Testing His Patience

by Lyn Cote

  “Unclear as yet,” Longworthy said, sounding angrier with each word, “but the house had been ransacked. I’m phoning from outside the kitchen on my cell phone. After sending deputies over the neighborhood looking for any suspicious persons, I’ve roped off the crime scene. I’m going to go over every inch of this kitchen and downstairs myself.”

  “Good.” Gil reached for a pen. “What’s the address?”

  “It’s 246 Walnut.”

  “That just can’t be. It’s down the street from Mrs. Perkins’s.”

  “You got it,” the sheriff growled. “I’m going to go over this scene with a fine-tooth comb. Somebody’s decided to copy Dan Putnam.”

  Or somebody has attacked two women now. Was Patience right? That couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.

  But Dan Putnam is still in jail.

  “I’m going to catch the dirty low-down skunk, copycat.” Longworthy’s voice vibrated with suppressed outrage. “We don’t need any more complications in the first case.”

  “Right.” You said it. “Make sure you have at least two witnesses with you as you gather evidence. I don’t want anything compromised.”

  “No kidding. And when I’m done, I’m leaving a deputy here so no one tampers with the crime scene after I’ve collected all I can on the first sweep-through. I’ll come back later and do it all again.”

  “I’d come over myself,” Gil explained, “but I can’t leave Darby. I’ll come first thing in the morning.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell the deputy to expect you.”

  The next morning after Gil dropped Darby at Sunday school and told him to go home with his grandfather, he drove to 246 Walnut to see if the sheriff had been right. Had someone copied Putnam? If so, why? He met the deputy at the back door.

  “The sheriff said you’d be coming over.” The young man who stood inside opened the door and let Gil in.

  Gil didn’t blame him for keeping watch from inside. It was a raw gray November morning. It reflected Gil’s mood. “Did the sheriff finish with the crime scene?” Gil almost didn’t want to enter the house. This can’t be happening.

  “Not completely.” The deputy looked frustrated, too. “He said he needed a break. He only left about a half hour ago. Said he’d have breakfast and then be back for another sweep. He doesn’t want to miss anything.”

  “Good.” Gil pulled himself together. “I’ll just take a quick look inside then. I don’t want to disturb anything.” He walked farther into the kitchen. The room showed that an investigation had begun. All the surfaces showed fingerprinting dust.

  Drawers that must have been pulled out by the robber and left showed evidence of a hasty search. A kitchen chair lay on its side in the center of the room. On the nearby table, a coil of cording had been tagged and bagged. The label on its clear plastic bag read: Cord found around victim’s wrists and ankles. Another contained a soiled dishcloth. Its tag read: Gag From Victim’s Mouth.

  Gil stepped into the doorway to the next room and was met by a scene of destruction—furniture overturned, objects lying shattered, sofa cushions ripped apart.

  The sheriff hadn’t been mistaken. The scene looked just like Mrs. Perkins’s home had after the robbery. What does this mean?

  Gil turned to go. He couldn’t do much here. This part of the investigation belonged to the sheriff. At the back door, he stopped to speak to the deputy. “If the sheriff comes back before I do, tell him I’ve gone to the hospital to see how Mrs. Carmichael is doing.”

  The deputy nodded.

  Gil shuffled down the back-porch steps and scanned the quiet, old neighborhood. What’s going on, Lord? Why did someone copy Dan Putnam? And please, please let Mrs. Carmichael be able to answer questions.

  Chapter Seven

  Gil waited at the corner of the town square, watching parishioners, bundled up in somber winter coats and scarves, walking down the steps of the red brick church. Icy wind made his ears ache. Stomping his chilled feet, he looked away whenever anyone glanced toward him. This had been his church before his divorce. He hadn’t felt welcome since then because some members had made sure he didn’t.

  He wouldn’t have come here, but the compulsion to tell Patience about the second robbery had overwhelmed his better instincts. He wanted to be here. He wanted to be a thousand miles away. He didn’t move.

