by Gayle Roper
“I’ll use the bathroom first and get out of your way.” I spoke to the top of his head because he had dropped onto the sofa and was contemplating the floor. Whiskers was winding around his ankles, purring in ecstasy. “I’ll let you know when I’m finished.”
I turned and noticed for the first time the little blinking red light on my answering machine. Someone had called while I was getting Randy. Maybe Curt? With a smile I pushed the Play button.
“Stay out of it! It’s none of your business! Or you’ll get hurt!”
I stared at the phone in fascinated horror.
“Who’s that?” Randy demanded.
“I don’t know.” I hit Replay. I grabbed a pencil and wrote down the number displayed in the Caller ID box as the nasty male voice taunted me again.
“What did you do?” Randy was so curious that he forgot to be self-conscious.
I shrugged. Was it the same voice I’d heard at Edie’s?
“What kind of pervert is stupid enough to leave messages?” Randy asked, stating my thoughts exactly. “Hasn’t he ever heard of voice prints?”
I quickly called the police and reported the threat. It was only a matter of minutes before William called back.
“Can you identify the caller? Is it the same person who called Edie?”
“No, I can’t identify him. And I don’t know if he’s the same guy. Maybe. I want it to be. How many weird callers does Amhearst need? But I don’t know.”
William sighed. “It’ll be a phone booth. I’ll bet you anything.”
“What did he say?” Randy asked as I hung up.
“Phone booth.”
He nodded and looked at me with interest. Then he walked back to the sofa and collapsed. Gathering Whiskers close, he buried his head in the cat’s ruff and made believe I was no longer there.
I shrugged my mental shoulders and went into the bathroom. When I was sure I’d left no toothpaste spit in the sink or dirty foam on the soap, I knocked cautiously on the bathroom door that opened into the living room, then cracked it a couple of inches. I was surprised to see the living room in darkness.
“I’m finished, Randy. It’s all yours.”
“Thanks.” It came out as a croak, and he quickly cleared his voice and tried again. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. I’m glad you’re here.” And I realized that was the truth. “Good night.”
“Merry?”
I stuck my head back in the room. “Yes?”
“Will that guy hurt you?”
I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice.
“The one on the answering machine? I doubt it. There’s something sort of cowardly about a phone threat, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” he said, contempt for the caller making his voice fuller, surer. “Yeah.”
“Good night, Randy.”
“Merry?”
“Yes?” I smiled, thinking of little kids coming up with some foolish questions to keep from having to go to sleep. But Randy wasn’t a little child, and his questions weren’t foolish.
There was a long pause. Then: “She’ll be all right, won’t she?”
“Your mom?”
“Yeah.”
“I think so. I don’t know why not.”
He grunted, a sound that somehow conveyed relief. I was moving to close the door again when he said, his voice thick with apprehension, “Will she ever forgive me?”
Such unnecessary pain, I thought. For both of them. “Sure. Moms always forgive, especially nice moms like yours.”
“Not Mom. Sherrie.”
Ah, Sherrie. Different kettle of fish.
“I know Mom’ll forgive me. She’s like that. But I don’t know about Sherrie.”
“I don’t know about Sherrie either, Randy. You behaved very badly in front of her, and you brought up some very unsettling memories for her.”
He sighed. “Sometimes it’s not good to have things in common.”
Not when one of them was an abusive father. “She’s only fifteen. You’ve handed her a situation that many adults couldn’t deal with.”
“I know. I wouldn’t blame her if she never talked to me again.”
Since he seemed freed to speak by the darkness, I flicked out the bathroom light and slipped into the living room, staying close to the door so he wouldn’t feel crowded. “But Sherrie’s a girl of uncommon grace and faith. Maybe in time she’ll be okay.”
“You think so?”
There was such yearning in his voice that I felt tears spring to my eyes. “I hope so, for both your sakes.”
He seemed satisfied with that, as if recognizing that that was the best he could expect right now. We fell silent for a minute. Then he took a deep breath.
“Tom’s not a terrible man.” The words rushed out of him like water from a ruptured dam. “He’s been nice to me always. I’m the one who’s been terrible.”
“I know.”
“Yeah.” He made a choking sound. “I haven’t been very subtle about it, have I?”
“Mmm.”
“I don’t want him to be in trouble.” There was an urgency in his words that underscored the truth of his statement.
“I know.”
“My mom loves him. He’s so nice to her. He takes care of her.” There was wonder in his voice.
“Do you think that’s unusual?”
I heard him shift on the sofa, the sheets murmuring in the darkness. “I used to think it meant he was weak. A real man made a woman fear him, not love him. That way he was always in control.”
“And now?”
“I—I think I’ve changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“I’ve seen how upset Mom is over Tom.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
He shifted on the sofa again. “I think that if my dad had ever disappeared, Mom’s strongest response would have been relief. I wouldn’t want Sherrie to be relieved if I disappeared. I’d want her to care.” His voice caught on a muted sob that he tried to swallow. “Not that she’s ever likely to care about me.”
The conversation had come full circle.
“Randy, how do you think God fits in all this?”
