Whisper a Warning

by Christine Bush

  Willow felt herself pale. She knew, too, what the information would do to Rockford. She felt a flash of fear for the Burdetts, if such a ruthless man were involved in their disappearance. She swallowed hard.

  “We have to tell the police, George. You simply can’t meet this guy. If it’s a trap to get to Rockford, you have to avoid it. We need help here.”

  The little nun nodded. “I’ll do anything to protect my brother, Willow.”

  “I’ll call the detective, George. Just sit tight. And keep an eye on Rockford. Just promise me you won’t go near that diner.”

  “Okay. I’m supposed to go to a meeting for the senior citizens in the parish,” she said softly, as Willow walked her to the door. “It’s so strange to do something so normal when there’s so much at stake.”

  “That’s how life is, isn’t it?” Suddenly she had an idea. “But we can jazz up normal just a bit.” She took the keys to the gray rental out of George’s hands, exchanging them for the keys she had fished out of her pocket. “Take the Miata. Put the top down. Take the seniors for a ride!”

  George laughed. “I’m not sure about that—think about their hairdos . . . but maybe. Would it be all right?”

  “Go for it, crazy lady.” She reached in and put down the hood of the car.

  George climbed in excitedly. “Now this is really cool.”

  “Goes right with you, Georgina Harrison. Have fun. And don’t worry too much.”

  Georgina pulled away from the curb with a squeal of the tires. “Thanks,” she yelled, waving over her head as she moved down the street.

  Willow stood watching her, worrying enough for the both of them. She spun on her heel and went back into the office to call the police.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Detective Dunn was out of the office. Willow left him a message, asking him to call as soon as he could. Her second call was to Rockford, who she found out was closeted in a meeting. She left him a message, too.

  The afternoon dragged by, with Willow doing her never-ending paperwork, and talking to real estate clients on the telephone. There was no word from the detective or Rockford, and by 3:30, Willow’s nerves were stretched taut.

  The unknown voice on the phone would be waiting at the sandwich shop at 4:00 P.M. He was an important, dangerous link to Rockford’s past. The opportunity to find out more would be lost, because Willow hadn’t been able to share the information she had heard with the police so that they could investigate.

  A few more long minutes ticked by in the office, silent now except for Mildred’s soft voice describing property on the phone. A plan hatched in Willow’s mind, and her adrenaline began to flow.

  “Mildred,” she said quietly, when her coworker hung up the receiver from her latest call, “I need you to help me with something. It’s a bit of a weird request.”

  Mildred smiled uncertainly. Willow’s requests were practically world renowned. But she listened to the plan, reacting with shock and disbelief, then with a certain kind of respect, as she heard the details.

  “I don’t know, Willow, it sounds dangerous. Shouldn’t you just wait for the police?”

  “I tried that. Detective Dunn didn’t call back. But if he does, you have my permission to fill him in. I just can’t let this opportunity go by.”

  Mildred shook her head. “I’ll look so . . . different. I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

  “It’ll be fine. Come on, help me out.”

  They put the phone lines on hold for a few minutes, and a most amazing transformation took place. In a flash, Mildred Mansfield became a flash of flowers and color, dressed in Willow’s flamboyant short-skirted suit, pink stockings and all. Her embarrassed cheeks had turned pink, to match.

  “Pretty cool, Mildred. What a change! I swear, you look ten years younger!”

  “You look a bit different yourself, Willow Blake. I hope we’re not going to regret this. I don’t think even you can pull this off. You’re not exactly the type to be a nun.”

  Willow laughed out loud and looked at herself one last time in the mirror. The gray dress with the little round collar was belted in white at the waist. It hung demurely below her knees. Mildred’s no-nonsense shoes had taken the place of the pink heels. A simple gold cross hung at her neck. On her head, she wore a large cloth napkin, folded diagonally like a scarf, and anchored behind her neck.

  “Just call me Sister, please. I hope this isn’t some kind of a sin, impersonating a nun. It’s for a good cause.”

