She turned on the heel of her well-worn boot, and scooted out the door, leaving only the scent of her perfume behind.
Willow left the confines of the ladies’ room, and headed toward Rockford, who was still perched on his stool. The two men near him were still arm wrestling, swigging on drinks between each bout, and looking wilder by the minute. Soon it would be a contest to see who could remain on the stool longer. Rockford watched them curiously, amazed.
She had almost reached his side, when the burly, bearded man who had objected to Rockford’s erratic dancing stepped directly into her way.
Well over six feet in height, and topping the scale at close to three hundred pounds, he was definitely a presence. Having seen him on the dance floor, she knew he was surprisingly light and coordinated on his feet for such a giant guy.
“Been looking for you, Blondie. How about dancing next to a real man?’’ He shrugged over his shoulder toward Rockford insultingly.
“That’s okay, I’m done dancing for now. He’s not so bad; he just needs dance lessons.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Rockford grimace.
“Come on, baby, let’s take a turn.” Another slow song was playing, and that would mean dancing close again, and Willow didn’t think she could handle it. Intimacy was tough, but with strangers like this, it was simply unbearable. He was running his hand up her arm, playing with the fringe on her jacket.
She pulled her arm away. “Listen, I said no. I’m getting ready to leave. Thanks anyway.”
He grabbed her arm as she tried to step around him. “Not so fast, little lady. Didn’t your daddy teach you manners?’’
She spun on her heel and faced him, her face showing rage. Rockford jumped to his feet, rushing toward her.
Willow stood her ground. “My daddy taught me that men like you and him are the scum of the earth. Now let go of my arm before I have to hurt you.”
He put back his head and laughed out loud, still holding her arm in his tight grip.
Willow didn’t hesitate. She pulled back her right arm and threw a punch at his face, catching him right below the eye. He yelped in pain and lessened his grip, and she broke away, right into Rockford’s arm. He spun her around, pushing her toward the door. A crowd had started to gather.
It didn’t take long for the bearded bully to catch his breath. He reached out and caught Rockford by the collar of his jacket.
Rockford turned and faced the drunk man. He could clearly see the spot where Willow’s punch had landed. The guy was going to have a shiner. Rockford smiled.
“What are you smiling at, you cow pile? You oughtta teach that woman some manners. Nobody hits me and gets away with it.” The burly man pulled back his arm, ready to pulverize his prey. Rockford’s reflexes went into action.
He might not know how to dance, and he might currently be out of shape a bit. But he and Peter hadn’t played college soccer for nothing, and when push came to shove, he knew he had a great outside kick.
As the big fist came toward him, he ducked and pulled his leg back. He delivered a blow right at the bully’s knee, and he crumpled into a pile on the floor.
Instantly, he headed for the door, but the two arm wrestlers had miraculously stood up from their stools and blocked his path. Each put a hand on his shoulders, and he had a feeling that his minutes of comfort were over.
He looked from one angry face to another.
“You kicked our buddy, mister.” The tension in the air was thick.
All of a sudden, Willow was at his elbow, smiling gaily.
“He sure did, and you should thank him. That guy is no friend of yours. That bully was just telling me that you two must really like each other, since you were sitting their holding hands all night. Now that’s an insult. But I told him I didn’t believe it.”
She gave the two men a perky smile. They evaluated her words though their haze of alcohol.
“He’s insulting our manhood, and you stood up for us. Thanks, man.” The clamped hands released, patting Rockford’s shoulders. “We’ll take care of him.”
Willow grabbed Rockford’s arm, and pulled him out the door, while havoc broke loose in the bar behind them. You could hardly hear the band over the din.
They gulped in the fresh air as they ran across the parking lot, and sped off into the night.
“Well, is that what you call an adventure? In my book, that was a big failure,” Rockford remarked as they sped down the highway.
“Not really. I talked to a woman who knew Charley Morse. But she wouldn’t talk about him. We’ll have to make a new plan.”
