A House by the Side of the Road (20 page)

She stared at her denim-covered knees, the voice on the tape coming back to her. “You did wait until she'd died to take it?” Until who had died? Was it, indeed, Hannah Ehrlich? And
had
the man waited until she'd died?

As hard as she tried to keep her mind off Dan Ruschman, it kept returning. How had he acquired fifteen thousand dollars? And what had he told Christine to make her believe that “things are going to be fine”? It couldn't be Dan on the tape. If it was Dan, then it was likely that he was the person who'd gone through the medicine cabinet, checked the bottoms of the dresser drawers, rifled through the built-in section of the pantry, invaded her home. It couldn't be Dan.

Meg looked up. The moon, huge and bright, was in the section of sky visible above the creek. Something moved among the trees to her left, and the dog bolted across the path.

There was something else banging at a door she'd shut and locked in her mind. She gritted her teeth and opened the door. Jane and Christine both had said Mrs. Ehrlich was worried about something before she died. Had she suspected that she was being robbed?

Meg herself was worried about something. Did any of this have anything to do with her and, if so, what? Just how closely was she connected to all the questions she couldn't answer?

She closed her eyes and tightened her mouth, shaking her head. The only way to get any answers at all was to find Angie Morrison. She could explain—perhaps not everything, but probably enough. Would she? Could Meg make her, somehow? Maybe. If she could find her.

Fifteen

Jack honked as he turned into the driveway. He parked by the kitchen door, and Meg watched through the window above the sink as he got out of his truck and walked around the front end. The dog stood between him and the door, barking. He crouched and stretched out a hand, talking softly. Meg could hear the encouraging sound of his voice but not the words. The dog moved warily toward him and took something from his hand.

Meg opened the screen door. “The way to a dog's heart is through the offering of succulent morsels. You're a quick study.”

“Olive branches are hard to come by around here. Luckily, bacon isn't.”

He put his arm around her, squeezing her shoulder quickly, and then went into the house. “Hey, the kitchen looks great!”

“Thanks,” said Meg, happy that he liked it. “It might even encourage me to learn to cook.” She turned on the water to fill the coffeepot carafe.

“Heck,” said Jack, coming up behind her and putting his hands on her shoulders. He rested his chin on the top of her head. “Stick with me, kid. You won't need to learn. Division of labor, specialization … it's what makes the world go round.”

I could lean back, thought Meg. Just a little, very subtly. But her heart was thudding painfully, and she did not.

Water spilled over the top of the carafe. She had to move to turn off the faucet. Jack pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. “How's the water pressure in the bathroom?”

“Fine,” said Meg. “If I had a real shower, I might find it lacking, but I've got one of those hoses from the faucet up to a sprinkler, all surrounded by a quaint little suspended shower-curtain thing. I've resorted to baths. Now stop being Mr. Fix-It and relax. Do you want something to eat?”

“Already ate,” he said. “Whilst slugabeds were still in dreamland.”

“Oh, yes,” said Meg. “The bacon.”

“I would have been happy to bring you some, too,” he said, grinning at her.

“Right. That's what I need. Fried fat for breakfast. I can just imagine what I'd look like if you
did
do the cooking.”

“What?” said Jack, looking at her in confusion. “You
diet?
”

“Should,” said Meg. “Don't.”

“You're nuts.” Jack shook his head slowly. “Completely nuts. You look perfect. Healthy. Strong. Great.” He smiled. “Yes, I must say, great.”

She leaned against the sink and gazed at him. His arms were crossed on his chest, his legs stretched out in front of him. His head was slightly tilted, and he was smiling cheerfully, his eyes alight with good humor.

“Thank you,” she said.

*   *   *

She arrived at the diamond on Saturday well before the time for her own team's game. She wanted to observe the umpire, get a sense of what he considered the strike zone, and see how well other teams played. Mike Mulcahy stood in one dugout, his arms resting on top of the chain-link fence that protected the team from errant throws and zinging foul balls. Meg sat in the first row of the bleachers behind his team and eavesdropped unashamedly. She knew from the general chatter that the game was in the fourth inning.

