Never Tomorrow

by Judith Rolfs

Whitney fought the impulse to press her mouth hungrily against his.

  The depth of her emotion frightened her. “It’s been a lovely day, Jordan. But I’m exhausted. Time to play Cinderella. It’s midnight.”

  Jordan shrank back with a low growl of frustration.

  He was hurt, but she couldn’t help that. What right did he have to make expectations?

  He snagged her arm and led her back to the house in an uncomfortable silence. He said goodnight outside her door.

  Whitney snuggled under the lightweight down comforter, took a deep breath of the fresh linen scent, and began to pray. Lord, I’m grateful for this time away with Jordan but confused about my feelings. Guide me clearly. I don’t want to make a mistake. She sensed God’s presence. She turned over and imagined His arms around her before she fell asleep.

  Her final thought was that this had been her most fun day since her mom’s death.

  Whitney awoke with a start. What was that noise? She bolted to an upright position, sensing another presence in the room. She willed her eyes open and Jordan’s shadowy figure appeared next to her bed. He had spoken her name softly.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “I’m supposed to help?” She heard her sarcasm but made no effort to contain it.

  “I thought you might be lonely too.”

  She held the blanket beneath her chin and pointed toward the door. “Out.”

  Jordan ignored her and began climbing into the bed. “All I want to do is to snuggle, nothing more, I promise.”

  “Absolutely not. Leave! Now!” She notched her chin a bit higher, pushed him away roughly, and jumped up. She ran her hand along the smooth wallpaper until she found the light switch and flipped it.

  He reached her in two leaps, turned the light off, and pulled her into his arms. “You want me, too. I can tell.”

  “Stop it, Jordan. You reek of wine. Get out.” Whitney’s voice was clear and strong as she hit the light switch again. She didn’t care if she woke his aunt and uncle, asleep, she presumed, downstairs.

  “Nothing terrible is going to happen. You’re going to like this, Whitney. I promise.” He nuzzled his face against her neck.

  Whitney shoved him back with all her strength. “Because I’m your house guest don’t expect my values to change.”

  He crumpled into a heap on the bottom of her bed and raised himself up on one elbow. “What’s the problem? You’re a mature woman. Aren’t you being prudish?”

  Her heart shuddered. “When I was a young girl, I learned not just about birds and bees but about cows. Why marry if a man and woman can have all the sex and companionship they want without a commitment? This may shock you, but I’m committed to being a virgin on my wedding night.”

  “You still are?” Jordan sounded incredulous. “You’re almost thirty years old. Nobody that old is a virgin, if she’s normal!” He stumbled to his feet and looked at her through glazed eyes.

  Whitney pulled her robe tighter. She gestured toward the door. “Out!”

  “Wait, I want to get something straight...”

  “No, you listen.” Her heart thumped faster. “Bottom line! I won’t sleep with you or any man before marriage. And I won’t even be in a relationship with a man who isn’t willing to respect my values.”

  “What difference does a piece of paper make if two people care for one another? Marriage vows are easily dissolved. It’s relationships, hopefully, that can last forever. That’s what counts.”

  “I’m not a piece of merchandise you try before you buy. I expect to be cherished. It’s my way or no way on this.”

  Grief and guilt cut a path through her. Why had she allowed herself to trust him and put herself in this position?

  Jordan’s face reddened. His face contorted. He came closer. “You want it too, admit it!”

  “Get out or I’ll scream!” Fury boiled inside her.

  “So I mean nothing to you?” He staggered and reached for her arm.

  “That’s not the issue...” Whitney’s lips trembled. She picked up a pillow and held it between them. “Talking any more is useless in your condition.”

  Jordan weaved slightly, swore, and then marched out muttering, “Who does Whitney Barnes think she is to be high and mighty and untouchable?” Whitney ran over and locked the door. She wedged a desk chair under the knob to be sure it couldn’t be turned.

  Lord, what have I gotten myself into?

