by Gayle Roper
Before I could explain, the front door to Intimations flew open, and William Poole stalked in, looking as official and authoritative as I’d ever seen him. People stepped quickly out of his way as he moved purposefully toward us.
He stopped in front of me. “He turned himself in.”
“Good.” Satisfaction coursed through me.
“He said you told him to.”
“I did.”
“When he had a gun in your face.”
I heard several gasps, but Curt’s “Merry!” was the loudest by far.
“Who had a gun in your face?” Mac demanded.
“Mike Hamblin.”
Jolene gave a little scream. I ignored her and looked at Curt. “But I knew he didn’t want to use it.”
“And just how did you know this?”
“He hadn’t killed anybody before. It was Joey who murdered Barnard Slocum and Bill Bond.”
Curt glared. “There’s always a first time.”
I waved away his concern. “I’m fine.”
“But Mike Hamblin?” Mac wasn’t about to lose the main story line over concern for me.
“Mike had a drug ring working out of his business,” I said.
“And he’s down at headquarters singing away, telling us all kinds of interesting things,” William said with satisfaction.
“What’s he saying, William?” I knew I’d get a fuller explanation at a later time, but for now I wanted to get some holes filled in. “I know they were trafficking in drugs, but I haven’t the vaguest idea how. I know they used Barnard Slocum—”
“Who?” Jolene demanded.
“Barnard Slocum. You know. The guy found dead in Randy’s car.”
Everyone nodded except Delia and Mr. Montgomery, even Mr. Whitsun who hung on every word. Both Mr. M and Delia looked like they’d eaten a very sour grape.
“You know they inventory the lot monthly.” William looked at us to be sure we were with him. We all nodded. “Well, between inventories, Slocum would take a car off the lot with a temporary tag and drive the drugs wherever he was told. The car would reappear back on the lot a day or two later, no one the wiser. They would use a different car for each run, so there was never a pattern or a particular vehicle the authorities could look for.”
“Is that what happened to the missing car you thought Tom might have stolen? When this Slocum was murdered, the car never made it back?” Mac asked.
William shook his head. “No, Tom did take that one.”
I nodded. “But he only took it because Joey was shooting at him.”
William nodded. “So Tom told me.”
A surge of joy shot through me. “Tom’s awake?”
“And well,” William added. “A bit weak and beat up, but all things considered, he’s fine.”
“What did he say about the missing money?” I asked.
“He didn’t say anything, but Mike admitted it was all a hoax to pin suspicion on Tom so that if he was found, his word would be doubted.”
“So you’re saying Tom Whatley stumbled on this drug ring, and that’s why he was shot,” Mac clarified. “He never took the money, and he’s completely innocent of any wrongdoing.”
William nodded.
“Well, I just knew he hadn’t walked out on Edie.” Jolene’s tone of voice said that being shot wasn’t nearly as surprising as walking out on his wife would have been.
“Why didn’t he just go to the hospital or the cops?” Mac asked.
Ah, the big question. We all looked at William.
“He said that he was afraid for Edie and Randy. They wouldn’t be in danger unless he was near them. He felt he had to stay away, had to hide. He said all he could think about was the bad drug bust where his best friend was killed. He said he panicked. He drove to Hibernia, hid the car well then hid himself. Then before he knew it, he was too weak to do anything.”
“So how did you find him?” Curt asked.
“Merry found him.”
Curt turned one of my hands over and ran a finger gently over the scrapes. “That’s how you got these?”
I shook my head. “I did this when Mike tried to run me down with his car.”
“That was after she knocked out Joey,” William added.
“Joey?” asked Mr. Whitsun, still trying to sort everything out.
“The murderer.” I smiled. “It’s confusing.”
“But it won’t be when you finish writing the story,” Mac said. “I can see it now. Another Keystone Press Award for Merry Kramer!”
“That’s right,” Jolene said, throwing herself back into the conversation with renewed enthusiasm. “Mr. Montgomery, did you know that Merry Kramer, your reporter, just won a Keystone Press Award for the outstanding series she did last winter? Isn’t the News fortunate to have a reporter like her on its staff?” She beamed at me. I beamed back.
Congratulations swirled around my head, and I basked in them. It took some time before I became aware of Mac clearing his throat and looking pointedly at me.
“Oh!” I turned to Mr. Montgomery. “I couldn’t have won the award without Mac. The story idea was his, and he’s such a great editor, and he’s done such a fantastic job at the News and—”
“What she’s trying to say,” cut in Jolene, “is that the News has a wonderful staff starting right at the top with Mac. He’s a terrific editor. And Edie with the family page and features is great. And so’s Larry, the sports guy. And of course there our award-winning Merry Kramer, Amhearst’s own Lois Lane. And then there’s me. I’m the best administrative assistant or whatever you want to call it that the paper’s ever had. We’re a unit, Mr. Montgomery, and together we’ll give you the best newspaper in Chester County, maybe Pennsylvania.”
Sometimes Jolene really got it right.
