Finding Mary Blaine

by Jodi Thomas

  “Someone wants you dead.” Miller stated the obvious.

  “What about Parker?”

  “If we assume the clinic guard’s death wasn’t an accident, I’d say Parker just got in his way. He put the killer in danger. Made him feel threatened.” Miller steepled his fingers. “Which might be a way to draw him out.”

  “Got any ideas?”

  “None that aren’t risky.”

  Miller walked to the porch railing in front of Blaine. He folded his arms and added, “You could still go to the police.”

  “No.” She put her head in her hands. “I wish I could corner the thin guy and hold him for the police. Then they’d have to believe me. Otherwise, all I’ve got is a description of a shadow.”

  Blaine rested her hand on Miller’s arm. “We have to find him.”

  Miller shook his head. “Not me.”

  “But you helped me. You saved me.”

  “That was different. You didn’t give me much choice. When you were running from the bomber, you ordered me to help you. There wasn’t no asking about it. The other night it was either bring you to the doc or have you bleed all over the street.”

  “How can I find him, then? With or without you, I’ve got to try. It won’t be safe for me to go home until I do.”

  Miller took a long breath. “You’re not giving me much choice again, are you, pest?”

  “No.” Blaine smiled. “I need you.” She didn’t give him time to think about what he might be getting into. “Where do we start?”

  “Did he recognize you that morning at the shelter?”

  “I think he thought I looked familiar.” She didn’t want to think about risking her life, but she had to try to stop this. She had been in an insane world since the morning of the bombing. Only the gray-eyed man could end this. “He knew I was staring at him.”

  “It’s been more than a week since he saw you at the shelter.” Miller added in almost a whisper, “If you remember his eyes, maybe he remembers yours.”

  “Possible, but unlikely.”

  Miller rocked in his chair. “He’s not roaming the streets or someone would have noticed him. I’ve asked around and all I’ve got is a few maybes. Sounds more like he’s holed up somewhere waiting for you to reappear.”

  “Which I would have done if I hadn’t overslept.”

  Miller nodded. “We’re lucky he’s no better with a gun than he is with dynamite. You’re right about one thing. The shooting was no coincidence. He knew you were planning to be there.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “You’d better hope you see him first.”

  Silence crystallized between them. The sounds of the city drifted on the warm air. Cars, voices, music and the drone of air conditioners.

  “You’re saying I have to find him before he finds me.” Blaine’s voice blended in with the sounds of the night.

  Reality corroded her will to end the charade she played. She no longer risked just her life and maybe Mark’s. She risked her unborn child’s. Part of her wanted to stay here in the safety of the doctor’s house and be the meek little coward her mother always thought her to be.

  Blaine touched her abdomen. Looking for the bomber might jeopardize the one thing she loved more than her own life—this baby that grew inside her.

  She had to help, but she also had to be very, very careful.

  “He’s still on the streets,” Miller reasoned. “I saw him twice, but he cuts wide around me. If I were guessing, I’m thinking he’s figuring about now that he’s invincible.”

  Blaine pulled her chair closer. “You sound like you know him.”

  Miller laughed. “At one point I spent a great deal of time learning how to read men like him. He’s a coward to the core. My guess is he’s doing this for money, or maybe as a favor owed. His heart’s not in the killing, otherwise he would have stepped in close with a knife or shot point-blank to kill you.”

  “So, he’s just doing Winslow’s dirty work?” Blaine guessed.

  “You got to ask yourself why a rich man like Harry Winslow wants you dead and is willing to pay, or call in a big favor to get the job done. He doesn’t want his hands dirty on this, plus maybe he thinks the trail can’t get back to him.”

  Blaine fought back tears. She didn’t want to think about this. All she wanted was to go home to Mark, to tell him about the baby and beg him to still love her. He was a good man. Even if he didn’t want children at this time in his life, he’d do the right thing by her.

