Faux Pas (A Road's End Mishap Book 2)

by Deborah Dee Harper

  A few months later, Jonathan knew he could be happy again, but not before he told her the story of his life with Jillian. Mandy sat quietly beside him on the couch, squeezing his hands in hers, as he told her the whole truth. An hour later, he rose from the couch to freshen up and upon returning to the living room, saw her tear-streaked face. He remembered thinking that if she could cry with him, he could certainly laugh with her.

  He asked her to marry him the next week over two quarter-pounder meals and a chicken nugget Happy Meal at Tanner’s favorite hangout. She was so excited she dropped the solitaire diamond ring, painfully modest by today’s extravagant standards, in Jonathan’s opinion, into Tanner’s sweet and sour sauce. The two of them laughed until the tears ran down their faces while Tanner fished the offending ring from his cup of sauce, handed it back to her, and resumed dunking his nuggets, a touch indignant at the silly interruption.

  And now this. A few months before, Mandy endured yet another of Jonathan’s revelations about his personal life. He’d finally admitted that his mother was the sister of Stuart Thomas Rogers—the Stuart Thomas Rogers—making Jonathan the only nephew to the current President of the United States. Jonathan had always kept a very low profile. That was one of the reasons he’d taken the position in Europe; the fewer people who knew him, the better. He’d been successful, and not a soul at his office suspected his relationship with the president, and until then, that had included Mandy.

  She’d been staggered by his revelation, as most anyone would be, he reasoned, and anxious to tell her parents. He persuaded her to hold off on that for a while, using the excuse that the less time anyone knew of his relationship to the president, the fewer rumors of their upcoming wedding would spread. Uncle Stuart wanted as little publicity as possible at this important family affair, preferring to let the bride and groom enjoy their special day without the mad press of reporters and photographers.

  But the two of them couldn’t wait forever, and he’d just gotten off the phone with Mandy. Her parents knew. Stunned didn’t begin to define their reaction to this news.

  “I think I’ve gotten them past the initial shock,” Mandy said to him just a few minutes before. “They’re taking it very well, but for a while there I thought I’d be grounded.” They’d chuckled over that and shared a few bits of news about who was coming, who couldn’t make it, and how much they missed one another. Left unspoken, however, was the knowledge that Mandy had yet another momentous bit of news to reveal to her parents—two, in fact.

  First of all, there was the matter of Tanner. Jonathan had a son, no two ways about it, and the Fosters had no idea their daughter would be the mother to a not-quite-four-year-old boy in a few days, let alone that they’d soon be grandparents. Secondly, and even more of a shock considering Mandy’s father’s profession, was that Jonathan Sterling‘s faith in God had faltered. He and Mandy had spent many an evening discussing his lapse in faith, and he knew it presented a very real problem to her. She couldn’t marry someone who wasn’t a believer, so he’d promised her he was open to renewing his faith, with her help and that of her father. But secretly, he thought both Mandy and her dad had their work cut out for them.

  Jonathan stopped his pacing and sat down in his office chair with a thump then rolled it backward until he nudged the edge of his desk. He picked up a pen and twirled it between the fingers of his right hand. Things were about to get very interesting. If the Fosters thought marrying into the president’s family was big news, just wait until they heard the rest of the story.

  Melanie and Hugh Foster, a couple who had spent their entire adult lives spreading the Word of God around the world, were about to acquire a grandson from a son-in-law who wasn’t sure he even believed in God.

  Chapter 12

  Ross MacElroy was getting a crash course in social eccentricities. He survived the interview with Grace Headley, although he doubted if Stuart Thomas Rogers was going to want to spend much time talking to this outspoken opponent of his presidential performance, and was feeling pretty good about himself. Most of the townspeople, although a bit odd here and there, were harmless. He had a feeling the president would face no real danger, aside from some hurt feelings and possible embarrassment, and that knowledge made his job a lot easier.

