Cross-Check

by Phil Lollar

  Glossman and Riley both stopped, and the latter chuckled. “Just cleanin’ up some loose ends,” Riley said. “Dr. Blackgaard, I hope there’s no hard feelings about what went on today. Mr. Glossman’ll tell you that people around here are very particular about the kinds of business they want in town.”

  “Yes,” Glossman growled, “but you can carry being ‘particular’ too far.”

  This time Blackgaard jumped in before they could start up again. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he said, “Mr. Whittaker is correct. The meeting is over for today. No, Mr. Riley, there are no hard feelings. I know you’re just doing your job. I’m sure this matter will be cleared up next week.”

  Riley nodded and smiled warmly. “Well, I hope so, Dr. Blackgaard.”

  “Mr. Riley and I are going over to my place to get something to drink,” Whittaker added. “Would you both care to join us?”

  Glossman held up a hand and shook his head. “Thank you, no, I have some business to tend to.”

  “I’m afraid I must bow out as well,” Blackgaard said.

  Whittaker looked genuinely disappointed. “Oh . . . all right. Well, I guess we’ll see you both next week then.”

  Blackgaard smiled and bowed slightly. “Looking forward to it.”

  “Yeah,” Glossman sneered. “Can’t wait.”

  Blackgaard and Glossman watched the farmer and the soda shop owner head for the chamber’s exit. “Well,” Glossman muttered, “at least they didn’t vote you down.”

  “No thanks to you,” Blackgaard growled. “I thought you wanted to run this town, Philip, but it appears I was mistaken.”

  Glossman scowled. “I did what I could!”

  Blackgaard continued looking at the exit. “Which was practically nothing.”

  “You saw how difficult it was to fight against Riley!” Glossman hissed. “Especially when Whittaker’s here!”

  Blackgaard drew in a deep breath. Glossman had a point. He exhaled slowly and murmured, “Yes . . . well, we’ll just have to make sure they’re not here when we take the vote then, won’t we?”

  Glossman glanced up at him and then looked away again. “Now wait a minute,” he said. “I have to be careful about getting involved in any more of your . . . sinister plans!”

  “Who said anything about sinister plans?” Blackgaard replied coolly. “All I want you to do is to tell me what you know about Riley.”

  “And Whittaker?”

  A faint smile curved Blackgaard’s lips. “One thing at a time. First, Riley.”

  Glossman swallowed hard and fumbled nervously with his tie. “Well . . . besides being on the town council, he’s also an elder in his church. He’s an apple farmer, lives on the outskirts of town. He likes horses—he owned one and just got another and built an addition to his barn for them.”

  Blackgaard’s smile grew wider.

  Chapter Five

  Weird.

  That was the best word 16-year-old Connie Kendall could find to describe her life at the moment.

  She gazed at her reflection in her dresser mirror, fixed her auburn hair into a ponytail, checked the liner on her green, almond-shaped eyes, and then stepped back and sighed heavily. Normally she’d be heading off to work at Whit’s End right about now. But since she’d been fired from there at the beginning of the summer, she had no place to go.

  That’s what was weird. She thought her time at Camp What-A-Nut might make her feel better, but though she had learned quite a bit there about life, leadership, and responsibility, she still felt restless, uncertain, and . . . well, weird. As though there were more she needed to learn.

  And then there was Whit.

  She’d had no contact with her former boss since her firing, partly because she was up at the camp for much of the time. She also wasn’t sure she should contact him. She was still embarrassed and ashamed of the reason he had fired her in the first place, and the look of bitter disappointment in his eyes when he did so haunted her.

  But she also knew Whit had a great capacity for forgiveness. She had seen him exercise it over and over again with the kids at Whit’s End. Of course, none of them had done anything as bad as she had done.

  Connie really did want to see him, maybe even get her job back, but had enough time passed so that she wouldn’t seem cloying and anxious? She looked into her reflection’s eyes, sighed again, and muttered, “What to do, what to do . . .”

  She heard her mom pull out a chair at the kitchen table downstairs, sit, and unfold the morning paper—her daily ritual. A thought struck Connie: Maybe Mom will have the answer.