Mike's team took the field, the first baseman throwing grounders to the infield, the outfielders tossing another ball to each other. This was made somewhat difficult by the fact that the center fielder had sat down, cross-legged, on the ground and appeared to be selecting the perfect blade of grass to stretch between his hands to make a whistle.

“Hey! Peterson!” yelled Mike, motioning the center fielder in. He turned to a small boy standing on the bench, bouncing lightly against the fence behind him.

“Go on out to center field,” he said to the boy, who jumped off the bench, grabbed his mitt eagerly, and jogged across the infield.

The boy referred to as “Peterson” trudged toward the bench. “You taking me out, Coach?” he asked. He seemed surprised and, Meg thought, a bit truculent.

“Yeah,” said Mike. His voice was neutral. “I would never have made you play if I'd realized you were so tired.”

The boy started to speak, seemed to think better of it, and sat down, watching his replacement hurl the ball, with a great swooping, inefficient throw, toward the right fielder.

Mike's team was triumphant, bringing Cheryl Warren's comments back to Meg's mind. She wished she had paid better attention to how many innings various players spent on the bench. She had noticed that Peterson remained there, watching the game in moody silence.

After clapping his players on the back and gathering up the team's equipment, Mike found her on the sidelines writing the starting lineup into her score book.

“I noticed you scouting your opposition,” he said, grabbing her around the neck, yanking off her baseball cap, and rumpling her hair hard enough to hurt. “Decided on our bet yet?”

“I was thinking,” said Meg, squirming out of his grip, “of something really appropriate, like a brand-new, still in its original box, official-league baseball.”

“You mean something really cheap,” said Mike, punching at her shoulder and jumping back, feinting another blow.

“Boy, do I hate overly confident men,” said Meg. “Stick around, big guy. You'll be laughing out of the other side of your face.”

“I'll stick around and watch your game, if you'll buy me dinner afterward,” he said.

“Ha! With the coaching tips you'll be picking up for free? Dream on! Anybody who drives the car you drive does not need dinner bought for him by a struggling freelance writer.”

“All right, then. We'll go Dutch. I've always wanted to go to dinner with a really sweaty girl. Especially one who's been properly humbled.”

Go Dutch, thought Meg and was aware of what felt like a skipped heartbeat. Maybe Jack would show up to watch the game. Maybe … But she needed to talk to Mike.

“All right,” she said. “Keep score for us, at least until some parent who's got a clue arrives.” She waved the score book at him. “And
do not
give any hits that aren't hits. I want real batting averages to work with, not those phony ‘Well, he's only eleven; who could have expected him to keep a fly ball in his mitt?' statistics. Give me accurate records.”

“Yes'm,” said Mike. “Want I should keep all the bats in a nice neat row for you, too?”

“Shut up,” said Meg.

*   *   *

“You know,” said Mike, “they make things besides hamburgers here. You could, maybe, take a more adventurous approach to dining out. If you're watching your pennies, you could have passed your baseball cap. I'm a soft touch. Besides, I always feel sorry for a loser.”

Meg's team had, indeed, lost, but she was pleased with how they'd played. “Nah,” she said. “You find a good thing, you stick with it. At least until it gets boring.”

“Good things don't have to get boring,” he said.

Meg felt a small tremor of nervousness. She shrugged. “Maybe not.”

“Heard you had a fire,” he said. He looked up from his dinner. “That could have been bad.”

“Could have been. Wasn't,” she said. “Thanks to the dog you get such pleasure out of maligning.”

“I told you to get the place inspected.”

“Don't lecture me, please?” said Meg. “I know it's my own fault. If I'd done what you told me to do or Jack told me to do, it would never have happened. But it's all right now. The place has
been
inspected. Dan Ruschman went over it with the proverbial fine-tooth comb. And Lyle Halversen has checked the wiring. I don't want to get into it again.” She smiled at him, trying to counteract her defensiveness. “Please?”