  “I wish—” she formed her thoughts into words “—I wish I could stand on a street corner and watch everyone in Austin walk by. I’d pick him out and scream at the top of my lungs. Then the police would arrest him and I’d be free to go home.” A single tear rolled down her cheek. “I’m so tired of being afraid.”

  Miller pulled her from the chair and wrapped her in a big bear hug. It wasn’t warm, or particularly friendly, but she knew he made a great sacrifice by holding another so close. He didn’t say anything. After a few seconds, he sat her back down and straightened, looking proud of himself.

  Blaine smiled. Sometimes Miller was a five-year-old inside a man of sixty. A six-foot dwarf named Grumpy. It crossed her mind that maybe Grumpy should have had his own story.

  She shoved the thought away and concentrated on her problem. “Maybe we could go to this Detective Randell and tell him my plan?”

  “Might work.” Miller didn’t sound encouraging. “If Randell can keep it quiet. Cops, even if they don’t talk, they have a mountain of paperwork to fill out. If Winslow has a friend at the station, he might overhear conversations or read Randell’s report.”

  “Then how?”

  Miller shrugged. “My folks had a café not far from here. You wouldn’t believe what we overheard. People don’t seem to think someone waiting on the table has ears. Most folks can’t describe the waitress or waiter the minute they walk out of a restaurant. How many times have you seen someone who has finished eating and, trying to get their bill, stops everyone who passes and says, ‘Are you my waitress?’”

  Blaine couldn’t argue. She’d seen Mark do just that a hundred times. “So, I need to stand on the corner dressed as a waitress until the bomber passes.”

  Miller stood. “Sounds like a plan to me, pest. We’ll talk more tomorrow. Sit tight until I get back.”

  He walked off as if he was in a hurry to meet someone.

  Blaine leaned back in the rocker. A huge puzzle spread before her and all she had to do was make the pieces fit together. She had to get home. She had to protect herself and the baby. She felt as if she had been living in the asylum so long the inmates were starting to make sense.

  “Mark,” she whispered, wanting him near more than she’d ever wanted him in her life. Closing her eyes, Blaine pretended they were in the still darkness of a movie theater. It didn’t matter what movie they watched, she and Mark just loved going. If it stunk, he’d start to make fun of the actors, repeating whatever they said. If it was romantic, he’d always reach for her hand. And if it was sad, she’d start to cry and he’d throw popcorn at her, then swear so earnestly that it hadn’t been him, she’d have to laugh.

  As tears rolled down her cheeks, Blaine wished he could toss popcorn at her now. The sadness inside her drowned her heart.

  The thought of going back to the streets made her chest tighten. For a while, she’d been safe. Here, she’d healed, but the problem wouldn’t go away. She had to do something, no matter the danger.

  She went inside, finished the warm muffin and curled into her tiny couch bed. As she fell asleep, Blaine pretended Mark’s arms were wrapped around her.

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-four hours after Blaine confessed everything to Miller, he stood on the porch waiting for her to come out after dinner. She’d read every line in the Statesman looking for any news about the drive-by shooting. She found an article on the third page that said the police were inundated with call-in leads and were checking out each one as quickl
y as possible. All three people taken to the hospital had been released, but none were able to identify more than the color of the car.

  “’Evenin’, pest,” Miller said without turning around to make sure Blaine stood behind him.

  She sat down in the chair next to him. “I have to leave here. I’m getting fatter by the day.”

  He grunted. “You needed some meat on your bones.”

  “Thanks for the compliment.” Blaine couldn’t remember when someone had thought she looked better with a few extra pounds. Sometimes it seemed as if she’d been hungry all her life. Staying thin had crossed her mind each time she ate. But not now. Now, with the baby, she had a “get out of diets” free card and she took advantage of it.

  “I think Mrs. B. has adopted me as her own because she’s started organizing my life like I’m one of her children.”

  Miller fought to keep from laughing. “I like Mrs. Bailey. You never have to wonder what she’s thinking.”

