Live Ringer

by Lynda Fitzgerald

  Marc finally tore his gaze from Sheryl and turned it on Allie. “I’ll be running along. I just wanted to see how you were doing.” He pulled a card out of his wallet and handed it to her. “Call me on my cell if you need anything.”

  After he left, Allie turned on Sheryl. “What in the world is the matter with you? You acted like you might shoot him.”

  Sheryl walked to the front window and stood there until he drove away. Then, she came back and dropped into a chair. “What’s the matter with me? Wasn’t that your stalker?”

  Allie felt her face heat up. “I was wrong. He’s not a stalker. He’s a very nice man who helped me this morning when I cut my foot.”

  “You thought he was a stalker last night.”

  “I said I was wrong.”

  Sheryl shook her head and gestured toward Allie’s foot. “What happened?” Allie told her the whole story—the broken glass, the missing car, the ride to the hospital.

  “And he brought you back here?”

  “No, Joe brought me home. He showed up at the hospital.”

  Sheryl made a show of smoothing the fabric on her uniform pants. “Seems like he shows up wherever you are,” she said, not looking up.

  Allie heard what she wasn’t saying. “He was going to give me a ride back to my car this morning. When I wasn’t here and he saw the blood, he checked at the hospital.” Sheryl still wasn’t looking at her. “There’s nothing between us, Sheryl.”

  “On your side, maybe. Hey, don’t worry about it. It’s no skin off my nose what’s going on with you two.”

  “Nothing’s going on.”

  Sheryl got up to leave. “Anyhow, I saw Frederick’s car and figured I’d better check it out.”

  Allie gave her a skeptical look. “You were driving around in the neighborhood?”

  She shrugged. “I told you I cruise past a couple of times a day. Just checking.”

  Allie smiled up at her. “For stalkers?”

  Sheryl tried to look mean, but Allie could see the beginnings of a smile. “It wasn’t so funny yesterday.” Allie agreed. “You’re convinced this Frederick is a good guy,” Sheryl said. It wasn’t a question.

  “He could have killed me ten times today if he wanted to. Instead, he took me to the hospital to get my foot stitched up. He went and got my prescriptions filled. That doesn’t strike me as killer behavior. Does it you?”

  Sheryl didn’t look completely convinced. “Maybe he’s saving you for a trip on his boat.”

  “Shery—”

  She waved a hand in dismissal. “So, anything you need?”

  Allie pushed herself to her feet, wincing as she did. “Yes, I want to go to the bathroom. Then, I’ll get dressed, and I want you to take me to get my car.”

  *

  Allie stopped at Burger King on the way home. They had a drive-thru, and they took plastic—two major plusses since she wanted to stay off her foot as much as possible and because Marc spent all her cash on prescriptions. Getting into the house with her purse and a bulky bag while balancing crutches was tricky, but she felt independent again. She had her wheels, her keys, and her wallet. What more could a woman want?

  The image of Marc Frederick drifted across her mind. Not that she wanted him, but he was an interesting man. He could be abrupt—she had seen evidence of that when the emergency room admitting clerk tried to intimidate him—but he had a kind side too. Either that or he deserved an Emmy. She remembered how he worked to divert her attention while they waited for her foot to be stitched up, how he’d gone to get her prescriptions on his own initiative. Surely, that wasn’t the behavior of a killer. Then, she remembered how he’d vanished when Joe came on the scene and then again when Sheryl burst in the door. Was he trying not to complicate things by removing his presence, or could there be another reason he wanted to avoid the law? She refused to pursue the thought.

  She nibbled on her Whopper until her head nodded forward of its own volition and her eyes burned with the effort to keep them open. She fed the rest of the hamburger to Spook. Leaving the mess on the coffee table—there was no one there but her to see it—and chugging down another pain pill with the dregs of her Diet Coke,™ she crawled into bed and fell into a deep, drug-leaden sleep. If Feelie came by, she didn’t hear him. She only hoped it wasn’t because he’d bled to death the night before.