  She exited her room and clomped down the stairs and into the kitchen. Sure enough, her mom was engrossed in the Odyssey Times, only the top of her head visible from behind the paper.

  “Morning, Mom,” Connie said.

  June Kendall lowered the Times and smiled up at her daughter. “Morning, sweetheart,” she answered. “You want some breakfast?”

  Connie sighed once more and replied wistfully, “No, thank you. I’ll just have some juice.”

  “Okay,” June said brightly, disappearing behind the paper again.

  Connie frowned. She wanted her mom’s advice, but she didn’t want to have to ask for it. She wanted Mom to understand her dilemma and offer some sage words of counsel. As Whit would.

  Connie went to the fridge, retrieved the orange juice, poured herself a glass, replaced the container, and sat at the table across from her mom. She took a sip of the juice, set down the glass, and let out another audible sigh. “Hhhmmm . . .”

  June lowered the paper again. “Uh, is something wrong, honey?” she asked.

  Her eyes twinkled with amusement, which irked Connie for some reason, so she decided to play the drama for all it was worth. “Hmm? Oh, no . . . nothing’s wrong,” Connie said. “Go back to your paper, Mom.”

  The hint of a knowing grin curved June’s mouth. She replied, “Thank you,” and slowly raised the paper again.

  Connie waited for a few seconds and then let loose with the loudest sigh yet: “HHHMMM . . .”

  June dropped the paper to the table and fixed her daughter with an irritated stare. “All right, Connie, what’s the matter?” she asked.

  Connie feigned innocence. “The matter?”

  “Yes, ‘the matter.’ You’ve been brooding and moping and sighing ever since you got back from camp.”

  The jab hit home. “I don’t think I’ve been brooding or moping.”

  “We both know you have. Now, if there’s something on your mind, let’s get it out in the open.”

  Connie decided to string her along further. “There’s nothing on my mind . . .”

  “Nothing you want to talk about?”

  “No. Really. You just go back to your paper, Mom.”

  “Connie—”

  “Really! It’s all right.”

  June’s eyes narrowed, and she slowly raised the Times back up in front of her.

  Connie waited until the paper got into place, grinned, and said, “Well, since you brought it up . . .”

  June immediately closed the paper, refolded it, and put it on the table next to her coffee cup with a chortle. “I knew it! All right, young lady, what’s the problem?”

  Fun and games were over. It was time for an answer. “Well . . . it’s . . . Whit.”

  June’s brow furrowed. “Whit? What about him?”

  “I . . . I don’t know if I should see him or not.”

  June’s face relaxed into understanding. “Oh. What do you think you should do?”

  “I think it’d still hurt to see him again,” Connie replied. “I mean, we didn’t exactly part under the best of circumstances.”

  June nodded. “Well, then, you probably shouldn’t see him.”

  “But I really want to! I mean, some things happened up at camp that I think he’d like to hear about.”

  “Okay, then, maybe you should go see him.”

  Connie jumped up from her chair. “I don’t want to seem pushy!” She
paced the floor. “I mean, even though it’s been a while, he might not have cooled down yet, and I don’t want to do anything that’ll bug him.”

  “Well, then, I guess you shouldn’t see him.”

  “But I have to! I need to tell him how wrong I was and that I don’t blame him for anything!”

  “Then go and see him!”

  “I can’t do that! He fired me!”

  June whacked the paper on the table. “Will you cut that out!”

  Connie stopped pacing and faced her mom.

  “‘Yes, I’ll see him. No, I won’t see him. Yes, I’ll see him. No, I won’t see him . . .’” June mocked. “I feel like I’m at a tennis match, and I’m the ball!”

  Connie sank back into the chair. “Sorry, Mom . . .”

  June leaned forward and patted Connie’s arm gently. “Look, honey, I know this is difficult for you. I know you like Mr. Whittaker a lot, and I’m sure he feels the same way about you.”

  “Even though he fired me?”

  June nodded. “Yes, even though he fired you. From what I know about him, I don’t think he’d do something like that out of spite or unless he had a good reason.”

