Cinnamon Girl

by S. J. MacIver

  After that statement, there was a very loud and ominous silence. Lacy was not about to break that quiet, not for all the Pulitzer Prizes in the world would she discuss this any further. She clamped her lips together and stared at the floor.

  Mike didn't get the message. He kept on. "I'm no theologian, not by a long shot, but if you don't mind, I'd like to ask you one more question."

  There was nothing left of her, nothing left to hurt. With a shrug she said, "Go ahead and ask. Just know that you may not like the answer."

  "I'm good with that. Tell me, if you would—when you think of your husband these days, where do you picture him?"

  She automatically turned her face up to the ceiling. "Danny was one of the kindest, gentlest men ever born. He's in Heaven. There's nowhere else he could be."

  Mike smiled broadly. "You need that don't you. Need to believe there's a Heaven and that Danny is safely ensconced there."

  She nodded cautiously.

  He took both of her hands in his and said, "What is Heaven but the Lord's domain? You can't believe in one without the other. You can't have it both ways."

  Chapter 12

  Lacy stood him up.

  At the expense of a possible interview with Jeremy, she let her visit with her mother drag on until it was too late to get back to town in time for the youth meeting. She told herself she'd simply lost track of time, that her mother had been particularly lonely and in need of her company, but in her heart, Lacy knew none of that was true. Mike had made her think and talk about things she didn't want to consider, things she didn't want to feel. During the past few months she'd finally worked herself into some kind of resolution over the loss of her husband and child, and now along came Mike bringing all that devastation front and center again. She simply wasn't ready. Not for the memories to flood back. And maybe, not for Mike.

  Monday morning after a quick stop at the police station for her daily briefing, Lacy headed for the sheriff's department to do the same. Brian met her at the desk, and as she was jotting notes on the weekend criminal activities, Lacy glanced toward the rear of the office and noticed a familiar young boy sitting alone at a desk.

  "Excuse me, Brian," she said. "Isn't that Jeremy Hankins sitting back there?"

  He glanced over his shoulder, and then gave a nod. "He got picked up for Criminal mischief. They brought him here once they realized who his father was and that the old man already had enough on his plate. After all, the family spent this past weekend burying the kid's murdered step-mother."

  "What did Jeremy do?"

  "He was up on an elevated train track in town tossing rocks at cars passing under the bridge. Busted a windshield on one and did some hood damage on another. Those are the only complaints so far."

  Tossing rocks. The infraction stayed at the back of her mind as Lacy said, "So what are you going to do with him now?"

  "Turn him over to his mother as soon as she finishes getting her hair done. She'll make good on the damages, and has agreed to allowing a visit or two from a police youth worker."

  "That sounds fair enough." With another glance in the boy's direction, she asked, "Do you think it would be all right for me to go back there for a minute and talk to Jeremy? He knows me."

  Brian gave her a stern look. "The kid's a juvenile, Lacy. I can't allow an interview."

  "I just want to talk to him as a friend, not as a reporter." She stuffed her notebook into her handbag and turned it over to Brian. "You can keep this until I leave. I promise not to cross any lines."

  He looked around as if seeking a superior for permission, but then relented. "All right. Five minutes, and no more."

  "Thanks Brian. I owe you one."

  He glanced at her as he pushed the button that released the door leading into the offices, and said, "I guess you know what that means."

  She did, but Lacy chose to ignore the remark and instead made a beeline back to where the boy sat.

  As she approached, Lacy said, "Hi Jeremy. It's Lacy Erikson. Do you remember me?"

  He cocked his head and studied her. Then he nodded.

  "How was the youth meeting last night?" she asked.

  He shrugged. "I didn't go."

  "So I guess we both stood Mike up."

  "Huh?"

  Lacy dropped into the chair next to him. "Mike also wanted me to come to the meeting, but I got tied up out of town and didn't make it. What happened with you?"

  He didn't say a word. Just shrugged.

  She switched gears and went down the road she'd already programmed into her internal GPS system. "Have you been upset over the articles I've been writing about your family?"