They rode in silence, totally unaware of the conversation that was going on in the dark corner of the bar they had just left.
“Who were those two troublemakers?” the man who sat in shadows said.
“Her name is Willa,” said the blond man with scraggy hair. “I tried to dance with her, but she just kept talking.”
“What did she talk about?”
“She just wanted to know if I was a real cowboy. If I knew friends of hers who had horses, named Burdett or something. Then she ran off to the bathroom.”
“Who else did she talk to?”
“They weren’t here that long. The guy can’t dance to save his life. She came out of the bathroom with Carla. Maybe she talked to her.”
“Get her. Quick.”
Carla came, her face dark and worried. She answered his questions.
“She didn’t say where she was from. Said she wanted to try a new dance place. Said her guy’s name was Rocky. Then she asked about you.”
The man’s face froze. “What did you say?”
Carla’s heart started to hammer. “Nothing. Nothing,” she lied. “I told her I never heard of any Charley Morse. That’s all.”
He dismissed her. He turned to the man on his right. “Find out who they are, and why they came here. We can’t afford to have them ruin things at this date.”
He stood to go, and people started scurrying to do his bidding.
“This time tomorrow, I want answers, or else. Understood?”
Several heads nodded. He’d get the answers he wanted, no matter what.
Chapter Eleven
Willow arrived at the office early the next morning. Even at the early hour, the heat of the sun was promising a warm summer day. Spring would soon be a memory. She threw herself into her work, coffee mug in hand. At 2:00 P.M. she had a date with the elusive Mr. Porter Blank, and she planned to do a lot of work before then.
Gail arrived, with a smile, to tackle the phones, which began to ring promptly at 8:30. It was the busy time of year in the world of real estate. Clients who were thinking of selling were calling for property appraisals. Buyers were eagerly seeking information on offerings that they had seen in newspaper ads, or on properties they had seen with sale signs strategically placed in front yards.
Mildred had entered the door shortly after Gail, quietly perching at her desk and getting right to work. The receptionist forwarded calls to Willow and Mildred alternately, and a very workable flow developed.
The mailman plopped a stack of letters on Gail’s desk midmorning, which Willow sifted through quickly. Disappointingly, the stack contained necessary but unexciting mail, and not the miracle she had been hoping for—a letter or card from the Burdetts, saying they were all right.
The phones had stilled for a minute, and in the lull, Willow spoke.
“We make a pretty good team here,” she said to Gail and Mildred. “I’ve got four appointments for listings, and three families who want to see properties. If this keeps up, Mr. Reynolds is going to be able to retire!”
Mildred laughed. “He’s going to be thrilled when he gets home next week. I think I’ve got a buyer for that Northway house, full price and a quick close. And several appointments for listings, too. Our ads are really doing well. You have quite good timing on the telephone, Gail. I don’t know what we would do without you right now.”
Gail blushed,
glad to be appreciated. “Thanks. I love it here. You guys are great to work with, and the customers are nice . . . except for that charming Mr. Morse the other day, I might add.”
“Listen, Gail,” Willow said seriously. “If that man ever calls again, do everything you can to get a telephone number, address, anything. I’d do just about anything to make sure the Burdetts are okay.”
Gail nodded, as the phones began to ring again.
The bar was dark, even though the sun blazed brightly outside. Only one or two customers at a time graced the bar. An older guy in white pants, T-shirt, and apron swept the floor, laboriously moving chairs and small round tables, collecting the trash and debris from the busy night before.
Dancin’ Joe’s was almost silent during the day. An aged jukebox stood in the corner, occasionally playing a country tune, but the volume was turned down low, and the music was just a hint of sound in the air.
Back in the corner, underneath the beam of a dangling overhead light constructed from a wagon wheel, two men sat huddled over a small table. Body language said it all—one was angry, and one was scared.
“The car was a rental, Mr. Morse. It’s been out for several weeks now.”