  “That’s true. But I don’t think ‘finding me a working man before I get too fat to attract someone making more than minimum wage’ is particularly good advice.”

  Miller rubbed his chin as if giving Mrs. Bailey’s plan some thought.

  Blaine leaned over and poked him.

  “Seriously.” Blaine lowered her voice. “I’m feeling better. I’m up for anything you can think of that might help us catch this killer.”

  “The doc could use you here. I can look for the thin man.”

  Blaine didn’t pretend. “I know I’m helping. He told me I’ve made his past few days happy—loving books as much as he does—but I can do both.”

  “You probably can.” Miller frowned. “But whatever we do, you have to promise me you’ll come back here if needed. I don’t want him to die alone. Mrs. B. and I will be close, but it’s not the same. You’re his kind of people. You understand him. I could see that in you from the first.”

  He didn’t have to say more. They both knew Dr. Early grew weaker each day. Last night Blaine had had to help him up the stairs. “He wants to die at home,” she whispered.

  “He’s got the right.”

  Blaine silently agreed. “I’ll stay a little while longer.” She couldn’t bring herself to add, “Until the end.” Part of her wanted to run from watching him growing weaker, but she’d done enough running lately.

  “I’ve thought of a way you can help spot the bomber.” Miller rocked back in his chair. “If we’re careful.”

  Blaine had been through every possible plan. “How?”

  “Standing downtown, being invisible, until you see him. Then we can catch him and you can go home to that husband named…”

  “Mark,” Blaine said, irritated that he thought her problem was that simple. Didn’t he see she was doing the best she could? He acted as if all she had to do was pick up a bullhorn and start preaching on some corner and the bomber would pass by, repent, and turn himself in.

  Before she could think of an answer, he added, “If I come up with a way, would you be interested?”

  She answered slowly, “Yes.”

  “Then, walk with me.”

  He stood and started down the steps. Blaine followed. The night lingered, still hot from the day. Walking behind the big man she felt strange wearing her now too-tight jogging pants and one of Mrs. Bailey’s daughter’s shirts that no one but a drunken Hawaiian tourist would buy.

  They crossed down streets lined with old homes, many remodeled into law offices and other small businesses. Commerce weaved like a root through what had once been a residential area, spreading from the lights of the capitol in all directions.

  When Miller stopped at a corner for traffic, Blaine caught up to him and circled her arm around his. “Could you slow down a bit?”

  “Afraid you might walk off a muffin?”

  Blaine lifted her head. “No, I was thinking more how you’re getting older and might lose your balance if I don’t hang on to you.”

  He opened his mouth to object, then frowned. “I’d hate to stumble and have to depend on you carrying me back.”

  She patted his arm. “Then I’d better hang on to you.”

  She couldn’t help but wonder how many years it had been since anyone had teased Miller about anything. He might grumble, but she felt he loved it.

  Evening settled over the streets, blending the light between day and night, stretching it out so people could enjoy it. Even though she’d grown up seeing the capitol, it still took her breath away. The history of Texas hung so thick here folks could taste it in the air.

  Miller slowed as he crossed to the row of businesses lining Congress. When they reached the abandoned store where Shakespeare usually stood, he stopped.

  The old drunk shuffled forward, already long into drink. “A pleasure to see you, fair lady,” he mumbled. “‘The dying light doth mellow sorrow o’er the land.’”

  “Thank you for helping me the other night,” Blaine said, though he’d done little. He’d tried to catch her as she fell, but he barely had the strength to keep himself from falling.

  Blaine suddenly remembered something. “Someone followed me in the rain that night. I remember seeing a man behind me when I glanced back.”

  Shakespeare shook his head, but Miller said, “I saw him too. He moved toward you as if he’d followed you from the bus stop.”

  Shakespeare scratched the top of his head, sending hair flying. “Now that I think of it, a man was just behind you, Mary. He backed away when Miller stormed forward.”

