by Lisa Bork
I stumbled onto the landing, falling again, and took in the sights quickly. This floor was only partially drywalled. I could run, but once Walter made it up the stairs, he’d have me in his sights.
I heard him pounding up the steps. My gaze settled on a length of two-by-six abandoned on the plywood floor. I pushed to my feet, scrambled, and grabbed it. I swung just as the rifle barrel came into sight, striking Walter in the forehead. He fell backward down the stairs, tumbling over and over and slamming into the exposed metal beam at the base of the stair. His rifle discharged, the bullet whizzing by my head and embedding in another two-by-six inches away from me, sending slivers of wood flying through the air. The rifle came to rest at his still feet.
After a moment of studying Walter where he lay, I tiptoed down the stairs and stepped with care over him. Blood trickled from a cut in his forehead. He moaned. I grabbed his rifle and raced out the entryway onto the gravel outside. I hoped to reach my car and speed off before he managed to get to his feet.
“Jolene!”
Twenty yards away, Ray stood behind the open door of his sheriff’s car, his radio in his hand. I started running toward him, got a few yards, slipped in the mud, and fell, sprawling flat out and dropping Walter’s rifle.
As I pushed to my knees, Ray reached inside his car, pulled out his shotgun, and pointed it in my direction. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I froze and opened my mouth to scream his name.
A shot rang out. I looked down at my chest, expecting pain and blood and wondering why in the world Ray would shoot me.
I didn’t feel any pain. I did see blood, but not until I looked behind me reflexively when I heard gasping. Walter had managed to rouse himself and follow me out of the community center. A large rose formed on his camouflaged chest. His right hand lowered, releasing his sidearm, which embedded in the mud and gravel. He fell to his knees. His now empty hand moved to his chest as though he were saying the pledge of allegiance before he dropped face forward into the rocks and lay silent and still.
Ray lowered his shotgun as he stepped away from the open door of his sheriff’s car. He crossed the ground between us in seconds and pulled me up against his chest. He whispered my name and kissed my hair. I slid my arms around him and buried my face in his jacket, smelling gunpowder and sweat. Nothing had ever smelled better to me.
We heard a car door slam and looked up in time to see the Beak making a run for it in his minivan, denting Walter’s car in the process.
Ray pulled his radio from his belt. “This is car 42. I have an officer down at 912 Whipple Road. Send an ambulance. And put an APB out on a maroon Dodge minivan, license plate Alpha Lima Whiskey Six Two Three Nine, heading north on Whipple Road. The driver is Fitzgerald Simpson, a.k.a. the Beak. Suspect is armed and dangerous.”
I frowned. “They’re going to think he shot Walter. They’re gonna kill him.”
Ray shrugged. “They’re going to do their job, Jolene. That man dragged you behind a car and almost killed you. I’ll let him take his chances, but I’m stacking the deck against him.”
He crossed the gravel and knelt beside Walter, checking for a pulse. “He’s gone.”
I hadn’t expected any less. Ray was a damn good shot. Walter didn’t stand a chance. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, but I was happy to be alive. “How did you find me?”
“I listened to your voicemail, tried to call your cell, then talked to Cory at the shop. He told me your suspicions about Walter. They matched mine. Cory said you were headed out here. I figured I might be able to catch you.”
Ray looked over my shoulder at Walter’s body. “Lucky I did.”
His gaze returned to me. He brushed a lock of hair off my face and smiled. Once again, he was here for me.
Good thing a crying woman never bothered Ray.
I spent the majority of Christmas Eve day assisting Father Christmas at the VFW Club, something I had done for the last three years since Ray and I separated. It made me feel good to volunteer, and this year spending time with happy, healthy children, making them even happier than they were before, eased my conscience about my role in leaving Tim’s kids fatherless.
Father Christmas wore a curly wig of white hair, a matching beard, and a full-length red velvet coat with a black fur collar and gold and red trim. The coat had a matching red rope belt tied over his dark green and gold waistcoat. He had a wreath of red berries in his hair. I sported a matching one with the dark green dress the town costume closet had ready for me in the morning.
The snow had stopped falling and melted, ruining the white Christmas effect. An enterprising young woman in a tartan cap and white scarf strolled the street in front of the temple, selling snowballs off a tray. Apparently she’d had the foresight to store snow in her freezer. For five cents, a few lucky children were allowed to buy enough for a brief snowball war while they waited their turn to see Father Christmas.