  Chapter 10

  Allie woke the next morning feeling better than she expected. Her foot hurt, but she could walk on her heel without the crutches, as long as she moved slowly. She wasn’t brave enough to try a shoe, but what the heck. This was Florida. No one in Florida wore shoes.

  She fed Spook and took him a little way out the front door to do his business. Sheryl took care of those chores the night before. Allie had forgotten to ask her if she’d spoken to her mother about taking the little dog, but it didn’t seem so urgent anymore. Once back inside, she decided she wanted to do something positive, something that didn’t involve dead bodies or hospitals or suspicion. She decided to take another stab at making the house hers.

  After a quick breakfast, she headed into the guest room, determined to sort and pack her aunt’s things. There were some cardboard boxes in the top of the closet, fully packed from the feel of them. She was afraid to pull them down. Instead, she tackled the hanging garments and the boxes on the closet floor. With only a few stops to wipe her eyes, she finished sorting it all by noon. She would give away most of the clothes stashed in the closet. She certainly couldn’t wear them. Her aunt had been a tiny woman physically—the runt of the litter, she told Allie once—although she never seemed small to Allie. Lou had been a dynamo, fearless. Then, Allie remembered the gun in the other room. At least she’d seemed fearless.

  Lunch consisted of a cucumber, sliced and salted, before she moved on to the master bedroom. Her progress stopped the minute she opened the closet door and reached for a hanger.

  “Pack it all up, silly.”

  “I can’t. It’s so—final.”

  “It’s not final. It’s practical. They’re only clothes.”

  “They aren’t only clothes. They’re your clothes. They look like you. They smell like you. I can’t bear to stuff them in a box.”

  “Allie, sweetheart, you have to make it your house eventually.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s what I would have wanted.”

  “That’s manipulation.”

  “So? Is it working?

  Allie pushed the closet door shut. “No.”

  Why hadn’t she asked her about the gun? Then, she shook herself. It was all in her imagination, for Pete’s sake. She couldn’t ask her anything. Could she?

  Spook whined, staring up at her. At least she thought he was staring at her. She couldn’t tell with all that hair in his face. Seized with an idea, she scooped up the dog and hobbled with him to the bathroom. She brushed the hair on top of his head into a little ponytail, securing it with the barrette she found on her aunt’s dresser. It looked ridiculous, but Spook didn’t seem to mind, and at least now, she could see his eyes.

  Her foot started throbbing again. Putting Spook down, she limped into the living room, sinking down on the sofa. A minute later, the telephone rang—the telephone in the kitchen. Blowing out a breath, she hopped across the room and snatched the phone off the hook.

  “Allison? This is Rupert Cornelius.”

  She held the phone away from her ear for a second and looked at it. “Yes, Mr. Cornelius?”

  “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”

  She almost told him the truth, but good manners won out; her mother’s training hadn’t gone completely to waste. “No, of course not.”

  “I haven’t heard from you since your visit the other day, but I have some news I didn’t think could wait. I think we might have an immediate opening at the Sun.”

  Allie almost groaned aloud. Immediate? Somehow, she didn’t think working loomed in her immediate future. “Thank you for thinking of me, Mr. Cornelius—”


  “Rupert.”

  “Rupert. I’m afraid I injured myself yesterday. It’ll be a while before I can even think of starting a new job.”

  She heard a hum on the line. “Injured?”

  “I stepped on some glass and cut my foot. A silly accident, but it took a lot of stitches.”

  “Oh, my dear girl, I’m so sorry to hear that.” He sounded as if he meant it.

  “I’m afraid I won’t be doing much walking for a while. Maybe you’d better see if you can find someone else. Thank you for thinking of—”

  “Good heavens. Don’t give that another thought. I can wait to fill the job until you’re fully recovered.” She heard his desk chair squeak. “I worry about how unfortunate your brief stay here in town has been. First, that dreadful experience with the body, and now this. I’m afraid you’ll head back to Europe before long.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Well, that’s good news for me—and for the paper.”

  There it was again, that niggling sense of unease, but she ignored it. “Thank you, uh—Rupert, and thank you for calling.”