  Connie shook her head. “No . . . but that still doesn’t tell me what I should do.”

  “That’s because the only one who can tell you what to do is you—your heart,” June replied. “If you feel it’s best to go see him, then go—see him, talk to him, get things out in the open. But if you feel that would just make matters worse, then stay away. You may not like this, but there are other places to work, you know.”

  Connie lowered her head. “Yeah,” she said softly, “that thought has crossed my mind.”

  June squeezed Connie’s arm affectionately. “Aw, honey, I’m sure you’ll make the right decision. And whatever it is, please hurry up and make it before you drive me crazy, huh?” She smiled.

  Connie looked up at her mom and giggled. “Okay,” she said.

  June retrieved the Odyssey Times and returned to her reading. Connie watched her and marveled—her mom did have the answer after all. Parents could be so surprising at times!

  Connie downed the rest of her orange juice, rose, rinsed the glass at the sink, and put it on the dish rack to dry. She’d made a decision. “Um . . . I think I will go over to Whit’s End,” she announced. “Just to take a look around.”

  June peered at her over the paper. Her eyes twinkled again as she replied, “Mm-hmm.”

  Connie crossed to June and kissed the top of her head. “Thanks for all your help, Mom,” she said. She headed for the front door.

  June called after her, “Connie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Say hi to Whit for me.”

  Connie’s response was automatic. “Okay, I wi—” She stopped herself. Her mother knew her too well. She smiled and called back in mock frustration, “Mooooom!” She then opened the front door, stepped out, and as she closed it heard her mother’s chuckle waft down the hall after her.

  Chapter Six

  Well, there’s one nice thing about this place, thought Richard Maxwell. It’s got a lot of great places to hide.

  He was standing in one at the moment, a small alcove just inside the front entrance to Whit’s End. From there, he could unobtrusively observe the goings-on in the main room and soda fountain.

  There, behind the counter, a lanky, bespectacled, vest-wearing college student served up sodas and dishes of ice cream efficiently to the mob of boisterous children filling the room. Maxwell hadn’t seen Eugene Meltsner since they were both fired from Campbell College.

  Well, to be accurate, I was fired and expelled, Maxwell thought. Meltsner was transferred back here to finish up his graduate studies under John Whittaker. Working on Applesauce, no doubt. And that was why Maxwell was here today too.

  He noticed that despite the crowd, everyone was polite and patient, and even Meltsner smiled as he worked. Strange. He wouldn’t have been so patient. Serving noisy kids was something he would definitely avoid when Blackgaard’s Castle opened up.

  He was trying to decide how to make his presence known—it was his first time in the place, after all—when the front door opened, the little bell over it jingled, and in walked someone he’d seen before somewhere. She was a cute, young, glasses-wearing brunette about the same age as his half sister, Rachael. In fact, she kind of reminded him of Rachael—and that’s why this girl was so familiar. Rachael was friends with Donna Barclay, who was friends with this girl. But he couldn’t remember her name.

  Ah, well. It didn’t matter. He called to her anyway: “Excuse me, miss?”

  She turned and jumped, startled. “Oh! You scared me!” she said.

  Time to turn on the charm, he thought. “I’m so sorry! I was wondering if you could help me.” He smiled.

  Her eyes met his, and her gaze melted. “Um . . . how?”

  “I understand there are a lot of machines here—games and the like.”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “Do you know who maintains them?”

  The girl thought for a moment and then replied, “Well, there’s Mr. Whittaker, who owns the place. And Eugene, of course.” She pointed to him behind the counter.

  He raised his hand to scratch his ear, and as he did so, he lightly brushed her arm. “Eugene, yes . . . could you tell him I’d like to talk to him?” He gave her his most charming smile. “Please?”

  She gulped, and her face flushed. “Sure,” she said in a breathy voice. She backed away a step, nearly stumbled over an umbrella stand, turned, and crossed quickly to Meltsner.

  Maxwell retreated to his alcove and watched her go. Ah, the old charm, he thought, suppressing a chuckle. Works every time.