“You seeing a lot of Jack?” he asked, squeezing a lemon wedge into his iced tea. A seed shot across the table.

“Not really,” she said. “Why?”

Mike stirred his tea. He clinked his spoon against the rim of the glass and set it down. “It's not my place to give you advice about your personal life…”

No, thought Meg, it's not. But she merely looked at him inquiringly, wondering what was on his mind.

He started to say something, paused, started again. “Let's just say he must have skipped school the day they taught the kiddies about Copernicus. Or else he figures the man had it all wrong. We live in a Jack-centric universe. Hadn't you noticed?”

“Actually, I hadn't,” said Meg, unable to keep a note of coldness from her voice. “You want to elaborate?” She doubted that she wanted to hear what he might say.

He looked at her seriously, then smiled suddenly. “Nope. On to new topics. How's work going? Having any fun?”

“Tons,” she said, more than willing to change the subject. “Though I'm not getting it done fast enough. This is my favorite of all assignments—vocabulary worksheets, I mean.”

“I don't remember ever having worksheets for that,” said Mike. He, too, seemed determined to ignore the disagreement. “Spelling, math, grammar, yeah. Vocabulary? I don't think so.”

“That's because kids used to read,” said Meg, putting down her hamburger and leaning across the table. “Then maybe they'd talk about the story. Now they read, too, of course, but not a whole heck of a lot.”

“Is this heading toward a diatribe about TV?” asked Mike. “You can save your breath; I'm in agreement.”

“Actually, no,” said Meg. “Though there may be a connection. Even
in
school, kids don't read. They don't have time. Let's say the selection is ‘The Three Little Pigs.' First they do a prereading exercise on sibling relationships. Then they read the story. Then they write a diary entry for each of the swine brothers, make a diorama out of popsicle sticks showing the inside of the oldest brother's house, do a vocabulary worksheet, draw their favorite character, perform a role-playing exercise in which they explore methods of resolving conflict without using a pot of boiling water, do a cross-cultural activity comparing houses around the world, choose music for the soundtrack of a movie made from the story, and take a two-page test.” She sat back in the booth. “And now they're done. They could read another story, but, unfortunately, the semester's over.”

“Why?” he asked, impaling a cherry tomato. He seemed genuinely curious. “Why do they do all that?”

Meg sighed. “I wish I knew. What I do know is that, in 1927, a typical vocabulary test for grade-school children included
depredation, avarice, artless,
and
sportive.
High schoolers got
sudorific
and
casuistry.
Now they need a worksheet in order to deal with
ambition.
Maybe Johnny can't read because he hardly ever
does.
”

“You're being sportive,” he said.

Meg grinned. “I wish.”

She ate for a few moments in silence, took a swallow of iced tea, and asked, “You still without a secretary?”

“Unfortunately,” he said. “But I'm interviewing next week. Why? You decided you want the job?”

“Work for you?” said Meg. “In a pig's eye. Why didn't you start looking as soon as Angie said she was leaving?”

“Laziness,” he said. “It was hard for me to believe that somebody who did as little work as Angie would make much of a difference.”

“Not a workaholic, huh?” asked Meg.

“No, she missed that label with plenty of room to spare. She was smart. The girl was no dummy. But she was totally bored by law.”

Then why, wondered Meg, did she keep the job as long as she did?

“Where did she go?” she asked, sliding casually into the question uppermost in her mind. “When she left for her more exciting life?”

Mike lifted his shoulders. “I don't know. She didn't say. It was a ‘So long; it's been good to know ya' kind of thing. We weren't close.”

“But didn't you have to get an address, like to send her 1099 or whatever?”

He frowned slightly. “She was planning a long vacation. A little-deserved one, I'd say, if I were the harsh sort. She said she'd let me know where she settled. Why?”

Meg, ignoring his question, picked up the menu and looked again at the dessert choices. “Where do her parents live?”

“I haven't the faintest idea where her parents live. One of the few things I know about her is that she isn't on speaking terms with her parents.”