Several of the littlest darlings cried as soon as their parents brought them in range of Father Christmas. Some of the bigger children almost broke the poor man’s leg when they climbed onto his lap. A two-year-old peed his pants, leaving a spot on Father Christmas’ leg. Each one received a candy cane from me. All in all, it was an exhausting but satisfying day. And it kept my mind off Ray. He had to work double shifts on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, punishment from his boss, the sheriff, who didn’t appreciate learning that Ray had found large amounts of money in my apartment and didn’t tell him.
Ray and I had enjoyed two dinner dates since he saved my life, two dates where I spent plenty of time apologizing for my failure to tell him about material evidence as well as my error in judgment for ever leaving him. We hadn’t tackled the kid thing yet. We did make use of our marital bed one more time before Sarah Nelson sold it during the estate sale. Call it a celebration of life.
On my way home from helping Father Christmas, I averted my eyes as I drove past the showroom window where the Ferrari sat with a great big green bow across its windshield. No one had expressed interest in buying it, but the sale of my home would more than fund another year of operation, including Cory’s salary. My New Year’s resolution would be to get in the black and pay myself back for the loan.
The zoning board wouldn’t meet again until the New Year. When they did, I would be ready for them.
I also kept my eyes off the line of parking meters on Main Street. They were a daily painful reminder of how I had contributed in my own inimitable way to Tim Lapham’s death. My donation to his children’s college fund did little to assuage my conscience.
My phone rang at eleven o’clock Christmas Eve. I lay under the tree staring up at the lights glinting off the red and gold balls and the handmade decorations Erica and I created as children. I did this every year because when we were children, my mother slept with us in sleeping bags under the tree after we opened our presents on Christmas Eve. It is my fondest memory of her and the only reason I could bear the holiday without her now. Of course, we missed the year she died and I went to the hospital. But the very next year, my father made us start the tradition again, only then he slept under the tree with us. I think it made all of us feel closer to my mother.
“Merry Christmas.” Erica wasn’t allowed to leave the psych center to spend Christmas with me this year because of her excellent adventure with Sam. She still sounded happy and excited. Good.
“Same to you. Did you guys have a party?”
“We had lasagna, salad, and Christmas cookies, plus eggnog. I hate eggnog.”
“I know.” We had that in common. It was why I always made hot chocolate when we decorated the tree.
“I called because I have a surprise for you. You have to go get it right now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your Christmas present. We always exchange presents on Christmas Eve.”
When she said this, I felt guilty. I’d planned to bring hers to her tomorrow. Given her ongoing status as a mental patient, I thought we might need to st
art a new tradition this year.
“I’m coming to spend the day with you tomorrow. Can I pick it up then?” I heard someone in the background tell Erica to hang up the phone because her time was up.
“No, it’s not here. It’s under the Christmas tree in the park. You have to go get it RIGHT NOW.” Erica raised her voice two octaves.
“Okay. I’ll go get it.” I didn’t bother to ask her how my present got there. Maybe she’d left it there earlier in the week, like I left the money I’d found in my apartment.
“RIGHT NOW!”
Apparently, the gift was a perishable. “Right now, I promise. I’m hanging up and going right now. Merry Christmas, Erica.”
“Merry Christmas, Jolene. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
If Erica weren’t a mental patient, I would have questioned this phone call. But in the scheme of things, I found it rather charming and harmless enough.
I parked on a meter for free, given the time of day. I wondered for the millionth time how everything had gone so wrong for Walter and his family. I felt sorry for them, but even sorrier for Tim and his family. Tim had tried to do the right thing by everyone and ended up getting killed for his efforts. According to the auditors that Tim had insisted the town hire, Walter had embezzled over a hundred thousand over the last five years. He had fallen into the parent trap of trying to bribe his son to stop using drugs with the promise of gifts like a big screen television and a car. Drug rehab would have been cheaper and more effective, but Walter didn’t learn about the tough love school until it was too late.
Come to find out, Theodore Tibble had been robbing convenience stores with Sam’s brother, the armed gunman, so they could get enough money to open a garage and detail shop. Heck, if they’d asked me about it first, we might have been able to strike a deal for them to rent space in my garage for their new endeavor. I didn’t know how many cars they would get to work on in prison. The only good news was the expected full recovery of the convenience store owner whom Sam’s brother shot. The trial was scheduled for January. Theo was out on bail at present.