  But then he hadn’t yet interviewed everyone. He went over his list: Sadie Simms, Winnie and Dewey Wyandotte. Leo Walling. Frank Wiley. George and Martha Washington.

  What the heck?

  He checked his watch; just over an hour and a half before he needed to head back to Washington. He made a decision.

  “Pastor Foster?”

  Hugh Foster appeared instantly. “Yes, Mack. Need something?”

  Mack jumped. “Good grief, man, where were you? You spying on me?”

  Hugh had the good grace to blush. “Not you. Them.”

  In a strange way, Mack felt relieved. “Okay. Don’t let them know that, though.”

  “Not a chance. What’s up?”

  Mack pointed to the seven names remaining on the list. “I have to get back to Washington. What do you think about me interviewing these last folks all at once?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, just running out of time. Why? Some reason I shouldn’t?”

  Hugh hesitated for a minute then plunged in. “Not strategically. Just more of a self-defense thing, I guess. I know you’ve dealt with some pretty strange people before—some of them right here in this room—but believe me, the seven of them are going to drive you nuts.”

  “Could be, but I might as well get it over with all at once. How bad could it be?”

  Hugh shook his head. “Hard to say. Just remember that they’re not as cranky as they sound, nor as demented. They’re just good folks who have strong opinions about absolutely everything—from the shape of dust particles to the correct way to split atoms.”

  Mack’s mouth dropped open. “What on earth could they know about splitting atoms?”

  “Absolutely nothing. That’s just it. Two of them, George and Dewey, have been carrying on an argument for months now about splitting atoms. Something about using a high-speed kitchen blender.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Wish I was, but at least it keeps ’em out of trouble. They’ve made a lot of messes in their wives’ kitchens, but to my knowledge, no actual atom-splitting has occurred.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better? Because it doesn’t.”

  Hugh smiled. “No, I don’t suppose it does. But that’s what I’m talking about. These guys don’t have a mean bone in their bodies. They talk a big story, all about beating each other up and being smarter than the other one or fighting over who shot a hole in the church ceiling, but at heart they’re just old, balding children.”

  Mack hesitated. “Shot a hole in the church ceiling?”

  Hugh nodded.

  Mack mentally shook his head and looked back at Hugh. Was he up for this? “Pastor, if you can get hold of them and have them all in this room in ten minutes, I’d be obliged. I’ll just bite the bullet …” he cringed at the expression. “Well, I’ll just tough it out. Let’s leave bullets out of this whole mess.”

  “Good idea, Mack. Great, in fact.”

  Ten minutes later while I nibbled on a cookie, Sadie, George, Martha, Winnie, Dewey, Frank, and Leo jockeyed for position around the table. Rather than wait for them to serve themselves from the buffet table, Mel helped expedite the procedure by offering to brew fresh coffee and replenish the plate of coffeecake then bringing their refreshments to them. Mack had wisely waited to re-enter the room until they were seated. He sat, introduced himself, and after identifying each one of them by name, began his questioning. Because Mack invited me to attend this time, I didn’t have to pretend I wasn’t hearing every word spoken. I must say that took a load off my shoulders, thank you very much.

  It had to have been the most grueling interrogation of his career. While Mack and I sat along the length of one side of the table, Leo sa
t on the left end closest to Mack, and Sadie positioned herself to my right at the other end. Frank, George, Martha, Winnie, and Dewey sat squeezed together across from us left to right. Frank immediately nodded off.

  To my knowledge, Leo hadn’t spoken a word in public for the last month, so his silence was nothing new to me. Mack, however, must have thought the old guy was up to something and began quizzing him relentlessly.

  “I see you own a farm, Mr. Walling.”

  Leo, with his elbows resting on the table and his ever-present pipe in his left hand, was busy holding a match to the bowl. After a few seconds, he began puffing, flicked out the match, then set it carefully next to his coffee cup on the saucer. “Yep.”

  “How long have you farmed?”

  Leo blew a smoke ring, looked to the ceiling. “Birth.”

  “You mean since birth?”