“God?” He sounded surprised.
“You know how important God is to Sherrie, don’t you?”
“Sure. I mean, her mom’s got a mission.”
“Do you realize that if Sherrie forgives you, it will be because God gives her the strength to do it?”
I could almost feel him thinking. “Does that mean she talks to God about me?”
“It does.”
“That makes me feel weird. Or special. I don’t know which.”
“Maybe both?”
He gave a half laugh. “Maybe both. I don’t think anyone else talks to God about me.”
“I do.”
His surprise bounced off the walls.
“I have to admit that I used to pray mostly for your mom, that she’d survive you.” Oh, Lord, don’t let that offend him so much he stops listening!
He grunted.
“But from now on I will pray that you become the man that’s inside you, the man that God would like you to become. And I’ll pray that you realize that God’s the only one who can help you become that.”
I held my breath and awaited his reaction. Eventually I heard a muffled, “Thank you.”
“Good night, Randy. Like I said, I’m glad you’re here.”
The next morning, Randy was back to less than monosyllabic.
“Cereal or toast?”
He pointed to the Captain Crunch my mother would never buy for me and which I enjoyed each morning in sweet rebellion. Then he pointed to the bread.
“Both?”
Nod.
“Whole wheat or oat?”
He pointed to the oat.
“Orange juice?”
Nod.
We listened to each other crunch while I tried to imagine several days like this.
WWJD, M
erry?
I poured him some more Captain Crunch.
When we got to work, I settled Randy at his mother’s empty desk. He pulled out his laptop and started typing away, ignoring me and everyone else in the newsroom.
I shot everyone a warning glance, especially Jolene, and got to work, calling the police station first thing. William wouldn’t be in until afternoon. I spoke with Jeb Lammey, the press liaison.
“No identification yet on the body in Randy’s car?” I asked. “Hasn’t AFIS come through?”
“You know, I think they have.” I could hear Jeb shifting papers around. “Here we go. The deceased was a petty criminal named Barnard Slocum. He has a list of priors going back twenty years, and all for small-time stuff like selling pot to an undercover agent or being bagman for a bookie or acting courier for a drug shipment.”
“What does any of that have to do with Tom Whatley or Tom Willis?”
“We don’t know yet. But my money’s on drugs. Willis was involved somehow when Whatley died in that drug bust. I bet he’s involved again.”
At least he was no longer accusing Tom of taking the dealership money. “Is that a hunch or do you know something you haven’t told me yet?”
“Strictly a hunch. Oh, and there is one more thing. There’s a car missing from the Hamblin lot.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Every month they do an inventory of the lot to track and verify all the cars so none just sort of disappear. This was a special inventory done at our request, a between-times tabulation, if you will. Apparently a car could be borrowed off the lot between inventories, and no one would be the wiser. It just needs to be returned before the next count is taken.”
“So what do you think it means that this car is missing?” I asked.
“Missing car, missing man, drug courier killed. Three guesses. And then there’s the fact that Tom was the last to sign the car out.”
“Sign the car out?”
“You know. When they let a potential customer drive a car or when they take a car home themselves to try it out.”
“They have to sign it out?”
“And in.”
“And Tom took the missing car? He signed it out?”
“But not in.”
“And you actually think he’d steal a car he signed out? He’d put his name there confirming that he stole it? Come on. That doesn’t even make sense.”
“He took the money.”
“Jeb! You don’t know that. You don’t know any of this.”
“I can’t take it to court, but I’ll bet it’s an accurate scenario.”
I stared at my blank computer screen and wondered if he could possibly be right. “What do you think any of this has to do with Tom Whatley’s death?” I asked.
“The Audubon PD faxed us a bunch of stuff late yesterday, but I’m not free to pass it on without authorization. I can tell you though that something was funny the night Whatley died, and Willis was right in the middle of the funny stuff. That’s all I can say right now.”
I knew I wouldn’t get any more out of Jeb if he was in authorization mode. I disconnected and wrote steadily to get my Whatley/Willis article finished before deadline. I took one break to call Bill Bond, Tom’s boss at Hamblin Motors, to see if I could get a statement from him about the inventory and missing car.
I had to call him at home because of the hour. Dealerships open later than newsrooms. All I got was an empty ring, not even an answering machine. Either this guy was online with dial-up or he was behind the times. I went back to writing.
When I sent the finished work off to Mac, I turned to Randy, who was doing who-knew-what on his laptop.
“I need to see a couple of people.” I got to my feet and slipped on my navy blazer. “Bring the laptop and let’s go.”
Our first stop was Hamblin Motors. The dealership was finally open for the day, and I hoped Bill Bond would be around for me to interview.
Randy came to life as we walked into the showroom. His eyes roved lovingly over the models on floor display. Next thing I knew, he was sitting in a low-slung blue number, hands on the wheel, mind on the open roads.
I, on the other hand, was drawn to a display case filled with old-fashioned toy cars, the heavy metal ones from the 1920s and 30s. I know nothing about cars and have no desire to learn one from another, but I was fascinated by the cumbersome toys, mostly because they had been fortunate enough to escape the great scrap metal drives of World War II. There was no doubt that I was looking at a collection of some value.