“So who’s leasing the stupid car, brainless? Did you think getting that information would tell us what we need to know? Go look at the lease.”
The thin blond man swallowed hard. “But I did, sir. I got the name. But it didn’t give me any answers.” He winced as he finished his words, as if he expected a blow to come. There was only silence.
“The name?” The angry man was barely controlling his rage.
“It’s a nun, sir. Sister George from St. Francis Parish. A nun rented the car, but that blond was no nun.”
A quizzical look replaced the anger on the older man’s face. “How do you like that? They were driving a sister’s car. Gotta be a reason for that. Go ask at St. Francis. Find this Sister George. And find that blond. That nervy broad is no nun. A looker like that can’t hide in a town this size. What was her name again?’’
“Willa. Carla said she said her name was Willa.”
“Willa. Willa.” His beady eyes showed he was thinking. “Nervy Willa.” His eyes became like slits. “I know one nervy broad in this town. I wonder . . .”
He shot some orders at the young man, who was relieved to be off the hook temporarily, and given another job. The blond sped out the door, his worn boots punching the wooden floor as he left.
A phone call came in less than twenty minutes later. The young man had followed orders, and his hunch had proven right. He had sent the young cowboy to scope out Reynolds Realty in town, and to call and describe the only nervy broad he knew in Ryerstown—Willow Blake. Tall and blond and gorgeous, he had reported. And nervy.
He had picked the realtor at random, basically because her office was directly across the street from old Porter. She only had to file papers, and collect a huge commission. What greedy realtor in the world wouldn’t flip for a deal like that? He had picked her, but he had picked wrong.
Why had the long-legged blond showed up at Dancin’ Joe’s, asking about him, and giving a phony name? She smelled something wrong with the deal, and he had far too much at stake to risk any problems. How had she found him at Dancin’ Joe’s? And why? Low profile was his strong point. The people he worked for hired him on the strength of it.
A feeling of nervousness found its way to the pit of his stomach, boring a hole in him, like a bug in a rotted tree. He had to do some thinking about this Willow/Willa broad. This whole deal hinged on timing. He needed a day or two, that was all, but it was crucial. He couldn’t afford to make a stink, not when he was halfway through the plan. He’d have to find a way to deter her, without making trouble. Darn blonds, anyway. They were always more trouble than they were worth.
How about the guy who was with her? He had two left feet, and drove a nun’s car. Not much to go on. The stomach was rumbling now. He tossed the feeling away with a long swig of Scotch. Charley Morse had a problem, but he’d handle it without getting the top brass upset. He had to. Problem solvers were supposed to solve problems, not make them.
Another swig of Scotch chased the first down his throat. He started to feel better, watching the old man sweep the floor in front of him, cleaning up problems.
Willow was on time for her scheduled appointment with Porter Blank at 2:00 in the afternoon, wearing a beige linen suit, with heels, the real estate portfolio tucked efficiently under her arm. Prudence greeted her at the entryway, escorting her to Mr. Porter’s office. There was no sign of Rockford.
“Ah, Ms. Blake, come in.” The man who rose from an immense cherry wood desk was smiling. She judged him in an instant. He was approximately fifty, in fairly good shape but with a slight paunch, hair graying around the temples to give him a seasoned look. His suit was expensive; his shoes were hidden behind the desk. She focused on his eyes.
His face might be smiling, but his eyes were troubled. Whoever had coined the phrase “the eyes are the windows of the soul” had said a mouthful. If she was looking into the soul of Mr. Porter, there was a storm a-brewing. The man was under stress.
“It’s great to finally meet you, sir,” she said politely, extending her hand. His handshake was too gentle, his skin moist and clammy. “I have received real estate papers about the ten-acre Burdett property, listing you as power of attorney. It’s a rather unorthodox deal.”
“Is there something not in order? Did you have questions?”
His eyes were darting now, reminding her of a frog before it zaps a fly. She had no intention of being zapped.