  One nod.

  “Same farm?”

  Nod.

  “You must have been one talented baby, sir.”

  Leo ignored that.

  Mack sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, let’s get this started. I’ll ask you a series of questions, and I’d like you to respond to each one.” He turned to the others and said, “And folks, I’ll be asking each of you these same things, so please pay attention. We’re on a tight schedule here.”

  Mack began his litany of questions: Do you harbor any hatred toward the government of the United States, in general, or the President of the United States, in particular? Do you own firearms or any other deadly weapon? Do you belong to any subversive organizations? Are you a part of a plot to overthrow the government of the United States? Have you ever spied for or worked under the authority of an enemy of our country? Are you a communist? Do you believe in violence to bring about change? Have you ever been arrested? Do you watch conspiracy theory television programs?

  Leo did everything but speak. He listened, he puffed, he watched his smoke rings drift toward the ceiling, but he took great pains not to utter a word. Mostly, he just glared.

  Ross MacElroy seemed an intelligent man. I think he knew his questions were an insult to the octogenarian sitting to his left, not to mention unnecessary. The only query that Leo, or anyone else in the room, might say yes to was the last one about their choice of television programming. We’re big on conspiracies in this town. Real big. And maybe the one about weapons, if you count Dewey’s ancient pistol or Leo’s baseball bat. Other than that, Special Agent MacElroy was wasting his time.

  Mack waited in silence—aside from Frank’s snoring—for a few seconds and got nothing for his patience. I could tell it was killing him, and I was about to suggest he move along to the others when he did just that.

  “Okay then, Mr. Walling, I’m going to assume that your silence on these matters signals a denial of any and all subversive tendencies on your part.” I wouldn’t have gone that far, but I know for a fact that Leo hasn’t assassinated, nor thought of assassinating, a single person. STR had nothing to fear from that quarter.

  “Shall we move along then?” Mack continued.

  He glanced over at Frank. “Well, Mr. … uh—” He consulted his notes. “Wiley, I guess it is. Mr. Wiley seems otherwise occupied, so we’ll skip him for now.” With his arms crossed and his head bobbing up and down, I figured even Mack had to admit Frank looked about the least likely assassin of anyone this side of the Orion nebula.

  Mack turned his attention to George, but before he could open his mouth, Sadie opened hers.

  “Okay then, Mr. Big Shot Agent Guy, why don’t you answer a few questions for us?”

  I think Mack would have been offended had he believed what he just heard. “What?”

  Sadie sh-h-hed him with her finger. “This President Rogers. What’s he up to in that White House?”

  Mack took a deep breath and said, “He’s governing our nation, Ms., uh … Simms, is it?”

  Sadie harrumphed. “Mrs. It’s Mrs. Simms. Or just plain Sadie. Don’t matter to me. But none of that ‘Ms.’ malarkey around here. So, he’s governing our nation, is he? According to who? Are those his words? Yours? Whose then? Because from where I’m sitting, he’s not governing this nation at all—at least not the way he was elected to do.”

  Mack tapped his forefinger on the table. “Mrs. Simms, I’m not here to argue with you over whether or not the president’s doing the job you think he should be doing. You’d have to take that up with him. I’m here to ensure his safety during his visit to Road’s End. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “Well, I’m glad you offered. ’Cause that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

  “What?”

  “Take it up with him.”

  Mack looked a little ruffled. “Well, I didn’t mean take it up with him precisely. There are channels, you know. You can contact his office, talk to an aide, maybe set up an appointment with someone who could answer your questions, hear your thoughts. Address your concerns, as it were. You know, use the proper channels.”

  Sadie stood, leaned over the table toward Mack, and poked her finger in his direction. “Concerns? You call these concerns? He broke promises. He’s defying God. He lied to the American people—the same people I might add, who trusted him enough to put him into office. There are consequences, you know.”