“Wonderful, aren’t they?”
I turned to find a salesman standing behind me, all smiles and good will. His name tag read Howard.
“That’s a Reo.” Howard pointed. “And that’s an early Cadillac. And that, of course, is a Model T.”
“Of course,” I mumbled.
He continued to name every car in the case and the case against the facing wall.
“Mr. Hamblin himself collects these toy cars. He has more than a hundred, though he only displays the finest.”
I nodded as we walked to the center of the showroom and the real cars. Howard’s brown oxfords squeaked on the shiny tile floor, and he should never have been allowed out of the house in the deep green twill shirt he was wearing. It made him look sick. Still, since it said Hamblin Motors over the heart, he probably didn’t have a choice. But he had nice eyes and an earnest spirit.
“Are you interested in a nice car for your son?” he asked, nodding toward Randy.
I looked at him sourly. He might have nice eyes and an earnest spirit, but he had the brains of a nit.
Howard realized his mistake immediately, not a great intellectual feat given my facial expression. “Your brother?” he offered hesitantly. “Boyfriend?”
“I’m babysitting for him.” The chill in my voice should have had everyone running for tire chains due to icy conditions. “He’s a high school freshman.”
The poor man wilted completely.
Taking pity on him, I smiled. “I’d like to see Bill Bond, please. Tell him Merry Kramer from the News would like to talk to him if he has a minute.”
He nodded and all but ran through a frosted glass door in the middle of the room. In his haste to please he neglected to shut the door firmly.
“What did you do to him to make him run like that?” Randy stood just behind me.
“He thought you were my son.”
Randy blinked in surprise, then started to laugh.
“It’s not funny,” I protested. “I’m only eleven years older than you!”
“Yes, it is,” he managed between sputters of laughter. “It’s hilarious. Does that make Curt my father?”
I growled at him, and he wandered off to find another car to mind-drive, happier than he’d been in days.
A voice that was anything but happy cut through the showroom silence. It came from the frosted glass door Howard had neglected to close.
“Who did you say?” It was a low roar.
I couldn’t make out the answer. I assumed poor Howard was giving my name again.
“Tell her I’m not here.” The statement was abrupt and emphatic. “I will not talk with her.”
There was a rumble from the salesman again, then a resounding, “I said no! Just get rid of her. If she gives you any trouble, go get Joey.”
I walked toward the frosted glass door. If Bill Bond was so anxious not to talk with me for some reason I couldn’t begin to imagine, I was suddenly dying to speak with him. I was reaching for the knob when the door swung open and Howard emerged, effectively blocking my way.
“I’m sorry,” he said, looking acutely uncomfortable. He pulled the door firmly shut behind him.
“Mr. Bond isn’t available.”
“Sure he is. I heard him talking with you.”
Howard blanched. “Oh, no. You must be mistaken. Mr. Bond isn’t here.”
I looked at him, disappointed that he lied so willingly. “Oh, Howard.”
He flushed and looked away.
“Mr. Bond isn’t here,” he repeated.
“Sure he is.” I pointed to the car lot. Howard looked, just as I’d hoped he would. I stepped around him quickly, taking him by surprise, and threw open the frosted door.
“You can’t go in there!” Howard cried in a panic.
“Sure I can.” I walked into what was essentially a hallway with two small offices opening off it on each side, four all together. The first door had a sign that read Bill Bond, Sales Manager. The room was empty except for a desk and three chairs.
I hurried down the hall and pushed through the far doorway. I found myself in a great, cavernous space filled with cars of varying ages and descriptions, all with men and an occasional woman working on them in some fashion. Bill Bond was nowhere in sight. At least I assumed he wasn’t. I saw no one with a shirt like Howard’s.
A couple of the mechanics looked at me curiously, but none spoke. Between the blare of music and the whir of power tools, a conversation would be difficult. But worth a try, I decided.
I walked to a young woman who leaned over the front fender of a car, her arms lost in the bowels of its motor.
I tapped her on the shoulder and she jumped like I’d bitten her. I smiled placatingly.
“Have you seen Bill Bond?” I yelled over the pneumatic roar of the mechanic at the next car freeing lug nuts on a tire. “I think he came through here.”
She shook her head and turned back to her motor, which was obviously more interesting to her than I was.
I walked along the wall, peering between cars and searching on my own. A person in a dark green twill shirt was nowhere to be seen.
I turned to go back to the showroom, disappointed that I wouldn’t discover why Bill Bond refused to see me, when I saw a once-white door with a permanent black, greasy stain just above the chrome push plate that was supposed to prevent just such a stain. Men, the door read.
“See if he’s in there,” I ordered Howard, who watched me like a nervous mouse watching a hungry cat. I don’t know what he expected me to do, but eating him would be too offensive to the palate.
“I can’t do that,” he said primly.
“Why not?” Randy’d do it, I thought. Where was the kid when you needed him?
“I just can’t.” He’d cast our little drama as an us-against-her scenario, and he wasn’t going to do anything to help me.