Lye in Wait (20 page)

"Jeez, you okay, lady?" A young man, somewhere in his late
teens or early twenties, squatted on the sidewalk next to me. "Are
you hurt? I can call 911."

I shook my head.

"You must be hurt. You're crying."

"Hit my elbow," I gasped. "Funny bone."

"Oh. Okay. You need to be more careful about crossing the
street. I don't even know if that driver saw you."

"Oh, he saw me, all right. He was aiming right for me."

The kid gave me a funny look.

"Didn't you see what happened? There was no traffic when I
started across."

The truck had pulled out and had gathered speed rapidly in
order to reach me. But putting the pedal to the metal had made
the tires squeal, alerting me... and saving me. I looked at the slight
sheen of rain on the pavement. If it had been dry the tires might
not have lost traction, might not have made a sound. And I'd be
more than a little banged up.

I'd be dead.

"I walked out the door just as you went down," he said. Slight
build, pointed features, glasses. He smelled like smoke.

"Cigarette break?"

He nodded.

"You work there?" I pointed to the insurance office behind us.

"Uh huh."

Looking around, I saw the rest of the street was empty. Where
was the concerned crowd that should form after a near hit and
run? Where were the helpful citizens that define small towns?

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Don."

"Don what?" I felt for the barista's pen, but it must have fallen
out. I didn't see it anywhere.

"I don't want to get involved in any court case," he said. "It's
not like I saw the license number or anything."

"I don't give a damn what you want," I snapped. "I can find out
your last name or you can give it to me. Your pick."

"Plunckett" He spelled it for me. I recited it in my head so I'd
remember. Sullen, he asked again if I was okay. When I said I was,
he turned and went inside without another word.

I thought about calling Ambrose. Then I thought about the
look he'd give me, that skeptical not-quite-believing look he'd
directed my way before. Or maybe I'd get the policewoman who
had responded to our break-in. She'd just love dealing with me
again. Or better yet, they could send sandy-haired Officer Owens,
who'd almost shot me that night at Walter's. I sighed. I didn't have
a cell phone, and there wasn't a pay phone nearby. I'd have to go in
one of the businesses and ask to use their phone. My slacks were
torn, my coat a muddy mess, and my once-pristine white shirtwas that blood? A little, there on the cuff above a shallow cut on
my wrist. No one had seen what happened, and Don boy wasn't
going to be any help either, since all he saw was some middle-aged
woman who didn't know how to cross a street.

The shivers, from the wet, the cold, the adrenalin shock, or
more likely all three, started across my shoulders and arms and
graduated to full-blown shudders racking my whole body. I
needed to get home, take a shower to chase the soreness already
settling into my battered muscles. Then I could decide whether to
call the police. I pulled myself to my feet using one of the car bumpers, feeling about a hundred-and-fifty years old. I began plodding
home through the rain, teeth clenched against chattering, eyes
moving along the streets, watching for any lurking dark blue pickups. At least it had stopped raining.

"Hey lady, wha'd ya do, fall in a puddle?" This shouted from a
carload of teenagers driving by.

Hot rage bubbled up, then dissolved into a pressing behind
my forehead. With horror I realized I was about to start crying,
right there on the street. Breathing through my teeth, I upped my
limping pace, gritting my teeth harder as I finally started down
my block. Using the railing, I pulled myself up the front steps and
went inside.

I took off my muddy shoes, hung my jacket on the coat rack,
and walked into the kitchen. Empty. I heard voices downstairs and
wondered who was with Kyla. Sniffing, I went upstairs.

Erin sat on her bed, surrounded by stuffed animals, doing her
homework. One of the animals raised its head as I walked by, and
I saw it was Brodie, but Erin didn't notice me. I found Meghan
in the bathroom, clad in rubber gloves and scrubbing the toilet.
I made a sound in my throat, and she looked up. Dropping the
scrub brush, she stripped off the gloves and came toward me.

"Good God, Sophie Mae-what happened? Are you okay?"

I opened my mouth to tell her, but all that came out was a sob.
She put the scrub brush in its holder and closed the lid of the toilet
so I could sit down. Perching on the edge of the bathtub, she put
her arm around my shoulders and let me cry it out. At one point I
saw her motion Erin out of the doorway.

On the miserable way home I'd very carefully avoided thinking
about the fact that someone had tried to run me down. I could
have died. Now, sitting in the safety of my own bathroom with
my best friend, the fear I should have felt earlier came crashing
through. Someone wanted me dead. Someone had wanted Walter
dead, and he'd died, and now someone wanted me dead, too.

Meghan moistened a washcloth with icy cold water, wrung it
out, and handed it to me. I scrubbed it over my face, gasping. The shock of it against my skin settled the last of the hitching sobs out
of my chest. I unrolled a length of toilet paper and blew my nose.

"I'm so embarrassed," I said.

"That's dumb. Crying is good for you. You know it rids the
body of stress hormones? That's why you feel better afterwards.
They're released in the tears. So, having a good cry is a very practical thing to do when things get crazy. Remember Holly Hunter in
Broadcast News?"

I stared at her. Trust Meghan to turn my humiliating breakdown into something downright necessary.

"Now," she said. "Tell me what happened?"

"Someone tried to kill me," I said.

"What!"

I told her about the truck, about falling, about the lack of witnesses. While I was at it, I told her about Debby and Jacob and
Chuck, the very uninterested barkeep, and the snotty barista with
the eyebrow ring. I told her about my unsatisfactory canvassing in
the neighborhood that morning. And I told her Mrs. Gray's story
about Walter and Cherry.

She let me run down. After I finally stopped talking, she said,
"We need to tell Detective Ambrose about the driver of that truck
trying to hit you."