  He looked at her as if she'd grown an extra head. "Huh?"

  Lacy persisted. "I've really tried to be fair, especially where Candee is concerned, and thought I'd done a nice job on your father, too. Is there something I wrote about in the newspaper that has you upset?"

  Jeremy scratched his head. "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't even read the newspaper."

  She blew out a sigh and went straight at it. "I understand you were throwing rocks at cars today."

  "Yeah, so?"

  "I'm just wondering if you like to throw rocks at windows, too, say at people's homes."

  The look she got in return suggested that a third head had popped up. He didn't even answer. Just slowly shook his head and began staring at his hands.

  "Jeremy," Lacy said softly. "I promise not to say a thing to the police, but I have to know. Did you come to my house and play some tricks on me?"

  He sat there a minute, picking at his fingernails, and then finally heaved a sigh and said, "Lady, I don't know what you're talking about and I don't know where you live. I got bored today. I threw some rocks off the bridge, and that's all I did."

  Something in his tone and the confusion in his eyes pretty much convinced Lacy that he was telling the truth. She desperately wanted to know who was stalking her, and because of that, halfway hoped to discover the culprit was Jeremy. The other half was mighty relieved to think that someone else was to blame.

  She leaned in close to Jeremy and said, "Why don't you try harder to join Mike at the church next week? I really think you'll have a lot of fun."

  He made a rumbling sound deep in his throat, slouched further down in his chair, and muttered, "Mom says he's probably some kind of pervert who likes boys, and that's why he wants me to join the group."

  "What?" Lacy got out of her chair. "I can assure you that is not true. Mike just thinks joining the youth group might help you take your mind off your problems for a while, that's all."

  He didn't look up, but didn't object either.

  "I've got to go now, Jeremy," she said. "Please think a little more about next Sunday evening. There's nothing wrong with having a little fun."

  Then she made her exit and headed to the courthouse to check the docket.

  * * *

  Two days later in the evening well after supper, Lacy was standing in the kitchen wrestling with the wrapping on a new box of Little Debbie snack cakes. In all that time she hadn't heard a word from Mike, not so much as a phone call. She'd thought about calling him several times, but never could seem to actually punch in his number. What could she say anyway? I'm sorry I'm not the person you want me to be? I'm sorry I visited with my mother too long instead of going to the teenage prayer hour?

  Maybe it was for the best. At least, Lacy tried to convince herself of this. Trouble was, every time she thought of Mike—and she thought of him frequently—she got an ache in her chest, a burning sensation that no amount of antacids could cool. The only medicine she could think of that might help was in her hand, that old standby, the junk food cure.

  Lacy had just pulled one of the cakes out of the box when the doorbell rang. She automatically glanced down at her attire, flannel pajamas covered by a puffy black robe, and then wondered who could be visiting her at this hour. Wrapping the robe tighter around her waist, she hurried to the door and peeked out the
side window. Mike!

  Without another thought to the robe, which immediately fell away from her waist, Lacy ripped opened the door.

  "Oh, Mike," she said, and threw herself into his arms.

  Holding her firmly in his grasp, Mike backpedaled Lacy into the house and kicked the door shut behind them. Then he reached out and slapped his hand at the switches on the wall, plunging the porch into darkness and the living room into murky shadows backlit by ribbons of light trickling in from the kitchen.

  "Oh, Mike, I thought—"

  He covered her mouth with his, swallowing the words and all lucid thought. The kiss was long and deep, as full of meaning as it was passionate. Lacy could feel her head spinning, her heart thumping, and her toes curling, odd since she also felt as if her socks were about to catch fire.

  When Mike finally let her up for air, she illogically said, "You're not mad at me?"

  He laughed, the sound deep and throaty. Then he pulled her up close and kissed her again.

  When he released her he asked, "Did that feel like anger to you?"

  She instinctively touched her swollen lips, and slowly shook her head. "Since I haven't heard from you for a couple of days," she said quietly, "I assumed it was because I didn't show up at the youth program Sunday night."

