See you tomorrow, Chief. Thanks for listening to my concerns.” He closed the door behind him.

  “Sarah needs a father who will listen to her,” Jay continued. “One who will protect her instead of forcing her to be with someone she’s afraid of.”

  “What are you talking about?” Grant demanded.

  Jay pulled an envelope from his pocket.

  “Last Monday Carl Morgan came within two feet of running over your daughter with his truck. Those are pictures of the ‘accident.’”

  Grant opened the envelope and pulled out the first photograph, Jay’s wrecked motorcycle.

  Jay leaned closer, pointing to the lawn directly behind the bike. “Sarah was right there,” he said. “It was a very close call.”

  “Was anyone hurt?” Grant asked, sounding shaken.

  Jay was pleased to see the older man’s fingers tremble as he shuffled through the pictures. Standing this close to Sarah’s father, he found himself less intimidated than he’d been upon first meeting him. Grant Morgan was tall—a couple of inches above Jay’s six feet. But his breadth was more about being overweight than having muscle, and the deep creases running across his forehead and on either side of his eyes made him look older, worn out.

  “Was anyone hurt?” Grant repeated.

  “Five stitches,” Jay said, pushing the hair back from his forehead so Grant could see the sutures. “A few other students had minor injuries. A couple of girls were pretty shaken.”

  “Whose motorcycle?” Grant asked, returning to the first picture.

  “Mine.”

  Grant shoved the photos back in the envelope and held it out to Jay.

  “Keep them,” Jay said. “I have copies. I figured you might want to use them for a discussion with your nephew.” He glanced around the room. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

  Grant didn’t answer. “What is it you want, Mr.—”

  “Kendrich,” Jay answered. “Jay. And I need three things. First, Sarah’s clothing and school books. I need those today. Right now.” He paused, prepared for Grant to protest. Surprisingly, he didn’t.

  “Second, you need to arrange your life such that Sarah never has to be around her cousin again—ever. And third, I want a promise from you that if Sarah should ever decide to return to your home, she’ll be able to live a normal life, go to school by herself, to church, to the mall—and participate in any other activity appropriate for a twenty-three-year-old woman.”

  Grant’s brow furrowed. “And if I don’t wish to meet your terms?”

  “I might decide to press charges. After all, I’m out a motorcycle now, and the doctor’s bill wasn’t cheap.”

  “None of these pictures”—Grant slapped the envelope against the palm of his free hand—“are of my nephew or his truck.”

  “True enough,” Jay agreed. “But the campus police took statements from a half dozen witnesses, including detailed descriptions of the vehicle.” And as we speak, Kirk is taking snapshots of your nephew’s fender. “We both know that attempted manslaughter is a serious charge.”

  “I don’t like being threatened or blackmailed,” Grant said, his eyes narrowing.

  “This is neither,” Jay insisted. “Just a simple case of supply and demand. I’m assuming you want your daughter back in your life. I’m telling you what you need to do to make that a possibility.” He placed his hand on the doorknob. “If you think the price is too high . . .”

  Jay waited, feeling the tension mount as he listened to the seconds tick by on his wristwatch. He could see that Sarah’s father was furious with him—no doubt he rarely found himself in a position of being told what to do. But there were other emotions filtering across the older man’s face—concern, grief . . . fear? Jay found himself more intrigued than worried.

  “Where will she be staying?” Grant finally asked. “With you?”

  “No,” Jay said. “I hardly know your daughter, Mr. Morgan, and I’ve no plans to take advantage of her at this difficult time.”

  “At any time.”

  “That too,” Jay said.

  “I don’t want her to be alone,” Grant said. “It’s imperative—” he broke off, his fisted hand
shaking at Jay.

  Jay sensed his frustration went far beyond Sarah’s decision to leave.

  “Please,” Grant said. “Don’t leave her alone. Walk her to her classes. Make sure she locks the door to wherever it is she’s staying. And don’t let her use public transportation.”

  “Sarah’s quite capable of getting around on her own.”

  “She’s very capable,” Grant agreed, surprising Jay yet again. “But that doesn’t make her invincible. It’s not enough to protect her. And Sarah does need protection.” He turned away from Jay. The gruffness left his voice. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

  “What I’ve—” Jay began.

  “If you care for my daughter at all, you’ll see that she is back here as soon as possible. It’s the only way to keep her safe.” Grant started down the hallway. “Give me ten minutes.”

  * * *

  Grant watched as Jay climbed into the waiting car—the same unfamiliar Volkswagen that had been at the church this morning. He’d had a bad feeling about it then and knew he should have listened to his gut and gone right in, taken Sarah, and brought her home. But no—he’d gone soft. She was singing a solo, and he hated to deprive her—or himself—of those moments she seemed happiest. Now his poor judgment might deprive them of much more than that.

  Carl came up behind him. “So Sarah’s got herself a new babysitter.” Sniffing the air appreciatively, he turned toward the kitchen. Spotting the bread, he walked over to the counter.

  “You wrecked his motorcycle,” Grant said.

  “Yep.” Carl opened the bag and ripped a big hunk from the fresh loaf Kirk had brought.

  “Leave that alone.” Grant closed the front door. “Now that Sarah’s gone, what do you think we’re going to eat? Are you going to do the cooking?”

  “Want me to get her back?” Carl mumbled between bites.

  “It’s not that simple.” Grant crossed the room, tossed the pictures on the counter, and pushed the bread out of Carl’s reach. “Did you think you’d get away with a stunt like that?”

  Looking at the photo of the crushed motorcycle, Carl smirked. “I figured you’d take care of it. You always have before.”