  “Did he have a beard?” Miller stepped over a pile of trash.

  Shakespeare shrugged.

  “I didn’t get a good look,” Miller glanced at Blaine. “I had to get you to the doc. If it was the man with the cap, he was closing in for a better look. But the shadow seemed taller than the man I delayed at the shelter that morning.”

  As Miller talked he moved down the few steps to the walkway leading to the door of the abandoned business.

  Blaine followed more to get out of range of Shakespeare’s breath than for any other reason.

  Long windows lined the building forming one wall of the entrance passageway. The other side of the walkway looked to be a solid brick wall painted over many times, with the peeling paint scattered like confetti along the brick path.

  Blaine followed Miller while Shakespeare followed her into the tunnel-like darkness leading to the door.

  To her surprise, Miller pulled a key from his pocket and opened the door. “This was my folks’ place,” he said without turning around. “They came to Austin after the First World War. Planned to open a chain of cafés across the West. Started here and never moved on.” He reached inside and flipped on a light. “They must have loved this place, they never even took a vacation.”

  Blaine stepped into a small-town café from the fifties. Despite a layer of dust, everything remained in place. The furnishings were plain wooden tables, iron chairs, a long mahogany bar in front of a pass-through window that must lead to a kitchen area.

  Little individual table lights were mounted along one wall, each giving a glow to the tables. The floors were brick, with paths worn smooth, and the huge ceiling fans threw shadows across the room. She saw how someone could settle here and never leave. The place was beautiful in its simplicity.

  Miller watched her as she walked around. “I checked the kitchen,” he said. “Everything works. The water and gas are on.”

  Blaine glanced at Shakespeare. The old man watched from the doorway as though afraid to come in. He looked haunted by ghosts of his own without going looking for more.

  “I bought new coffeemakers and dishes. Other than that all we need is a good scrubbing and we could open the place.”

  “Are you suggesting…” Blaine couldn’t even voice the words.

  Miller nodded. “That you stand on a street corner in a waitress uniform and watch for the bomber?”

  She understood.

  He raised one bushy eyebrow. “Are you up for it, Mary B
laine?”

  “Keep talking,” she answered.

  “At first I thought we could sell pizza, but every other café around here does that. The big chains have doughnuts and subs. I can only think of one thing not for sale along this street.”

  Shakespeare swore and stumbled backward.

  Blaine watched him dart into the shadows a moment before Mrs. Bailey clomped down the passageway to the front door. She barged in, followed by a younger version of herself.

  Tuesday was attired totally in purple—from her tennis shoes to her round glasses with tinted violet lenses.

  Blaine smiled, thinking that even the girl’s mood reflected her color choice.

  “What was so important, Luke Miller, that I had to drag Tuesday away from her TV?” Mrs. B. looked tired and frustrated.

  Miller frowned with this invasion of his space but he answered, “I wanted to offer your daughter a job.”

  The older woman brightened and marched forward. “Well, that’s a different story entirely. She’s been telling me for months that if she had a job, a friend would split expenses on an apartment. I would welcome having to do only my own laundry and being able to go to sleep now and then without Letterman talking in the next room.”

  Tuesday glanced around the dusty room. “I’m not cleaning this place,” she mumbled. “I didn’t go to college for a year to clean up old buildings.”

  Mrs. B. opened her mouth to begin a lecture, but Miller cut her off. “I need a cook. Someone who can make muffins.”

  He turned back to Blaine. “I thought we could call the place Midnight Muffins and be open every evening. We might even serve a few of the homeless folks free as the night wears on. There is no telling who you might see walk in that door.”

  Tuesday maneuvered closer, dusting one tabletop with her hip. “I can cook.” Her voice sweetened so much it no longer seemed to belong to her. She lowered her glasses to the tip of her nose. “How much does it pay?”

  Miller didn’t take his gaze from Blaine. There was much more he wasn’t saying in front of the Baileys.

  “It could be dangerous,” Blaine whispered.