  Mike took hold of her hand and pulled her close. "You haven't heard from me due to a lot of things. Mostly I figured you needed some time alone, to think about some of the stuff we talked about."

  She had done that, but hadn't come up with any conclusions or startling revelations. "I guess that's pretty much what I've been doing. What about you? Were you doing the same thing?"

  "Of course. That and working on a new case."

  She smiled at him. "And tonight you just happened to be in the neighborhood?"

  "I must have gotten lost." He studied her, eyes soft and warm, and then added, "Or maybe I just couldn't wait any longer to see you again."

  Her legs went weak, and for a moment, Lacy thought she might even sway into him. Somehow, she remained upright. She swallowed hard and said, "Whatever the reason, I'm glad you stopped by. Why don't we go into the kitchen? I'll fix you a cup of coffee and a snack."

  "Is that your best offer?" he asked with a wink.

  "That's my final offer."

  "Since you put it that way, I believe I'll accept your generosity."

  With both of them laughing, Lacy turned, her hand still entwined in Mike's, and led him into the kitchen.

  When she tried to pull away to get busy with the coffee, Mike kept hold of her hand. Then he held her at arm's length, looked her up and down, and furrowed his brow.

  "I see your freckles have returned, and for that, I'm grateful, but am I seeing things or are you wearing Minnie Mouse pajamas?"

  Since she'd thoroughly washed her face earlier, there was nothing Lacy could do to hide the freckles, but she did snatch up the robe and tie it tight around her waist. "You must be seeing things," she said coolly. "Grown women don't run around in cartoon nightwear. Now go sit down."

  When she turned her back to him and filled the coffee pot, Lacy could hear him snickering as he made his way to the table. Once the pot began to bubble and spit, she got out a plate and loaded it with the new snack cakes.

  Moving over to where Mike sat, she set the plate before him and said, "It's still a few days before Halloween and already the Christmas tree cakes are in the store."

  Mike eyeballed the treats. "Lucky us."

  "Help yourself. They don't come any fresher than these."

  Then she turned back to the counter to check on the coffee. Lacy didn't get two steps before shots rang out.

  Chapter 13

  In one fluid movement, Mike leapt out of his chair, grabbed hold of Lacy's robe, and pulled her down to the floor.

  "Stay right there until you hear from me. Don't move."

  Then he dashed out the back door and slammed it behind him.

  By then at least a dozen more shots had gone off in rapid succession, all of them very close, as if they'd come from her living room. Lacy stayed crouched on the floor as ordered until she realized that only some kind of assault rifle could continue firing shots so quickly. Then she recognized the sound for what it was—firecrackers.

  Just in case she was wrong, Lacy remained on her hands and knees and crawled from the kitchen to the front room. Once there she could see the little flashes of light that accompanied each 'shot,' and realized that someone had put an entire string of firecrackers on her front porch and set fire to them. When at last the racket stopped, she crept over to the wall, flipped on the porch light, and then edged over to the bay window and risked a peek outside.

  Curls of thin smoke were rising from her porch, but other than that, all seemed quiet. Then suddenly two men came into view as they hurried down the sidewalk. One walked directly behind the other and as they neared her walkway, he shoved the hooded fellow in front of him toward Lacy's porch.

  Before they made it up the steps, she saw that Mike was bringing up the rear, and that the hooded man had his hands behind his back. Lacy leapt to her feet, turned the bolt and opened the door.

  "I told you to stay in the kitchen," Mike said. "You don't take directions well." He pulled the hood off his prisoner, revealing the man's face and the fact that he had a bloody nose. "He doesn't either."

  Lacy stared at the stranger, trying to place him. He appeared to be in his late teens, maybe as much as eighteen, and terribly thin. His skin was splotched with acne and open sores, and he seemed to have a permanent twitch in his right hand. She racked her brain, but did not recognize him. Then she noticed that his hands were still behind his back.

  "Is he handcuffed?" she asked.