  Despite the noise of the main room, he could just make out the conversation at the counter. Meltsner was just finishing up with a customer as the girl walked up to him. “And sixty cents is your change,” he said. “Thank you!”

  “Eugene?” the girl said.

  “Yes, Lucy?”

  Lucy! That was her name! A memory of her and Donna visiting the geezers at the Odyssey Retirement Home flashed through Maxwell’s mind.

  Lucy gestured back in Maxwell’s direction. “There’s a man over by the front door who wants to see you.”

  “Me?” Meltsner replied, following her gesture. “Why me?”

  “I don’t know. He just told me to get the person who fixes the machines.”

  Meltsner sighed. “Oh, very well . . .” He made his way out from behind the counter and joined Lucy, and together they walked toward him. Their voices got louder as they approached. “He’s probably a salesman of some sort. Did he tell you his name?”

  “No,” Lucy replied. “He’s very nice looking, though.”

  That was Maxwell’s cue. He stepped out from the alcove and said, “Well, thank you very much!”

  Meltsner’s jaw dropped, and he all but jumped backward. “Richard!” he declared.

  “Surprise!”

  Lucy looked quickly between them, perplexed. “You know each other?” she asked.

  Maxwell smirked. “We used to work together. Ain’t that right, Meltsy baby?”

  Meltsner stiffened. “We were briefly employed by the same organization.”

  Maxwell chortled. “‘We were briefly employed by the same organization,’” he mocked. “You crack me up!” He turned to Lucy. “We worked with the three Cs.”

  She frowned. “What’s the three Cs?”

  “Campbell College computers.”

  Lucy giggled. “Oh, that’s clever!”

  Maxwell gave her a wink. “Yeah, and cute, too!” They both laughed. “Hey, Meltsy, she’s all right.”

  Lucy blushed and giggled again.

  Meltsner’s face flashed alarm, and he took a protective stance. “Yes . . . uh, Lucy, why don’t you go on about your tasks?”

  Maxwell leaned toward Lucy and whispered loudly, “He means go have a good time.” He looked back up at Meltsner. “Meltsy, babe, you gotta lear
n to speak English!”

  Lucy giggled again.

  Meltsner cleared his throat and said curtly, “Run along now, Lucy.”

  Lucy shot him an annoyed look, huffed, and said, “All right, Eugene.” She moved away, then turned back and said sweetly, “Bye, Richard.”

  Maxwell smiled at her again. “So long, toots!” He gave her another wink.

  She sighed dreamily and floated off.

  Maxwell watched her go. She really did remind him of Rachael. “Nice kid,” he said.

  Meltsner stepped in front of him, blocking his view. “Yes, she is—and we’d like her to stay that way.”

  Maxwell backed up a step. “Oooo! Easy, boy! Why the hostility?”

  “I’ve seen the effect you can have on those younger and weaker than yourself.”

  “Like little Nicky back at the college?”

  “Precisely.”

  Maxwell grimaced. “Hey, man, cut me some slack! I already paid my debt to society, ya know? They fired me.”

  “Yes . . .” Meltsner replied skeptically. “Well, is there anything I can help you with, Richard?”

  “How formal!” Maxwell scoffed. “Lighten up, will ya? I just came over to see where you’re working now.” He took a few steps past Meltsner, scanned the main room and soda fountain, and snorted. “So this is the famous Whit’s End, huh? Doesn’t look like much.”

  Meltsner sniffed. “There is, to use a colloquialism, much more to it than meets the eye.”

  Maxwell shrugged. “If you say so. And you got fired from this place because you messed up a computer program—what was it called, uh, Apple Core . . . Banana Peel . . . ?”

  “Applesauce, and I didn’t ‘mess it up.’ I simply used it when I wasn’t supposed to.”

  Maxwell smirked, suppressed it, and turned to face Meltsner. “Oh . . . and I suppose it caused all kinds of problems or something?”

  “I don’t really believe it’s any of your business,” Meltsner replied coolly.

  Maxwell raised his hands. “Okay, okay, take it easy. Man, you’re so high strung! I’m only asking ’cause I think it’s kinda strange for you to get fired for using a computer program when I don’t even see any computers around here, that’s all.”