Caught Redhanded. Gayle RoperЧитать онлайн книгу.
You go. Now.” Her voice quavered with distress, but her eyes were determined. She stepped back until she was at her door. She leaned, clearly reaching for something just inside. When she drew her hand out, I stared in disbelief at the object she held. She clutched the burglar bar for her slider and she swung it through the air with all the panache of a knight wielding his broadsword.
“Go,” she ordered as the rush of air from her mighty swing brushed my face.
“But—”
“Go!” She took a step toward me, her weapon raised. Clearly her years with Sergeant Major Wilson and the army had rubbed off on her.
Feeling like a Great Dane being chased by a miniature dachshund, I went.
FIVE
Being chased by an amazingly spry eightysomething-year-old lady was very unnerving, especially by one as intent on bashing me as Mrs. Wilson. When I jumped into my car, I half expected her to use her burglar bar on my windshield.
Instead she stood panting on the front walk and I had visions of her keeling over on the spot from a massive coronary; all the blame would be mine.
“But, honestly, officer, she came after me.”
“Yeah, right. Hands behind your back.” Snick, snick clicked the cuffs. “You have the right…”
As I drove away, I watched her in my rearview mirror in case she did collapse. The last I saw of her before a curve in the road hid her from view, she was giving the bar a final shake in my direction.
Now that I was safe, I became very curious about the man who had lived so many years with a woman as feisty as Mrs. Wilson. Had the sergeant major been Special Forces or some such highly trained group? Had he come home from work each day and taught her all he knew? Was their home life the Wilson version of Clouseau and Cato in the original Pink Panther series as they stalked each other from room to room?
I had just taken my seat at my desk back at the newsroom when my phone rang. William to tell me off about Mrs. Wilson and Martha’s place?
“Is this Merrileigh Kramer, award-winning journalist?” a man asked, his familiar voice booming down the line. Though he was reticent by temperament, he always projected on the phone like an out-of-work actor auditioning for a last-ditch opportunity at a starring role.
I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it in disbelief. Why was Ron Henrey, my former editor back in Pittsburgh, where I had cut my reporting teeth first as an intern, then as a staff reporter, calling me?
“Are you still there, Merry?”
I jammed the phone back against my ear. “I’m here, Mr. Henrey.”
“Surprised you speechless, eh?”
“Something like that,” I admitted. He was certainly high on my list of People I Never Expect To Hear From.
“Congratulations on winning that Keystone Press Award. We taught you well, I’d say.”
“I’d say,” I agreed.
There was a little silence while I tried to imagine why Ron Henrey was contacting me. Certainly he wasn’t calling to interview a hometown girl made good. That would be an assignment given to a features reporter, the Chronicle’s equivalent of someone like me or Edie. Besides I hadn’t made good enough to be worth an article.
“I bet you’re wondering why I’m calling,” he said.
I made a little agreeing noise, which proved to be all the encouragement he needed.
“We’d like you to come back to the Chronicle, Merry. We’d like you to write two or three features a week and have your own column.”
Then he named a salary that made me blink in astonishment. I wouldn’t exactly be rich, but from my present perspective, I’d be close. The cynic in me, rarely used, kept looking for the catch, but I couldn’t see one. Since I’m not a very practiced cynic, it’s often hard for me to find the fly trapped in the ointment. However, the rose-colored glasses I wear with practiced ease illuminated a wonderful vista.
My own column! Real money!
I’d been asking Mac for a column for the past several months. He only looked at me and, cynic extraordinaire that he was, said, “In about ten years, Merry. When you finally grow up.”
I glanced at Mac, sitting at his editor’s desk by the great glass window that looked down from his second-floor perch onto Main Street. He was typing away on his PC, and I felt like a traitor to The News with Mr. Henrey trying to lure me away.
Suddenly Mac looked at me. “Hey, Kramer, when you’re finished, I need to see you.”
As I waved acknowledgement, I tried to imagine Mr. Henrey yelling across the Chronicle newsroom at me. Never happen. First off, the room was too big. Secondly Mr. Henrey, for all his booming phone voice, was a model of propriety. He would either IM me or give me a discreet bring on my desk phone.
“What do you think?” Mr. Henrey was still speaking, booming as ever. “Interested?”
I realized I was smiling. I also realized Jolene was watching me smile and would demand to know why as soon as I hung up. No way was I telling her. I might as well stand on my desk and emote like Mr. Henrey because everyone would know before nightfall.
“May I think about this?” I asked. “You’ve taken me by surprise.”
“You have a week,” Mr. Henrey yelled genially.
Long enough to develop an acid stomach as I debated the pros and cons, but not long enough to get an ulcer. “Sounds fine.”
I hung up, still not believing the offer. Jolene, dressed in a yellow narrow-strapped cami top and a denim miniskirt in spite of the scraped knees, pounced.
“What? Why were you smiling? And don’t try and tell me it was Curt whispering sweet nothings in your ear. He doesn’t yell in the phone.”
Curt! I blinked in disbelief. I’d been so caught up in the unbelievably good offer and so busy being impressed with myself that I hadn’t even thought of my fiancé. Granted I’d moved to Amhearst to learn to be independent, to stand on my own two feet, but a girl should at least wonder what the man she plans to marry in less than two weeks would think about moving.
Probably not much. He was as much Amhearst as Jolene and Mac.
There was nothing for it. I’d have to call Mr. Henrey back and decline his offer.
Maybe not, kid, the perverse part of me said. He’s an artist. Artists can paint anywhere, right?
Hmm, thought the nicer me, jumping much too quickly to agree. That’s true.
“Come on,” Jolene prompted. “Give.”
I tried not to look guilty as I scrambled for something to say that wasn’t a lie but wasn’t exactly the truth, either. I squirmed under her relentless gaze.
She stood and walked across the narrow aisle that separated our desks. I half expected her to stick her index finger under my nose and demand an answer. Instead she spun the little basket of cheery flowers that sat on my desk, checking for dead blooms among the pale yellow double begonia, the miniature pink rose, the crimson geranium and the pale blue dianthus. A regular Gertie the Gardener, Jolene focused the same intensity on her plants as on her insatiable curiosity. As a result the newsroom resembled a nursery with greenery on every available flat surface and a row of the healthiest African violets I’d ever seen lining the sill by Mac’s great window.
Suddenly Jolene turned and stuck that index finger with its lethal nail, today a deep crimson, right under my nose. I noticed that her broken middle nail was already repaired. “Talk, Merry. I’m not your best friend for nothing.”
Paralyzed, I stared at that nail.
“Kramer,” Mac called. “I asked to