"He won't believe me. I don't have any witnesses." I even
sounded pathetic to my own ears.

"You look like hell-how could he not believe you?"

"Thanks a lot!"

"He needs to know."

"He already thinks I'm a royal pain in the ass."

"Well, he's right about that. It's one of your best qualities."

I laughed. A little.

"You can't take the risk of keeping a murder attempt to yourself. And I can't let you. This doesn't sound like someone just fooling around."

"Okay, I'll call him."

"No, I'll call him."

"Kind of like reverse psychology? Make him think I'm being
stoic so he'll be more inclined to give me a break? Might work."

"You dope. You are being stoic. Mostly I don't want you to fly
off the handle at him."

"Meghan! You make me sound like a raving bitch."

"Nnooo...but sometimes you're, uh, less than gracious under
stress."

"Fine," I said, and began getting ready to take a shower. It
wasn't until I was rinsing shampoo out of my hair that it dawned
on me I'd just proved her point. I turned the shower faucet to the
right, gasping in shock at the sudden change in temperature, forcing myself to stay under the cold needles long enough to bathe all
my bumps and bruises.

DOWNSTAIRS IN THE KITCHEN, a powerful pot of Bewley's Irish tea
brewed on the counter while Meghan stirred up corn bread to go
with the chili bubbling on a back burner. As she poured the dark
liquid into a stoneware mug, I realized I'd lost the box of teabags
when I'd fallen. I drank the Bewley's black, no sugar, and the tea
went down stronger than Starbuck's dark roast.

Ambrose hadn't been in his office when she'd called, so Meghan
had left a message. I didn't hold out a lot of hope regarding his
response once he learned of the afternoon's events, but we didn't
have many choices.

I went down to my workroom to see if Kyla had managed to
wrap all the holiday soap. The festive little packages sat in a neat
pile in the center of the island in the middle of the room. Not only
had she covered each in a tight skin of cellophane-we use plain
old Saran wrap because it's best for keeping the volatile essential
oils from escaping into the air-but had also scrounged up some
labels preprinted with my company name and logo, but otherwise blank. She'd hand printed each with either "Peppermint Swirl" or
"Cinnamon Stick" and the average weight of the soaps in ounces,
and affixed them to the bars.

A note lay next to the soaps:

Hi Sophie Mae-You've seemed kind of busy lately, so I
went ahead and made up the names and labeled the soaps.
My sister Cyan came with me today and helped. We had
some extra time, so I also staged the shipments you have lined
against the wall. Hope that was okay. See you Thurs. Kyla.
P.S. Cyan would like to help out to make some extra Christmas money, if you need her. Thanx. P.P.S. You're getting kind
of low on lotion bars.

In front of each box lined against the wall was the packing list
I'd printed, with corresponding soaps and bath products from the
storeroom clustered on top of it. If she'd been standing there, I
might have kissed that girl. All the work she'd done that afternoon
was the only good thing that had happened all day. Plus, she'd
found me another helper.

Meghan's voice floated down the stairs, angry and frustrated.
I shut off the lights and went up to the kitchen. In the hallway
I could hear her talking on the telephone, and for a moment I
thought Detective Ambrose might have called back. But soon it
became clear she was talking with Richard.

"No! I won't say it again. You can't take her out of school for
something like that. That's the kind of thing you should be doing
on the weekends you have her, instead of bailing on her like you
did last week....Don't give me that crap, Richard! I couldn't care
less about yet another one of your money-making schemes. Here's an idea for you-get a real job! Go to it every day, get paid, and
then pay your bills-including Erin's support-before you drive
north to the casinos....What? That's not my problem... Of course
I know you're her dad. You're the one who seems to forget. Why is
this so important, if your mother's going to be here a while?" Then
her voice lowered, taking on a decisive chill. Brodie whined in his
throat when he heard the tone.

"I said no, Richard. That's the end of it. And don't try an end
run. I'm calling the school first thing in the morning."

The phone clanked onto its base on the hall table. After a few
moments Meghan rounded the corner, high spots of anger on her
cheeks. She didn't seem surprised to see me.

"How much of that did you hear?"

"The last bit. Sorry."

She waved my apology away. Not a lot of secrets in this house.

"So what did he want?" I asked. "And where's Erin?"

"She fell asleep upstairs on my bed. She's exhausted-I don't
think she's been sleeping very well lately."

The timer on the oven went off, and Meghan took the pan of
corn bread out of the oven. It smelled heavenly, and I was famished. Nearly getting killed is apparently good for the appetite.

Stirring the chili, I said, "And Dick? What does he want now?"

Meghan sighed. "He wants to take Erin out of school tomorrow to have lunch with his mother."

"His mother? Dick actually has a mother?"

A small smile passed over Meghan's face. "Yeah, if you can believe it. Lives in California, where he's from. I met her once before we got married. She doesn't like me much. Didn't come to the
wedding."

"Why on earth not?"

"I got the impression she didn't think I was good enough for
her baby boy."

"Oh. One of those. So why lunch?"

"No idea. I guess she's staying at Richard's; he said she flew in
Sunday. Anyway, he said she'll be here for a week, so I don't see why
Erin can't meet her grandmother on the weekend or after school."

"Was that her in the car with Dick after Walter's service?"

"Now that you mention it-"

But the doorbell cut off her words. Brodie barked, and Meghan
shushed him, not wanting to wake her daughter upstairs. But Erin
slept like only children can, and I doubted the ruckus would disturb her.

Through the window next to the front door I saw a police car
parked out front. Opening the door, I expected to see Detective
Ambrose, but instead found the patrolwoman who had come
about our burglary the previous afternoon.