  Finally, through the thinning crowd, he glimpsed the short blond hair he’d been seeking. He pushed away from the oak he’d been leaning against and moved to the bottom of the steps.

  Patience paused one step above him and looked down into his eyes.

  Her expression made his mouth dry. Does she have any idea how she affects me?

  She lifted one eyebrow.

  Then he said what he’d come to say. “There’s been a second robbery.”

  She was at his side. “Tell me.”

  Her nearness wrapped itself around him, an alien warmth, a brightness he couldn’t resist. That’s what had really brought him here, to her. “A neighbor of Mrs. Perkins was attacked in her home last night.”

  “Is she all right?”

  Her quick sympathy drew him closer. “I stopped at the hospital before coming here. She’s still unconscious but she should be all right. The doctor didn’t think she’d sustained any lasting hurt.”

  “Thank God.”

  He nodded. Her long graceful neck was bent toward him. His fingers tingled, wanting to ruffle through the golden wisps of hair on her nape.

  “So did Dan Putnam break out of county jail last night to commit this crime?” Her tone was arch.

  He’d expected her to take this line. He paused and she followed suit. He stood just inches from her, his gaze taking in the pale pink of her lips and the light blush of excitement on her face. “The sheriff believes this is the work of a copycat.”

  “Why would someone copy a crime?” She fixed him with an intense expression. Her lips pouted and he remembered their softness on his own.

  His whole body tensed. She never takes things lightly. Why does she care so much? She’s almost a stranger here. He shrugged off her question, refusing to let her see how she intrigued him. “Maybe because it worked.”

  “It didn’t work very well, did it, since Dan Putnam was arrested almost immediately? Why would someone want to copy his disastrous example?”

  He even liked the way she challenged him at every turn. No breathy feminine coaxing, no playful glances, no flirting at all. Patience just came right back at him.

  “We were able to catch Putnam,” he said, “because he had a connection to his mother. Relatives are usually the first suspects in an assault case.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Her rich voice dipped into scathing disapproval. She started walking briskly away from him. “I hope nothing happens to my mother.”

  It took him a moment to process her comment. A few long strides and he caught up with her. What had caused that? It wasn’t like her. “That was a low blow.” He gripped her elbow.

  She hesitated, her face lowered. “You’re right. I apologize.”

  “Then I’ll admit—” he forced himself to say the words “—that this does call Putnam’s guilt into question.”

  She made eye contact with him. “Thank you.”

  With slight pressure on her arm, he urged her to start walking again. “I still think the sheriff is right. This is a copycat crime.” I can’t have been so wrong about Putnam. I know he’s guilty and I’ll prove it in the next trial. “I just wanted you to hear this from me.”

  “I appreciate that.” She walked beside him, staring forward. A frown marked her profile. “But I don’t agree with you. Will you promise me something?”

  “What?” He almost shied away from making the obvious reply. I don’t want to promise you anything, Patience. But he knew he lied. He longed to make promise after promise to her….

  “That you won’t look at the evidence and try to make it fit into a copycat crime.” She held him captive in her glance. “Will you try to look at t
his robbery as a separate incident?”

  His cell phone rang, saving him from responding. He pulled it from his pocket. When he’d finished his conversation, he turned to her. He didn’t like not answering her question. But he didn’t want to discuss this any longer. But more than that, motivated him, his desire to keep her with him.

  He wanted to kiss her, here on the square and with Sunday-church traffic all around them. That would send the tongues wagging.

  “Mrs. Carmichael has regained consciousness. The sheriff is going to question her. Would you like to come along with me and observe?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes.” You are an unusually perceptive person. And you’re right. I need to look at this with new eyes. Maybe your presence will keep me from missing an important bit of evidence. And I’ll have you with me for a few more minutes.

  She studied him as though she easily read his thoughts. “Very well.”

  In a few steps, he led her to his car parked on the square. He drove them the few miles to the local hospital and then checked his watch. At home with his granddad, Darby would need lunch soon.