NINETEEN
Easter Sunday was a beautiful day, warm and sunshiny, just the way it’s supposed to be. Curt and I walked hand in hand beside Chambers Lake at Hibernia Park, enjoying being together after the chaos of the past week. Our companionable silence was rich with satisfaction and tenderness. Any man and woman could make conversation. Only a special few were able to keep silence.
We rounded a bend and came upon a pair of Canada geese nesting in the high grass at the water’s edge. As we approached, the male began hissing at us while the female continued to sit on her eggs.
“We won’t hurt her, Papa,” I said softly. “Don’t worry.”
He didn’t believe us, but he did settle down after we were past them.
A big boulder by the water beckoned, and we sat side by side, shoulders touching. Curt had on his dress slacks and shirt, collar open and sleeves rolled back. I still wore my church clothes but had changed to walking shoes. I’d done enough fancy footwork in dress shoes to last for years.
I lay my head on Curt’s shoulder, content just to be sitting next to him. He slid his arm around my shoulders and gave a gentle hug.
“Imagine,” I said. “Randy and Edie both came to church this morning.”
“I think they were impressed too,” Curt said. “I watched them while Sherrie sang and the bell choir played. They were sitting at attention the whole time.”
“Yeah?” With my minimal musical abilities, I had to concentrate so hard on my chimes that the whole congregation could have risen and walked out, and I wouldn’t have noticed. “Especially Randy, I bet.”
Curt laughed. “You should have seen his face. The boy has it bad.”
“Poor kid. I think he’s doomed to failure with Sherrie. But it’s probably a good thing. Fifteen is too young to be that involved with someone.”
“If he had any ideas about trying to talk with Sherrie after the service, Jess and Lacey cut him off at the pass. They were climbing all over him.”
“It’s good for him to be loved like that by the little ones. And it’s good for their mother to be loved by Edie.”
“Tina was pretty brave coming today with her face still so damaged. She’s one courageous lady.”
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br /> “I hope they all come again. I hope they come all the time.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised, especially if you ask them.” He smiled down at me. “They owe you big-time.”
I frowned. “I don’t want them to come because they owe me. I want them to come because of the Lord Jesus.”
“Maybe eventually that’s why they’ll come.” Curt reached for my hand. “In the meantime, who cares why they come? Just so they’re there to hear the Gospel.”
“You’re right.” I laced my fingers through his. “I mean, Mac comes strictly because of Dawn, but maybe someday he’ll fall in love with the Lord too. At least that’s what I keep praying.”
A pair of mallards floated by, the male’s deep green head iridescent in the bright sun.
Apparently Curt was looking at those marvelously tinted feathers too. “God makes colors that I’ll never be able to reproduce, no matter how hard I try.” His voice had a fatalistic ring to it.
“But that’s what keeps it interesting,” I said. “The trying. If you could automatically do it perfectly, where would the challenge be?”
“And I need challenge?”
“Sure. We all do.”
“Speaking of challenge, is Mac going to accept Mr. Montgomery’s offer to remain as editor at the News?”
“He already has.” I grinned. “It was all he could do not to shout, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ when the man called, but he acted very maturely, just like a responsible editor should. ‘I’ll give you my answer within a week,’ he said, all quiet and controlled. Like the answer was ever in doubt!”
“So the whole staff stays intact.”
“Every last one of us, right down to Jolene, who probably saved us all with her impassioned speech the other night.”
Curt ran his thumb across my healing palm. It tickled in a wonderful way. “She’d make a great politician. She could sell anyone on anything.”
The thought of Jolene running even our town, let alone the county, state or country, was daunting, especially since she could probably organize us better than anyone had in years. I wondered what party she was registered under, assuming she’d ever gotten around to registering, which was doubtful.
“I saw her and Reilly talking with Stephanie Bauer this morning,” Curt said. “They were very intent. What’s going on there?”
“Jolene’s going to give Freedom House some much-needed funding.” I tried not to sound too smug.
“And who planted that little seed in Jolene’s mind, I wonder?”
“I wonder.” I giggled.
We fell silent, and I watched a glorious billowing cloud sail across the sky, entranced as wisps spun off to trail behind, then slowly disappear completely.
“What color is the sky?” I asked. “Azure? Indigo? Sapphire? Lapis? Delft? Cobalt? Ultramarine?”
Curt looked up and studied it with his artist’s eye. “Blue,” he said emphatically. “Very definitely blue.”
I laughed. “I love you.”
“Mmm. Me too.” He bent down and kissed the top of my head. “Did I thank you yet for coming to my show the other night?” His voice was surprisingly serious.
I straightened and looked at him. “Well, of course I came. It was a very important night for you.”
“But you’d just been through a terrible ordeal, and if that weren’t enough, you had one of the biggest stories of your career to write. And still you cared enough to come. That meant a lot to me.”
I was at a loss for words, a rare occurrence. I finally managed, “I’m glad it pleased you.”
“I also want you to know that I’m very proud of you.”
I probably glowed. “You are?”
He nodded. “Winning your award, helping Edie and Tina, taking in Randy, finding Tom, getting Mike and Joey. You had a pretty full week.”