  Mack gestured for Sadie to sit down. “Mrs. Simms … er, Sadie, please take a seat. There’s no need to get upset. I’ll put in a word with one of the junior aides, and I’m sure one of them will be more than happy …”

  Sadie sat but slapped the table with the flat of her hand. “Junior aides? I don’t want to talk to any junior aides.” She spat out the words as if Mack had suggested she contact a tin can of earthworms to plan an interstellar voyage. “Might as well put me in touch with the Cub Scouts for all the good a junior aide’d be able to do.” She looked around at the others; they were all bobbing their heads and making the appropriate noises.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You got that, Sadie!”

  “Junior aide?” Sputter, sputter. “Why, that’s just so, so … junior aide?”

  Mack stood and pulled himself to his full height. He bumped his head on the chandelier; I cringed. He muttered something. I tried not to listen too closely. Then he said, “Ladies, gentlemen. Stop this bickering. Now. I can’t help it if you have problems with the way President Rogers is doing his job. Sorry to be blunt, but that’s just not my problem. Nor is it yours at the moment. Your problem is whether or not I feel his trip to Road’s End for this wedding is dangerous … and frankly, I’m not too crazy about the idea right now.”

  My turn. “Sadie, and all the rest of you, settle down. Mr. MacElroy is a guest in my house, and I won’t have him badgered over something he has no say-so in. You’re not giving him a very good impression. We’re a patriotic, loyal group of people. And need I remind you we’re Christians? If you have a problem with President Rogers, you’re just going to have to do what every other American does—follow proper procedures.”

  Sadie placed her hands on the table and stood to her full height—about half that of Mack’s. “Well, most Americans don’t have the president in their backyard for a weekend. And if that man has one decent bone left in his body, he’ll talk to a group of voters who trusted him enough to vote him into office. Don’t you worry yourself about anything, Agent Mackerel Boy, I’ll take matters into my own hands.”

  “Mack-el-roy, Mrs. Simms. It’s MacElroy, or Mack. I don’t care which you use, but it’s not Mackerel Boy. Regardless, you will not take matters into your own hands. Not unless you want to be placed under house arrest while the president’s in town.”

  Sadie cackled like one of her chicken thugs, who were probably wandering around town, raising their own ruckus even as she was arguing with the president’s chief security agent. “You’re forgetting the Constitution, Fish Boy.”

  “What’s the Constitution got to do with it?” He shook his hand at her and glared. “And it’s not Fish Boy.”

  “Then stop
acting fishy. And for your information, the Constitution has everything to do with it. I already have my manifesto drafted, and I’ll be presenting the final copy to the president as soon as he gets here.”

  “Manifesto?” Mack looked at me.

  I faked stupidity and focused my attention on precisely aligning my coffee cup to the grain of the wooden tabletop. Can’t be too careful, you know. It’s the little things that upend our world, like misaligned coffee cups and stupid pastors and old women threatening to present the President of the United States with a manifesto.

  I chanced a quick look—just in time to see Mack smirk a “thanks for nothing” look my way. He turned his attention back to Sadie and repeated, “Manifesto? What are you talking about?”

  “You know, a man-i-fes-to.”

  “I know how it’s pronounced,” Mack said. He sat back down, but I could see he’d just as soon throttle her as take his next breath.

  Sadie nodded as if Mack were a backward student who had just learned to multiply by two. “Good for you. As you may know, a manifesto is a proposal, a declaration of my intentions.” She punctuated her remarks with several sharp stabs to the tabletop, vibrating my coffee cup from its perfect alignment. I could feel the world slipping off its axis. Darn it, Sadie.

  “Your intentions to do what?”

  “To do what President Stuart Thomas Rogers isn’t brave enough to do.”

  Mack just looked at her. I think he was afraid to say anything for fear a wall of flame would shoot out of his mouth and fry her on the spot. Probably wouldn’t be good public policy—you know, frying an old woman, especially just before a presidential visit; easier to sit back and think about other ways of keeping her quiet. Duct tape, perhaps. Believe me. I’ve thought of that more than a few times myself.