  Gil met the sheriff, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, in the corridor outside Mrs. Carmichael’s room. The sheriff looked surprised to see Patience, who stood a bit behind Gil.

  Patience greeted the sheriff in a subdued voice.

  The sheriff nodded to her. “The doc says we can only stay for about three minutes. She’s really shook up and is on pain meds.”

  “I understand.” Gil followed the sheriff into the room, shepherding Patience inside with a hand at the small of her back. He dropped his arm and proceeded forward.

  The pale older woman in the bed watched them approach. A nurse was checking her pulse.

  “I just have a few questions, Mrs. Carmichael,” the sheriff said from the other side of the bed.

  “I don’t feel much like talking,” the older woman whimpered.

  Patience stood close to Gil, her fragrance—flowers and cinnamon—contrasted with the antiseptic hospital smells.

  “Did you see your assailant?” the sheriff began.

  “No, I walked into the kitchen and something hit me in the head from behind. It hurt.” Her voice quavered. “That’s all I remember.”

  “About what time would that have been?” Gil made himself ask.

  The woman turned her pale blue eyes to him, a tear spilling down her lined cheek. “I was going to take my bedtime pills and then turn in, so it must have been right after Lawrence Welk on PBS.”

  “About 7:30 p.m.?” the sheriff asked for clarification.

  “Yes.” Mrs. Carmichael began weeping. Her hands shook as she wiped away tears.

  “Was your back door locked at that time?” the sheriff went on.

  “No, I always lock it after I take my pills.” She began crying harder.

  Brushing past Gil, Patience reached for the woman’s wrinkled hand and gripped it. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

  “We won’t bother you anymore now,” Gil apologized. “Rest.”

  The woman ignored him. She blinked away the tears and stared up into Patience’s face. “You’re that teacher who stopped Dan Putnam from being found guilty.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Well, I thought you were crazy.” The woman sniffled, still trying to stop crying. “But now I think you were right. If Dan Putnam’s in county jail, he can’t have attacked me.”

  “Mrs. Carmichael,” Gil objected, “it’s too soon to tell if this has anything to do with the Putnam case.”

  “Why?” Mrs. Carmichael asked.

  Patience continued to hold her hand, but turned to observe him.

  Gil took a step closer to Patience. It was time to draw her away. “We’ll keep you posted on developments,” he added, trying to project a confidence he didn’t feel.

  On the next Thursday afternoon after school, the little bell over the door jingled as Patience let herself into the Shop on the Square. On the door in gilt lettering appeared the name Vincent Caruthers, Dealer of Fine Antiques.

  The shop had an austere look to it. No embroidered linens, ladies’ gloves or frilly hankies displayed within the glass counters. Instead, there were a few good pieces of art deco jewelry, watch fobs and cuff links. A man’s shop. But every piece of wood glowed and the scent of lemon oil hung in the air. Patience walked past a display of very good, very expensive American primitive pieces: a homemade pie safe, a Windsor rocker with an aged patina, a carved highboy painted turkey red.

  “May I be of help?” A tall fiftyish man with a serious face stepped from the rear of the store.

  “I’m just looking.” Patience used the standard reply of all browsers. For clues about you and what you might have done.

  “Well, that’s a good start.” He gave her a prim grin. “Take your time. If anything interests you, please alert me. If you are looking for a certain type of collectible or antique, also let me know. I go to many sales and auctions.”

  “Thanks. I will.” Then Patience took her time looking over everything the shop had to offer. All the while, she pondered Vincent Caruthers. She’d come primarily to get an impression of him as a possible suspect. And something about her impression of him today dissatisfied her. Or was it just her already aroused suspicion?

  In the midst of her inspection of an interesting mahogany secretary, the phone call she’d gotten this morning came back to her. Out of the blue, Sprague, Putnam’s lawyer, had contacted her. “You’ve heard about the second robbery, haven’t you?” he’d asked.

  She’d assented and then he’d dropped his bombshell. “I’ve been watching you, wondering if you could be of help to me with my defense in the second trial.” That was all he’d said, but had he implied more?