  “Please let me know if there’s anything at all I can do while you’re incapacitated.”

  “I will. Thank you.” She started to hang up the phone.

  “And we’ll have that lunch, as soon as you’re back up to speed,” she heard him say.

  “Sure. We’ll do that.”

  She hung up the telephone at a loss as to why the man made her feel so unsettled. If he and her aunt were friends, he had to be OK. Maybe they’d merely gotten off on the wrong foot.

  Foot. Hers was throbbing badly now. She lowered herself to the floor and stretched across the counter for the pain pills, swallowing one with a tiny sip of water. She tried to pace herself—the pills packed a wallop—but she needed one now. She knew she should elevate the foot, but she stood at the back door for a few minutes staring out. What she could see of the water was beautiful, with enough roll to froth the waves a few hundred yards from the shore. She wanted to climb to the deck, but it would be a while before she could do that. Instead, she opened the door wide to the gentle roar of the surf and smell of the fresh salt air on the breeze. They surrounded her, and she could feel the tension of the last few days ebb away. Or maybe the codeine kicked in.

  She leaned against the doorframe. She’d thought it might be Marc on the phone. She hadn’t heard from him since Sheryl slammed into the house and scared the wits out of them. Was it a mistake to take the man at face value? After all, she knew nothing about him except that he didn’t kill her on the spot when he had a chance. Still, he’d done nothing to deserve the hostile treatment he received from Sheryl and Joe. She loved her old friends dearly, but they’d gotten a little out of control since they started wearing badges. They might need to have a little talk about that.

  She hobbled back to the living room, dropping on the sofa. The day was warm, probably in the seventies. Winter in Florida. In Atlanta, they’d be huddled in heavy coats and in Brussels—well, Brussels didn’t bear thinking about.

  It seemed like only a minute passed, but when she opened her eyes, the room was shrouded in shadow. She heard a knock on the door, and she realized that must have been what awakened her. She could see the outline of a man through the jalousies, one she knew very well.

  “Come in, Joe,” she called.

  She saw the doorknob wiggle. “It’s locked.”

  “Come around back. That one’s open.”

  A moment later, Joe came through the back door juggling two bags and a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. “It’s open? You left the door open?”

  “Don’t give me grief, Joe. It was broad daylight when I opened it. I must have fallen asleep. Nobody came in and murdered me. End of subject.” Her eyes fastened on the chicken bucket, and she realized she was starving. Her cucumber hadn’t stayed with her. “I hope that’s for me,” she said, switching on a lamp as he went into the kitchen.

  He stuck his head around the corner. “For us. I got plenty. I didn’t figure you’d be cooking any fancy meals for a while.” He nodded toward her foot propped up on the coffee table. “How is it?”

  “Better. Still sore,” she said. “I took a pill a little while ago.”

  His head disappeared back around the corner. Allie heard the rattle of plates and silverware and caught the rich, greasy smell of fried chicken. As her mouth began salivating, she heard another knock at the front door.

  “I’ll get it,” Joe said before she could move. He crossed to the door and swung it open. Sheryl stood on the threshold, a bag in each hand.

  She stared at Joe. “What are you doing here?”

  Joe stepped back. “I brought Allie some dinner. What are you doing here?”

  Sheryl held up her two bags, her face expressionless, but Allie could feel the force of her thoughts from clear across the room.

  “Come on in, Sheryl,” she said, pushing to her feet. “Isn’t this great? Just like old times. The three musketeers. We can share.” She knew her voice sounded forced, but she also knew she had to fix this. “What did you bring?”

  Joe and Sheryl were still staring at each other. Finally, Sheryl pulled her gaze away. “Chinese.”

  “I love Chinese,” Allie said.

  “I probably should go,” Sheryl said.

  “You probably should stay.” Allie hopped over and took the bags from her. “I want you to stay, as a personal favor to me. I can’t stand being cooped up here alone. This will be the first time the three of us have been together since I got back. You’re always either working or…” She looked from Sheryl to Joe. “How’d you both get off at the same time? Who’s protecting the Brevard County residents?”