  FIFTY-FIVE

  After a few hours of fitful sleep, Whitney awoke at six a.m. and packed her bag. She left a note for Jordan’s aunt and uncle about needing to get back unexpectedly, which was true. She refused to lie, but they didn’t require details. Their nephew needed to develop self-control—a bit difficult to learn at his age, though not impossible.

  Jordan remained out of sight, perhaps too embarrassed or angry. Most likely he was sleeping off a hangover. She’d half-hoped he’d appear with an apology, at least. Just as well she didn’t see him.

  On the drive home Whitney’s grip on the steering wheel never lightened. Disappointment kept running through her heart. She’d liked Jordan.

  Another loss. A sheen of tears filmed her eyes. She swiped them away.

  A few miles down the road God spoke, not audibly but clearly in her mind. I never said life was fair, but I promised to give you sufficient grace.

  She tried to perk herself up with Christian music CDs. By the time she walked into her house, she had at least a semblance of peace. God, it’s You and me. That’s fine by me. The image of Rich popped into her head and surprised her. She wished she could speak with him at that very moment. She believed he’d understand her wild emotions. Was Rich the man God had for her? Had she misread God’s signals? Whatever Your will, Lord, I will not compromise my standards.

  Once home she punched her landline phone message recorder, and Jordan’s voice came through in a firm tone. “You know what bothers me most about last night? The fact that I’m considering your terms. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Whitney’s facial expression softened but only slightly.

  Was there hope for this relationship yet?

  FIFTY-SIX

  Days after Blaine Cartier’s murder, nothing had broken on the case. Finally Chief Bolan got lucky. Only he wouldn’t call it luck. He’d say the break came from his tenacious spider-like swoop into every corner of inquiry.

  His law enforcement philosophy never changed. He described it as hitting the facts with a sledgehammer and watching where the splinters flew. Not even the teeniest plausible trail was overlooked. This had become the secret of his investigative strength, he believed.

  The Chief set aside time after lunch to let his brain roam through the data he and his staff had collected for any possible clues. After a while the Chief called in his deputy. “Harold, check the local obituaries for any female’s death ruled suicide or accidental in the last five years. I want more than the material that was in the Courier. I want even accidents that weren’t investigated as unusual. Got this?”

  “Sure.”

  “Repeat it to me.” The Chief always checked his orders twice. Harold was a little slow on the uptake.

  Harold dutifully recited the order, eyeing the Chief as if he’d lost his mind.

  You’d think I’m sending him on a moonwalk. The Chief ignored his deputy’s reaction. Harold knew better than to question his boss, even if he thought this was clearly a waste of time.

  He heard Harold lumber back to his desk, probably wishing for the umpteenth time the old chief was still here—the one Bolan had replaced because of incompetence. Chief Bolan liked non-stop action. With the old boss Harold could have a nice long nap in his squad car every day between two and three before going for his afternoon coffee break.

  * * *

  Chief Bolan drove Harold crazy following farfetched strands based on intuition. Nobody was more surprised than Harold two hours later when he turned up five accidents in the statistical r
ecords that fit the Chief’s parameters. One woman had choked to death at a local restaurant as her husband watched in shock. Another had been killed by a hit and run driver. Two were electrical appliance accidents. One woman drowned. Another female resident had died an accidental death in a fall in Ireland—Kendra Starin.

  Next, Harold hunted through the Internet newspaper archives for the original stories in the local paper. Chief Bolan would commend him for this. Harold expected the Chief would make him do it anyway. He’d be pleased Harold was following his frequent command to “Anticipate the next step.”

  Harold swore when the computer screen went blank, and rebooted it. He wasn’t as proficient on the Net as he should be, despite good training. He didn’t use it enough. At least that was his excuse. Harold stopped now to peek at one of his favorite sites, YouTube, where he could watch professional police work while sitting in his chair. Truth was, he’d prefer to be a law enforcement observer full-time, except he liked wearing the uniform and needed income.