“I have a bookful of questions. You see, I happen to know that the Burdetts were very much against selling. Suddenly, these papers appear, and the Burdetts disappear. I wanted to understand what took place.”
“People change their minds, Ms. Blake. The buyer offered an amazing sum of money. The Burdetts sold. They’ve probably taken off to celebrate their good fortune. I’m sure I don’t know why you are making such a big deal about this.”
“The police have located their truck. They also consider the Burdetts missing.”
“The truck was probably left behind when they left, and stolen from the empty property. Certainly unfortunate, but certainly a sign of our uneasy times. Again, I assure you, the real estate deal is proper and settled and was accepted by all parties involved.”
She started to speak, but the well-modulated voice of the lawyer continued. “The title search has been completed, fees paid, the proper documents signed and countersigned. All that is needed is for you to sign the said documents and deliver them to the courthouse, then make out a bill for your services and fee. I will pay you immediately.” He held up his hand when she attempted to speak again.
“Please, Ms. Blake. I can see that you are concerned about the Burdetts, but I simply do not have time to make a federal case out of a simple real estate transaction. I assure you that I will contact you immediately when I hear from the couple, to allay your worries. But as far as I am concerned, the deal is completed, and Mr. Morse is the owner of the farm.” He stood, and offered his weak handshake again.
Willow was fuming. She kept her hands at her side as she stood and looked at him.
“The papers may be in order, Mr. Blank. But the people are not in order. You may consider this deal finished, but I disagree. Mr. Morse may take possession of the farm, but I won’t go away. I’m not going to drop this until I see for myself that the Burdetts are all right.”
She turned on her heel and stomped into the hallway, where Prudence was sitting at her desk. She fought back the tears that threatened to take up residence in her eyes. She would not cry. She would not give up. “Is Mr. Harrison here, Prudence?” she asked.
“Do you have an appointment?” Prudence began, but then she saw the ferocious look in Willow’s eyes. “Well, um, he’s not here today. He had some personal matters to take care of. Would you care to leave a message?”
Willow took t
he offered notepad and left a message. “Deterred but not defeated. Call me. Willow.” Prudence looked at the words, and soundlessly put the note into Rockford’s message slot, watching the determined blond stomp out the door. Young women were certainly different today. Strong-minded. Self-sufficient. Suddenly Prudence smiled sadly. She wished that she could will away twenty years from her age, to live like today’s young women.
But then the phone rang, its muted sound cutting into her thought. “Law offices. Can I help you . . . I see. Do you have an appointment?” She grimaced at herself, efficiently putting the client’s time in the book, as the phone rang again.
Rockford was exhausted. He had spent the better part of the day at the bank, in the company of the indefatigable Sister George. By the time the paper shuffling was done, the little manipulator had relieved him of sixty thousand dollars, and he was a proud trustee of the new Ryerstown AIDS Support Fund. How the number had leaped up to the extra ten thousand dollars, he had no idea, except that he had learned from past experience with the inimitable Georgina Harrison that she usually got what she wanted.
And it did make him feel good, helping someone. Peter used to harp on him about that. Peter would be proud. Heck, he was proud himself. But he was tired. After leaving the bank, he had gone home and slipped into sweats, forcing himself to take a long, hard jog. He felt an unfamiliar wave of restlessness flowing over him, making him unsettled and tense.
Several miles later, he felt calmer, but drained.
Back at the apartment, he had called the office, and had received Willow’s message. Back in his “official clothes,” he climbed back into the rental car and drove into town to see Willow. The closer he got to the real estate office, the better he felt. He felt a pull to Willow that he couldn’t understand. There was absolutely nothing calming or gentle about the woman, but he was driven to her by a force he couldn’t identify.
He saw her the moment he walked in the door. There was a yellow pencil stuck behind one ear, and a phone was plastered to the other. The remains of a fast-food lunch were spread across her desk.
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