  That got a smile from Sheryl. “A few other guys are on patrol duty.” She watched Allie trying to balance with a bag in each hand. “Give me those,” she said, taking them. “You go sit.” She punched Joe on the arm. “Come help me in the kitchen.” Joe hesitated a moment before complying. Allie could hear them in the kitchen teasing each other, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  Sheryl fed and walked Spook while Joe finished putting their dinner together. When the chicken was reduced to bare bones and the Chinese food a memory, the three of them seemed almost back on track. Joe put on music—an old Benny Goodman album of her aunt’s—and Sheryl coaxed him into dancing with her. They were terrible, and Allie laughed so hard, she thought she would wet her pants. Finally, breathless, they collapsed on either side of her.

  Sheryl motioned toward the photo albums on the coffee table. “Any pictures of us in those?” she asked.

  Allie handed each one an album. “See what you can find.”

  In seconds, they were lost in memories. Allie had an older album, the pages yellowed and splitting with age, the photos held in place with little triangle-shaped corners. She flipped a page. One picture caught her attention—a group of people at what appeared to be some kind of ribbon-cutting ceremony. Her aunt stood in the background with a bunch of others. Allie peered closer. Maybe it was the angle of the sun, but she appeared radiant. Young and carefree and—well—beautiful.

  In the forefront stood a group of official-looking people—a woman in a wide-brimmed hat holding a huge pair of scissors, whispering to someone who appeared to be her boyfriend. Off to one side was a man in uniform. Staunch, black-haired, and lean, he looked somewhat familiar.

  “Hey, Joe, is this the sheriff?” Joe leaned over to look. She felt him stiffen and thought he went pale under his tan.

  Sheryl leaned in from the other side. “Yeah, it looks like him.”

  “Who are all those people with him?”

  Joe’s mouth turned down. “Local hotshots,” he said shortly, closing the album he held and dropping it to the floor beside the sofa. It was as if he morphed into someone else in an instant. Allie could feel the tension coming off him.

  “Can I borrow that?” he asked, motioning toward the photo, his casual tone at odds with his manner.
/>   “Sure,” she said. “What do you want with it?”

  He reached into the album and pulled out the photo. “I want to show the sheriff. He stuck it in his shirt pocket. His mouth grim and his shoulders rigid, he got to his feet. “Guess I’d better head out.”

  Sheryl stood. “Me too. Early shift tomorrow.”

  Joe didn’t spare her a glance, and Allie only got half of one. “Night,” he said, letting himself out.

  “What’s with him?” Sheryl asked, staring at the empty doorway.

  Allie shook her head. “I don’t have a clue. Something about the picture upset him.” There were no similar pictures around it that might tell her what he’d seen. She should have paid more attention before she let him take it. Maybe her aunt had the negative around here somewhere. She made a mental note to search the boxes in the top of the guestroom closet first chance she got.

  *

  Allie had swept up the glass and then opened and closed her aunt’s closet door a couple of times, sort of a test to see if she could do it. She couldn’t. Not yet. She didn’t feel like taking a nap or cleaning the house, but she needed to do something. She pulled on shorts and a T-shirt and plopped down on a chair outside, feeling bored and sulky. The mood lasted until Marc rounded the house. He wore cut-off jeans and a pale blue shirt, his feet clad in sneakers without socks. With his nearly white hair and deep tan, he looked the perfect advertisement for Ron Jon’s Surf Shop—tall, sun-bronzed, and athletic. Allie squashed down the spurt of excitement she felt and raised her hand in a wave. “Hi, there.”

  “Hi, yourself,” he said, stepping over the rail that separated the patio from the dunes. “You’re looking like you feel a lot better.” He smelled like soap, sun, and clean cotton and radiated masculinity.

  “I feel great.” She lowered her foot, so he could sit down.

  He picked it up and examined the bandage.

  “How’s it looking, doc?”

  He grinned. “I wouldn’t try a footrace anytime soon, but the swelling’s down.” He lowered it back to the patio. “I see you survived the invasion last night.”