  Thirty-five minutes later Harold had located the local newspaper editions for the days surrounding each death notice. An article on the lower right corner of page five stood out, “Local Woman Dies in Ireland.” He read on. “Ballybunion’s steep cliffs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean were the scene of the tragic death by drowning of Kendra Starin. She and several other Cortland City residents had been on a group tour. Mrs. Starin had extended her stay and headed off alone to Ballybunion. Kendra lost her footing and slipped beneath the rail to her death. Local authorities said the winds were unusually strong that day. She is survived by her husband and daughter.”

  The names of the Cortland City tour group members weren’t listed. Harold rubbed his ear, his habit when deep in thought—which didn’t happen often.

  Something stirred in Harold’s memory…

  Jillian Langley died a year after Kendra. Her death was supposedly a suicide. Maybe Kendra Starin did commit suicide off the cliff, maybe she didn’t. Strange that Blaine woman was going on a trip before she died, too. Was there a connection? Probably not. He shrugged and printed out his copies.

  Entering headquarters, Chief Bolan’s husky voice boomed to the dispatcher. Harold bounced as much as a two-hundred-pound man could across the hall and knocked on the Chief’s half-opened door.

  “Come in, Harold.”

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “Your knock and step are distinct.” Chief Bolan gave a humorless laugh.

  Harold hated that the chief had observational skills like Sherlock Holmes and flaunted it. He sauntered to the metal chair next to the desk and dropped his weight.

  He summarized the results of his research for the chief and deposited the copies he’d made on Chief Bolan’s desk.

  “Nice work. Maybe there’s hope for you yet,” the Chief bantered.

  Harold’s face heated. The boss really should affirm me more.

  Harold shuffled back into his office, already tasting pie a la mode at Birches Café with a Columbian roast coffee.

  But this wasn’t to be his day. The chief buzzed him back. Couldn’t he ever get a break?

  “Find out where Kendra Starin bought the ticket. I want to know everyone with her on that plane and on the tour.”

  “That’ll be a lot of people.” Anger churned in Harold’s gut. He tamped it back and pressed his hand to his mouth.

  Chief Bolan pointed to the door. “Get busy!”

  Harold moaned inwardly and trudged to the coffeepot. The thick brown brew left from the morning stained his mug. Back at his desk he opened the telephone directory to yellow pages and ran his stubby forefinger down the T’s to “Travel.” He preferred paper data to cell phone directories.

  This would be tough if Kendra Starin didn’t book locally or handled everything online— a big possibility. He found three local agencies. Two had quarter-page ads on the same page.

  The office manager at Suzanne Oleston’s agency sounded like a fourteen-year-old girl, but he surmised she was older. Harold explained what he wanted.

  “Sergeant, every agency uses a computer database to keep track of clients, but I’m not our tech expert. It may take me a while to check.”

  “I’ll wait on the phone.”

  “On hold?” Her voice sounded incredulous.

  “You got it.” Harold still hoped to get out of the station by four.

  He tapped a pencil on his desk pad in time with the beat of his foot on the floor. Harold would never be described as a man of patience.

  The manager’s high-pitched voice went even higher when she came back on thirty minutes later. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ms. Starin’s tour arrangements were made by this office.”

  “Great.” Success on his second call. “That’s a good start. I also need the names of the people on the trip with her.”

  “Sorry. That’s confidential. I’m able to reveal the info on Mrs. Starin because I know she’s deceased.”

  “Excuse me? Nothing’s off limits to the police, young lady.”

  “Perhaps I can check with my boss first to see if she says that information can be released.”

  “I’ve got news for you honey. We’re investigating a murder. I’ll be there to pick it up personally.” Harold enjoyed flustering those he considered beneath him.

  “Ms. Oleston will be back from lunch at two. May I clear it with her?” The employee sounded on the verge of tears and was probably debating the merits of losing her job or tangling further with him.

  This gal was annoying Harold. “I’m on my way now.” He couldn’t pass up a chance to throw his considerable weight around, a perverse pleasure he relished. Harold was out the door within two minutes. Moments like this, his pace quickened remarkably. He had no doubt Chief Bolan would have disapproved of his manners with local business people, but he wouldn’t know.