  Did Sprague want her to pick Gil’s brain and then feed information to him? The thought hit Patience badly. She’d agreed to nothing and ended the conversation quickly.

  But I am trying to find facts to help Dan Putnam. Would it be wrong to give the defense lawyer anything Gil tells me? That didn’t sound right to her. But who would I tell if I actually find something? It would have to be Sprague or it won’t do Dan Putnam any good.

  Finally, with a knitted forehead, she walked to the back of the store and was met by the proprietor. “Do you ever evaluate items for insurance or sale value?”

  “I do sometimes.” Caruthers led her toward the center of the shop beside a display of an Early American maple dining-room set, replete with a full rose-chintz china set.

  “I have some pieces of jewelry from a great-grandmother put away in a safe-deposit box in Chicago,” Patience said her practiced speech. She’d had to come up with a reason for meeting again with Mr. Caruthers. Browsing over and over and not buying would look suspicious.

  “So you’re the new teacher from the Windy City.” Caruthers gazed at her with a glint of what…in his eyes?

  “Yes.” She tried to smile disarmingly. “And I’m sure you’re aware that I’m the one who was responsible for the hung jury. You must have seen me in the jury box.”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t have missed such a pretty face, especially in such dismal surroundings.”

  She looked as if his compliment pleased her. It didn’t. “I’m sure it was unpleasant to be involved in a robbery case. Bad publicity for your shop.”

  He chuckled without humor. “They say any publicity is good publicity.”

  “And now Mrs. Carmichael has been robbed.” She made her voice very innocent. “I hope you didn’t do any evaluations for her.”

  The man eyed her and started walking her toward the store’s front. “Is that supposed to be an accusation?”

  “No.” But she let him lead her to the door. “How could you have anything to do with robbery? Before I came in, I asked around about your reputation. You have an excellent one. But unfortunately, there are some disreputable antique dealers. I always like to know with whom I’m doing business.”

  “Ah. And are we going to be doing
business?” He reached for the doorknob.

  “Maybe,” Patience hedged, wondering if he realized how guilty his body language looked as he ushered her so abruptly out of his presence. “I’m trying to decide whether or not to increase the insurance on my jewelry.”

  “I’d be happy to help in that. My appraisal fee is quite reasonable, I think.” He quoted it and opened the door for her.

  “Thank you.” She paused to shake his soft hand. “I’ll get back to you soon.”

  She stepped outside and bumped into Gil. Seeing him so unexpectedly shot through her like tiny darts. She wobbled slightly on impact.

  “Patience.” Gil steadied her by gripping her upper arms. “What are you doing here?”

  She took a deep breath, knowing Mr. Caruthers was watching them. “I was consulting the dealer about his doing an appraisal for me.”

  Gil’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

  She slipped from his grasp. “Yes.” She looked to the uniformed man beside Gil. “Hello, Sheriff.”

  He nodded.

  “Yes, hello, sheriff,” Caruthers said behind her, sounding less than thrilled to see the two men. “What can I do for you today?”

  Sheriff Longworthy mumbled something and then entered the store, shutting the door behind him.

  “Patience, can you come over to my place tonight?” Gil asked. “It’s a school night, so I have to be there to put Darby to bed.”

  “Come to your house?” The suggestion jolted her. “Why?” Sprague’s conversation tightened her nerves. What did Gil want to tell her? Or glean from her?

  Or was he going to kiss her again? Her face warmed at this last thought.

  “I want to discuss this case with you.” Gil didn’t make eye contact with her.

  He’s not telling me something. What?

  “The sheriff just gave me his full report on Mrs. Carmichael’s crime scene,” Gil continued, talking to a point above her left ear. “Today she’s back home from staying at her daughter’s.”

  “Do you think it’s wise for me to come to your house?” Patience asked. Was this another ploy in his attempt to show that they got along in spite of the gossip over her being responsible for the hung jury? Now though, she had another worry. Gil, I know you’re a danger to me, to my feelings. And what are you keeping from me?