  Mildred sighed. “Just go and get it over with, Willow. If the police call, I’ll send the detective over. Meanwhile, just be careful. And when you’re done, you can get rid of that dress.” She shuddered. “I had no idea I looked like that.”

  She smoothed the flowered skirt over her thighs.

  “Well, you look pretty good now, Millie! The suit’s yours. And when this is over, maybe we can go shopping together!”

  Mildred laughed. “If I start dressing like this, Mr. Reynolds won’t know what has gotten into me when he comes back.”

  “You’re great, Millie. Thanks a lot for helping me out.”

  Mildred’s flushed face smiled.

  There were a handful of cars in the lot at the sandwich shop. Willow parked the gray rental in an open spot and went inside, sitting quickly at a booth by the door and looking around expectantly. A waitress approached, and she ordered a cup of coffee. She sipped it slowly. In a few minutes, a man stood up from a stool at the counter and headed her way. She swallowed hard as he slipped into the booth across from her.

  “’Afternoon, Sister,” he said in a deep voice. “I’m Joe. Thanks for coming.”

  She nodded, at first not trusting her voice.

  “I got a problem with my brother,” he began, launching into a long speech about a troubled man with a penchant for drink and gambling that was taking its toll on the family.

  Willow listened, dismay replacing the fear that she had felt when she arrived. The poor man was pouring his heart out to her, and she was a fraud. She swallowed hard.

  “Sounds like he’s got his share of problems. Probably needs more help than you or I could give him. Have you spoken to a doctor about him? Gotten him any psychological support?”

  Gee, she sounded like Dear Abby.

  “Is that what I should do, Sister? Try to get some professional help for him? How about if I talk to a priest?”

  “Good idea. Good idea.” She’d relay the information to George, so at least the man wouldn’t be totally wasting his time. Guilt was a mighty powerful emotion.

  “I’ll do that.” The man made a move to get up. “By the way, Sister, that’s a nice car you’re driving. Have it long?’’ His eyes narrowed a bit at the question, and Willow’s guilt started to ebb away.

  “Not too long. Why?”

  “Just wondered. I thought I saw it somewhere before. Maybe not.” She could feel his eyes assessing her, trying to read her reaction.

  Her mind was alert now. The guilt had dissipated, and she smelled danger. George had been contacted because of the car. Her instincts, and her fears, were right. And if Marco Slergetti were involved, and he discovered that George was Rockford’s sister, she would be in big trouble.

  “Ah well, the car gets around. Lots of people borrow it. I drive it occasionally, but so do many other people. I guess you could have seen it anywhere.”

  He seemed satisfied. She couldn’t believe it, but he actually accepted her as a nun.

  She decided to change the subject. “So where do you work? It sounded like a noisy place when you called. Country music in the background.”

  His eyes narrowed again. “Nowhere special. Just a restaurant.” He shifted in his seat, not comfortable at being on the receiving end of a question.

  “Well, okay, Sister. I’ll think about getting some more help for my brother. I guess I’ve taken enough of your time.”

  He had scrambled to his feet, wasting no time in getting out the door. Willow followed thoughtfully, watch
ing him pull away in an old Volkswagen.

  Willow returned to a frantic office. Along with the normally busy real estate business, the phones had been ringing off the wall. Rockford had been calling nonstop, looking for her. George had called several times. But also, she had received several phone calls from people who were inquiring about donating to the new AIDS Fund that they had read about in the newspaper.

  Gail was busily manning the telephone, raising one eyebrow as she surveyed Willow’s sedate religious outfit. When there was a break in the line of calls, she turned to Willow with a grin. “I’m not sure what’s going on in this place, with you looking a little like Mother Theresa, and Mildred looking like a fashion queen, but as long as you answer these phone calls, I’m asking no questions!” She pushed a stack of messages toward Willow. “Mildred is out showing property with a banker who is relocating to this area. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her in those hot pink stockings. It’s a sure deal if I ever saw one!”