  The Suzanne Oleston Travel Agency, a glassed-in storefront office one block off Main Street downtown, had four desks all in full view, two occupied by women on the phone. The walls were splattered with more posters than a freshman dorm room—China’s Great Wall, the Eiffel Tower behind five huge letters spelling “Paris,” and a Hawaiian beach scene labeled “Paradise Found.”

  When Harold entered, the office manager popped up from the desk nearest the door. He figured she was the one he’d spoken with. She looked late twenties in person. So much for age ID by voice. A black and white nameplate on her desk read “Sandy Spooner, Manager.”

  His uniform had done its trick. Respect shone in her eyes and she began chattering immediately.

  “I caught up with my boss, Ms. Oleston, at the Sandpiper Restaurant. She said I should give you any information you requested. I’m sorry. I wasn’t being rude on the phone. Office procedure, you know.” She twisted her hands together.

  “Just the list.” Abruptness came naturally to Harold.

  “Certainly, sir.” She lifted a printed sheet off her desk and handed it to him. “Here’s the original. I haven’t had time to copy it yet. I just got through to my boss and received permission.”

  Harold grabbed the paper and scanned the names as if he knew what he was looking for.

  Sandy stared at him and waited. “I’ll copy it for you now.” Her voice was little more than a murmur.

  He shoved it back at her. “Make two copies.”

  She hurried back to the copy machine. Harold had the complete list of names in his hands within minutes.

  He harrumphed for emphasis then left without bothering to say thank you. His behavior was totally contrary to his department’s training in public relations. His mind was intent on getting back to Birches’ for cherry pie. Sometimes they sold out before dinner.

  * * *

  Suzanne Oleston returned to the office immediately after her office manager called. A police visit was unsettling. She used the back door to let herself in and scurried straight to her office. She peered through the partially open blind slats on her window, not full
y exhaling until the black and white pulled away.

  She studied the copy of the complete passenger list Sandy had placed on her desk.

  Suzanne never thought to look at the list before. There had been no reason. Kendra’s death had been an accident, right?

  Why were the police looking into it now?

  * * *

  Suzanne immediately placed a call to Peg Wentworth, Dr. Karen Trindle’s secretary. She answered on the second ring. “Peg, I noticed your name on the list of people who went on our Ireland Tour last year. I didn’t realize you’d gone. Someone else at my firm made your arrangements.”

  “You were busy.” Peg apologized. “I didn’t want to wait, so I talked to one of your agents. Was that okay?”

  “Sure.” Suzanne gritted her teeth. She had to pay her agent a commission, which she could have avoided by booking it herself since Peg had been her client for her past jaunts to Ireland. “I was wondering if you remembered having Kendra Starin in your group?”

  “I knew who she was, but we didn’t spend time together. I kept my distance for a professional reason. Oops, I shouldn’t have said that. Forget I did.”

  “Did you enjoy the tour?”

  “Absolutely. Such a time we had singing songs in the pubs, like Danny Boy and the Fields of Algernon. We were up until midnight several nights. I hated to leave the group early but couldn’t be in Ireland without going to Kerry and spending time with my sister.”

  “I’m glad you liked the tour. Ireland is one of my favorite places to visit. Thanks, Peg.”

  Suzanne hung up and stared at the wall. Why were the police investigating now?

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Whitney put the paper to bed and scrolled through the articles one last time. The headline of the article on page three caught her attention. “Art Agent Carla Madsen Hospitalized Following Sleeping Pill Overdose.” Her community reporter had written it. She put down the Grannie Smith apple she’d been munching and read the content.

  “A pizza delivery boy from Fieto’s arrived at the home of Carla Madsen on the outskirts of Cortland City Friday night. Fieto’s policy is, ‘We deliver within an hour or we’ll pay for your pizza.’ Finding the door ajar and not wanting a cut in his pay because the customer claimed he was late, the young man leaned on the door and edged in calling the customer’s name.”