  "You bet, and with plastic ties. He's going to stay that way until the cops get here."

  "You carry plastic handcuffs?"

  He gave her a quick smile. "You never know when you might have to make a citizen's arrest, especially on this street."

  Lacy's attention fell back on the boy. "Did you put those firecrackers on my porch?"

  When he didn't answer immediately, Mike gave his prisoner a nudge. "Go on and tell her what you told me so she can go back inside."

  "Sorry," he said, lowering his head.

  Mike nudged him again. "Tell her what you did and why."

  He scratched at his neck, then at his mid-section. "I set off the firecrackers tonight and done some other stuff to your porch, too."

  "Why?" Lacy asked. "And who are you?"

  "Barry Ward, and I done it cause you wouldn't stop writing about my brother and friends."

  She held out her hands. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I know—wait a minute, did you say your last name is Ward?"

  He nodded.

  "Your brother is Terry Ward, who just got sent to prison for dealing large quantities of meth?"

  He nodded miserably. "You wrote bad stuff about him. Me and my friends, too, with all them articles."

  "But I just reported what other people, witnesses in particular, said. I didn't write anything personal about your brother. What did I write that made you think otherwise?"

  Ward muttered under his breath, "I didn't read it myself. A friend told me what you said in the paper."

  Something else bothered her even more than his pranks. "Okay, so how did you know where I live?"

  "I seen you writing down all this stuff down at the trial, and after my friend told me what you wrote, I followed you home the day my brother got sentenced."

  One of her worst fears had finally come true. Lacy shivered from both the cold and a sudden sense of vulnerability.

  "That's enough," Mike said. "Go inside, Lacy, and close the door. The cops will be here any minute to collect this genius and get him to detox."

  "I don't need no detox."

  "Of course not," Mike said, steering him back down the steps. "I'm afraid what you think you need won't be available to you for a long, long time."

  * * *

  Lacy couldn'
t get the meth-addled teen out of her thoughts for days after his arrest. His brother, older it turned out by six years, had turned him onto drugs before his tenth birthday and showed him that a life of crime was the easy way out. It had worked for the elder Ward for a while, anyway. At least now the youngest Ward brother was getting the help he needed and the medical attention to help him through the worst parts of his return to normalcy. Although he'd caused her a lot of grief, Lacy planned to monitor the kid's progress for as long as it took.

  As for her private life, she and Mike had been together every evening since the great firecracker caper. He'd even convinced her to visit her mother on Saturday instead of Sunday, using her damaged Jeep as an excuse. After all, the repair shop wasn't opened on Sunday, and she still hadn't had time to fix the taillight. That was according to Mike, anyway. Lacy thought the way she'd duct-taped a red silk scarf over the spot where the plastic cover used to be was working just fine.

  The upshot was that she'd be free on Sunday with no excuse not to accompany Mike to church. She still didn't know how she felt about that—coerced for sure—but agreed to go anyway just because it seemed so important to him.

  Now, after dropping Lacy's Jeep at the shop, they were riding in Mike's truck on the way to Napoleon to visit her mother, and she still hadn't figured out the perfect way to introduce Mike. When Lacy phoned her mother to change the day of her visit, she'd simply said that she was bringing a friend from work along with her. Would that hold up? If not, how should she refer to him? She couldn't call him her boyfriend without turning the family upside down. There would be a lot of explaining to do as well, clarifying topics Lacy was non-too sure of herself.

  By the time they arrived at the family farm, Lacy still hadn't come up with a reasonable plan of action.

  As Mike followed the long gravel road to the homestead, he asked, "Which way at the fork ahead?"

  "It's not much of a fork. To the right is my brother's house, and to the left, the way you'll veer, is the old family farm house where my mother lives."

  As he negotiated the tree-lined road, a clearing suddenly appeared followed closely by a pair of homes approximately fifty yards apart. The house on the right was a modern modular home, the one on the left, clearly from another era. It featured high-pitched cross-gables, a wide, screened in porch, and a whitewashed paint job that matched the barn and other out buildings.