  “How about these donation calls? What’s the story on them?” Gail handed her the daily newspaper.

  “Check out the story on page three. You’ve done it, Willow. With a little help from that nun you’ve met, you’re going to get the help you need for the AIDS house.”

  Willow landed at her desk, opening the paper with a snap. A picture of George . . . Sister George, for once wearing her habit, graced the page in front of her. AIDS Home Trust Fund established by anonymous donor to assist local residents.

  George’s bubbly exuberance had been captured in the article, applauding the giant step that had been taken toward progress, and soliciting further contributions from the paper’s readership. Willow’s name and number were listed to call for information. Smiling, she folded the paper and put it on the corner of her desk. That was good news in an otherwise bleak day.

  She turned her attention to answering her phone messages.

  “You’re an imbecile.” The man’s low voice was hushed, deadly. The young man standing before him swallowed hard, bile rising in his throat, the taste of fear.

  He looked down at the folded newspaper that had been tossed at him. “It was a mistake, sir. Anybody could have made it.”

  “I don’t pay people to make mistakes. I don’t allow people to make mistakes.”

  “But she was a nun. She was dressed like a nun.”

  A fierce hand banged down on the newspaper. “This is the nun. This is Sister George from St. Francis’s. Whoever you met with is an imposter, you idiot. You were tricked.”

  Eyes down, the man swallowed hard, sweat rolling like a river down his back.

  “Get me what I need,” the voice continued, low and mean. “Last chance. No more mistakes. Go.”

  The dismissal was curt, to the point. He didn’t waste any time removing himself.

  Willow’s first call was to Rockford. While apologizing wasn’t high on her list of things she loved to do, she knew when it was warranted.

  “I’m sorry I got upset the other night. I’ve met your sister . . . the sister. You know what I mean. I jumped to conclusions that you were involved with somebody. . . .”

  “I’m to blame too, Willow. I should have explained about living with Georgina. It’s just that when George is involved, the situation is a little . . . complicated, so I put it off.”

  “Well, I’m glad that’s behind us. I like to be open and up-front. . . .”

  As she said the words, a tightness was growing in her stomach. Open? Up-front? After hearing Georgina and her fear of Marco Slergetti, and what his appearance could do to Rockford’s feelings of guilt and anger, the last thing she was going to do was to be open and up-front about her fears until she had figured out what was going on.

  “I’ll pick you up in a little bit and we’ll talk things out, all right?”

  She agreed, running her fingers lightly over her lips, and remembering the taste and feel of him. Answers. She’d find answers and be free to explore this new and burning desire to be with this complicated man without keeping secrets from him.

  Her next call was to Georgina. “Sister George, you look great in the newspaper. I’m so excited about the trust. Who’s the anonymous donor?”

  “Top secret. I promised. We can do a lot with that money, and more contributions are pouring in. But enough of that. . . any more news about you-know-who? I haven’t heard anything new.”

  Had she deterred the man she had met from worrying about Georgina? She certainly hoped so. She decided to tell Georgina what she had done.

  “You went and met the man?” the little nun screeched. “Dressed as a nun?”

  There was a long pause, while Willow waited for her reaction. It wasn’t what she expected. Georgina began to giggle.

  “Oh, man, I wish I could have seen that. I wish the bishop could have seen that. I wish Rockford could have.”

  “I didn’t do it for entertainment, George,” she said, trying to keep the smile out of her voice. “I wanted to see what the man was after, why he had called you. It was because of the car. They must have traced the car when we took it to Dancin’ Joe’s. I told him it was driven by a lot of people. He seemed to accept that.”

  Georgina sobered up. “We have to tell Rockford.”

  Willow knew it was true. “He’s coming here in a little while. Want to join us?” Georgina agreed.