As I neared the tree in the park, still brightly lit at this hour approaching midnight, I saw a shape beneath it. From a yard away, I realized it was an infant car seat, zippered almost closed. What had Erica done now?
I knelt beside it, took a deep breath and pulled the zipper open.
A little red face appeared, cheeks like roses and lips like cherries, all snuggled up in a pink fleece snowsuit. The baby’s eyes were closed, but I could tell from the gentle but rapid rise and fall of her chest that she was breathing just fine. She was the most perfect baby I had ever seen.
A Christmas card, an empty bottle, three diapers, and a can of baby formula were tucked at her feet. The can had a sticky note with the instruction “Feed her in two hours.”
The Christmas card with a picture of the star of Bethlehem on the cover read:
“Dear Jolene,
Mom and I talked it over and we think a baby is the answer to all your prayers. Her parents are Theo Tibble and his girlfriend Abigail. They can’t take care of her. They have to leave town. I called Greg Doran. He’ll be in touch to take care of all the paperwork to make her yours.
Her name is Noelle. I’m hoping Noelle Parker. You have to do the rest.
I love you best. Always.
Merry Christmas, Erica
I brushed my finger over the baby’s cheek. She squirmed, smacking her lips and fluttering her spiky eyelashes. She didn’t awaken.
A car engine turned over nearby. I spied a dark-colored Lincoln pulling away from the curb. The face in the passenger window was too far away for me to make out the features. I saw a hand wave.
Theo Tibble. He asked to drive the DeLorean in exchange for his baby. Now that’s character. The name Abigail was familiar, too. I thought for a moment. The tattooed, pregnant clerk at the 7-Eleven three weeks ago came to mind. Could she have been the girl in the second robbery? Great, I had custody of the child of two armed robbers on the run from the law. The baby certainly didn’t have much of a future with them. Had Erica known what was going on all along and tried to save this child?
I looked at the beautiful baby before me. Noelle opened her eyes and tried to focus on me. In the dim lights from the Christmas tree, I must have looked like a monster because she started to cry. I rocked the car seat. She screamed. I was going to have to pick her up.
The only baby I’d ever held was Isabelle’s daughter. I hadn’t felt any pressure because Isabelle had been beside me as backup. I was flying solo this time and feeling woefully inadequate. But when I lifted Noelle from the seat and pulled her to my chest, my body automatically started to sway side to side. After a moment, she fell silent.
I took another peek at her adorable little face and felt a rush of emotion I couldn’t name. I knew I would probably have to give this child back. Who would expect two wayward convenience store robbers to keep their word to give her up for adoption? And what mental patient was competent enough to arrange an adoption? But in the meantime, what was a woman to do?
I pulled out my cell phone and called Ray.
The End
Acknowledgments:
First I have to thank my parents, Bill and Gini Pierson. They instilled in my brother and me a love of books, reading to us nightly as children and taking us to the library until we were old enough to drive there ourselves. They also assured us that we could do anything. For a while, I wasn’t sure “anything” would include getting published, but the proof is in your hands.
All my love and greatest appreciation to my husband and children. Tom enabled me to write full-time, and he took me to my first “sports car boutique.” My children let me “work” in peace and relinquished computer time. I couldn’t ask for three better or more lovable cheerleaders.
Thank you to my critique group, the LadySleuths: Kelly Hackel, Teresa Inge, Shelley Shearer, and Kathy Whelan. They read not only this book and its sequels but the three prior attempts that will never see print. Their feedback, support, and friendship continue to make a difference. Thanks as well to Jared Case, Trina Riggle, and June Shaw who provided feedback and encouragement on this book and others.
I also thank my agent, Eric Myers. I think he works twenty-four hours a day. I know he never gave up.
Finally and especially, thank you to Bill Krause and all the team at Llewellyn Publications and Midnight Ink.
About the Author
Lisa Bork worked in human resources and marketing before becoming a stay-at-home mom. When her children entered school full-time, Lisa turned to writing to fill her days and exercise her mind. For Better, For Murder grew out of her family’s love of the Finger Lakes region and her husband’s obsession with cars. Lisa is a member of the Authors Guild, Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, the Guppies, and the Thursday Evening Literary Society. Lisa resides with her husband, children, and the family dog in western New York. She has a B.A. in English and an M.B.A. in Marketing.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title_Page
Copyright
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Table of Contents
Cover
Title_Page
Copyright
One
; Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Acknowledgments
About the Author