“I’m proud of you too,” I said. “Your show went wonderfully well, you sold several paintings and Mr. Whitsun is taking your pictures. And of course Delia will continue to hang you in Intimations here as well as in Philadelphia.”
“You’re not worried about her anymore, are you?” He eyed me curiously.
I shook my head. “Not anymore. I believe you when you say you made your choice.”
“You shouldn’t sound so amazed.”
“It’s just hard to believe. Delia’s absolutely beautiful.”
“But you’re real. And you’re just what I need and want.”
I hugged his arm. “I’m just glad you weren’t embarrassed by how I looked when I showed up at the gallery. I was afraid that you would make believe you didn’t know me.”
“Never, love. You’re mine, and I want the world to know it.”
My smile was so broad, I felt like it would crack my face.
Curt reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a purple plastic egg with a pink ribbon tied around it. He put it in my hand. “Happy Easter, sweetheart.”
I held it for a minute, then shook it. Something inside thunked.
“A miniature chocolate bunny? Or maybe a Hershey’s Hug and Kiss?” I raised an eyebrow at him. “Personally I’d prefer one of yours.”
Next thing I knew he had his arms about me and was very thoroughly kissing me. When we broke for breath, I rested my head on his chest.
“Mmm. I knew yours would be better. Sweeter too.”
I felt the rumble of his laugh against my cheek. “Open the egg, Merry.”
I sat up and made a big production out of untying the ribbon. Then I pretended the two halves of the egg were stuck and I couldn’t pull them apart.
“Open it,” Curt hissed in my ear.
I grinned unrepentantly at him, but I opened it. My curiosity couldn’t stand the suspense any longer.
The facets of the diamond reflected sunlight in a myriad of sparkling rainbows as the ring fell into my lap.
“Oh, Curt!” I could barely breathe.
He picked up the ring and took my left hand in his large hand. “Marry me, Merry?”
“Oh, yes!” It came out in a whisper, but inside I was shouting. “Oh, yes!”
Dear Reader,
The other day in a mega office supply store, I overheard an older woman and a young clerk talking.
“I can’t remember the number of the cartridge refill I need for my printer,” she said.
“Why don’t you call someone and ask?” he suggested.
“Call someone,” she said, apparently amazed at the idea. “I can use my cell phone. I always forget I have it because I only carry it for emergencies.”
She pulled one out, made a call and got the cartridge number she needed. Happy ending to her quandary.
I got thinking about the differences between the generations. It used to be old-lady lace-up shoes, blue hair and full-body girdles that marked old women, but not anymore. I don’t know one older woman who even owns a girdle, let alone the armor they used to wear, and any lace-ups worn are stylish ones. Blue hair has given way to natural, though probably lighter, color.
Today it’s lack of ease with things electronic, such as cell phones and iPods, that mark them off.
But one thing has always bridged the generations, and that’s love of story. For those smart enough to know that there’s nothing better than a good read, age means nothing. Age of heroes and heroines means nothing. It’s the story, the excitement, the inspiration, the learning that come from reading good books that bind us together, regardless of whether we’re seniors or teens.
And, of course, the Story that binds us closest is the Greatest One ever told. May that Story and the Man it’s about drive themselves deep into your heart.
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
Tom Whatley is dead. Tom Whatley lives in Amhearst. What are the difficulties of becoming someone else? Read Psalms 139 and 2 Corinthians 5:17. Can we ever become someone else?
Merry steps up to help both Randy and Tina and, through Jolene, Stephanie. Read Matthew 25:35–40. How are you practically following Merry’s example and obeying these ver
ses? What about personal safety issues?
Randy and Sherrie seem to be polar opposites, though their backgrounds are remarkably similar. What has made the difference in the two teens’ lives?
Randy learns the hard way about the consequences of actions. There are also eternal consequences to our actions and choices. What do you think is the correlation between the consequences of actions and forgiveness, especially God’s forgiveness?
Why does Curt choose Merry over the beautiful, sophisticated Delia? Read Proverbs 31:30. What does “fears the Lord” mean? How does Merry exemplify this notion?
Delia’s presence awakes insecurities in Merry. How can we use such insecurities to grow stronger, and to recognize and help those weaknesses in others?
In most novels, especially ones with a comic feel like this one, the hero and heroine always escape at the end while the bad guys are caught. Such isn’t always the case in real life. Read Habakkuk 3:17–19. What is the “yet” principle?
The risks Merry takes in her work cause Curt distress. What does it mean for him to trust she knows what she’s doing? In what way has your ability to trust others been taxed? What advice would you give Curt in this situation?
Randy is unexpectedly tender with Whiskers. How can pets give comfort to those in need?
Out of the pain of an abusive relationship, Stephanie was inspired to create Freedom House. In what way can our difficulties and sorrows give us inspiration to help others? What examples can you cite in your community?
ISBN: 978-1-4268-4403-4
CAUGHT IN A BIND
This is the revised text of the work which was first published by Zondervan in 2000.
Copyright: © 2000 by Gayle G. Roper
Revised text copyright: © 2007 by Gayle G. Roper
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, New York, NY 10279 U.S. A.