  She plowed her way through the rest of her phone messages, a feeling of anticipation growing at the thought of seeing Rockford, and pushing away the growing feelings of fear and apprehension about Charley Morse and Marco Slergetti.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rockford walked in the door of the real estate office just as Willow received a phone call. His mind registered delight at seeing her, curiosity at the uncharacteristic look of her dress, and surprise at seeing his sister Georgina gracing the chair by her desk.

  But as he crossed the room toward her, a bell of alarm rang in his head. From a few short words on the telephone, he could feel, as well as see, Willow’s tense reaction to the call. Her expressive face froze, then displayed a kaleidoscope of emotions as she listened to the phone: anger, dismay, then fear.

  She raised her face to meet his eyes, as she deposited the phone receiver onto its cradle. He saw the pain there in her eyes, and felt the power of her need. He automatically lifted her from her chair, pulling her into his strong arms.

  “What is it? What’s happened?”

  Her face was pale as she struggled to plant her feet firmly, shaking her head, trying to compose herself.

  “Oh, Rockford. That was the police. It’s about the Burdett farm. There’s been a terrible fire at the farmhouse. The fire company has just managed to put it out.” Her voice caught in a sob.

  “It’s okay, Willow,” he said softly, running his hand up and down her back. “It’s just a building. The Burdetts weren’t there.”

  “But that’s just it!” she wailed, her fingers digging into his arms. “When they got the fire under control, and they began to sift through the wreckage, they found. . . two bodies. . . .”

  He pulled her close again, and she nestled her head into his neck. “It’s my fault, Rockford, it’s my fault. If I had gone back to the farm that first night, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. . . .”

  He swallowed hard, not knowing what to say, but desperately wanting to help her. His eyes met George’s, perched on the chair across from the desk. “Go ahead,” her expressive eyes pleaded. “Follow your instincts.” His sister’s quiet confidence gave him courage.

  “You are not to blame for whatever has happened at that farm, Wilhemina Blake. You are strong and trustworthy and caring, and you did the best you could. No one could have done more.” His words were soft and comforting, and she found herself clinging to them in her pain.

  A few silent minutes passed, until her breath became more even. She stood straight again, and looked into his eyes.

  “Well, I couldn’t stop it from happening, maybe, but I’m not going to stop until I find out who’s to b
lame.” She straightened her thin shoulders defiantly.

  “I was afraid you were going to say that. I knew you were going to say that.”

  “I have to go out to the farm. I have to . . . see. Will you come?”

  There was no way he was going to let her go on her own, and no way, he knew absolutely, that he could stop her. “Sure, I’ll come.”

  Georgina stood quickly to her feet. “I’m going to leave this development to you two, and get back to the parish for now. We’ll handle our other. . . business later, all right, Willow?”

  The news about Marco Slergetti would wait until she had the information about the Burdetts.

  George punched her brother in the arm on her way out the door. “Take care of her. Don’t mess things up.”

  “Spoken like a person who believes in me.”

  “Spoken like a person who knows you!” With a quick smile, Georgina was gone.

  “I didn’t know she was your sister. You didn’t tell me.”

  “It’s not something I brag about.” He laughed gently. “She has a rather persuasive quality.” He looked suddenly down at Willow’s plain gray dress and cross. Alarm crossed his face.

  “Oh no, you look like a nun. . . she didn’t persuade you—’’

  Despite the heaviness of her heart, Willow laughed. “Just a costume, counselor. I’ll tell you about it later. Come on, let’s face this farmhouse.”

  George had left in the gray car, so they took the Miata to the Burdett farm. Rumbling down the long stony driveway, Willow thought of the little farm couple with sadness. The air smelled dank and smoky, and a darkness, like a dusty cloud, hovered over the place.

  The barn could be seen through the veil of smoke as they pulled in. The place where the house had been was nothing more than a charred black skeleton jutting up into the sky. Part of the porch room remained, a sad reminder of what had been. In the flower beds by the door, Willow could see the blossoms that had shortly before been bursting with life now shriveled and dried from the excessive heat. She felt a lump in her throat.