Something About Sophie (5 page)

T
he next morning, at a nine o'clock appointment in the hospital lab, her contribution to the paternity test was an easy rubbing on the inside of her mouth with a sterile swab. It was over in no time—except for the three-day waiting period for the results, which she'd promised Hollis she would hang around for.

Simply comparing blood types with Arthur Cubeck would have been quick but inconclusive; DNA results were indisputable but they took longer.
Of course
.

Maybe she ought to rent an apartment, she pondered wryly, wondering how many more times she'd have to postpone her departure.

Not that she had anything more pressing to do.

She'd agreed to do some tutoring of first and second graders struggling with reading and math, but that was still weeks away. She'd thought about painting her bedroom and possibly the bathroom in the meantime, but it wasn't her favorite leisure-time interest—and she never did decide on colors. Still and all, she hadn't planned on more than an overnight in Clearfield and she hated being bored.

She could explore the town, but she didn't think that would take more than a day. She tried to recall if she'd seen a movie theater on Main Street, but she wasn't sure. She wasn't much of a window shopper, but if she got desperate . . . She might spend time in Charlottesville checking out the university—ask her dad where to go and what to see; call him when she got there to give him a verbal tour and updates on the changes over the last quarter of a century, which she imagined were considerable. Perhaps a drive in the country? She would take on most anything to avoid having to think about the test results.

And just as she was collecting her purse and preparing to go, a possible solution presented himself.

“Hi.”

“Drew. Hi. How did you know I'd . . . or you didn't. I mean, you probably come here a lot, to the lab. And I happened to be . . . well . . . Hi.”
Aw, jeeze.

Kindly, he pretended not to notice her prattle. “Actually, I did know you'd be here. Jesse called. I asked to be notified when you arrived, but I was with a patient or I'd have come down sooner for moral support.”

“Oh. Thanks. But it was easy. Just a swab. I was prepared for them to draw blood. After being with my mom and seeing what she went through, I've developed a reasonably good queasy threshold, so needles don't bother me too much anymore.” She stood, thanked the tech, and left the cubicle. “Not nearly as much as hospitals, in general, anyway. You'd think with all the advancements in modern medicine, someone would come up with something for this wretched smell. And don't bother telling me it's disinfectant because every hospital I've been in smells exactly the same, and I don't believe for a second that they're all using the same antiseptics. It's death, isn't it? Rotting bodies and the various byproducts masked by the scents of bland, boiled food, floor polish, and
then
cleaning products. Right?” She looked up to find him staring at her, his expression in check. “No offense.” He frowned as if in pain, closed his eyes and gave a short shake of his head. “What?”

His face split into a wide grin, and when he opened his eyes they were bright with humor. “I'm guessing this is a no to a cup of coffee in the doctors' lounge.”

“Oh.”
Fudge!
“I . . . oh, dear . . . I didn't mean . . . well, I did mean it but not, you know, the smell doesn't make me want to vomit or pass out or anything. It's, you know,” she flipped her hand around in the air, “memories. Like spaghetti sauce and chocolate chip cookies, only not as nice. And not together. Eggs, too, smell good sometimes, though I think most hospitals use the powdered kind so they don't smell as good as real eggs . . . actually, they don't smell at all if you ask me but some people might—”

Seemingly unable to control himself any longer, he reached out and clamped her cheeks between his hands to shut her up.

Thank you, God!
A short prayer of gratitude for saving her from herself.

“How about dinner instead?”

People were always talking about how green Ireland was . . . and while she looked into Drew McCarren's gaze, she got lost in a comparison she couldn't, in fact, make because she'd never been there. But she would—go—if only to have something to weigh against the color of his eyes.

“Sophie?” She blinked. “Dinner?” She nodded. “Seven?” This time she smiled and nodded. He did the same and released her. “Good. I'll see you later.”

“Okay.” She thought about telling him how much she was looking forward to it, thanking him for the invitation—noting his kindness to a stranger in his town, and God only knew what else—but she worried that more than two blathers a day would scare the doctor away. And she didn't want to do that, at least not for the next three days.

S
he'd taken her car to the hospital, but the facility was only two blocks off the main drag so she decided to leave her car and walk. She was missing her morning runs.

She wanted to buy more toothpaste—if she had to stick around a few days more, her little travel tube wasn't going to make it. Plus, if there was some sort of clothing store she could look for something cheap to run in . . . and maybe a new dress for her date. Maybe.

It might have been the early summer sweetness in the air, the birds singing and the bees buzzing, but Clearfield stirred a light, peaceful sensation deep in her spirit. Like watching a magnificent sunrise—except there was nothing
magnificent
about the town. Quaint and charming describe it better. Quaint, charming and . . . serene.

There appeared to be only two stoplights, barely visible, one on each end of the long Main Street—which was tree lined with bumper-to-bumper parking along the sidewalk. At its heart, it featured a round town square with a lovely, pristine gazebo set on a small knoll. Most of the people had a friendly smile or an easy nod to make her feel welcome. Like Marion, it gave every indication of being small-town America at its finest.

And, like Marion, she knew the more domestically commercial and official town buildings would be grouped tightly midtown, while fast-food, automotive, and industrial interests would sprawl out at each end of the road.

And so she turned left, heading for the businesses across the street from the gazebo, and sure enough . . . Eddy's Eatery (open 7
A.M
. to 9
P.M
. for breakfast, lunch, and dinner), Granny's Attic (antiques), Clearfield Credit Union and Arts Council (interesting combination), Lemming's Plumbing and Hardware (pipes and stuff), Pullman's Stationery (stationery) and the Kreski's drugstore—toothpaste.

And because she had nine hours to kill before her date, she took her time meandering through cosmetics and cards, taking up a
People
magazine and picking through paperbacks for a novel to read. She studied the boxes of candy bars while she waited for the customer in front of her to finish at the register. When her turn came, she set her harvest on the counter, then snatched up a Hershey with Almonds and set it on top—for the walk back.

She was smiling when she looked up at the clerk—he was frowning at her. With hair like straw in color and texture, the middle-aged man in khaki pants and a blue plaid cotton shirt sent a sharp, alarming chill down her spine. She got the queer impression that he recognized her in spite of the fact that she was
positive
she'd never seen him before.

The first conclusion she jumped to was her hair.

People were always commenting on or making weird assumptions about it or her because it was red . . . and curly. More a deep burnt-orange color—the kind that eliminates your facial features like an egghead mannequin if you wear black, white, or pastels—a distinction that even imposter redheads know is more about skin tone than hair color. Most folks saw her hair before they looked at her face and were often reminded of redheads they'd known in the past—she was guilty of the same thing with men who have red bulbous noses because her alcoholic uncle Leo had one. It didn't automatically make the men alcoholics or even mean that they looked like her uncle Leo, only that the nose reminded her of him.

No doubt this man was having the same sort of reaction, so she continued to smile pleasantly until he recovered. However, he seemed only to become increasingly agitated, and when a young girl in a blue smock caught his eye, he snapped at her: “It's about time. Come handle this. I have things to do.”

And with that, he sent Sophie one last glare and hurried off. His previous redhead must have been a real doozy, she surmised, offering her smile to the girl instead. She reciprocated and said, “Hi. Did you find everything you wanted?”

“I did. Thank you.”

But the man had given her the creeps—so should she need more toothpaste, she'd be going to the Rite Aid.

Her original impression that Clearfield was a nice town was re-reinforced by the rest of the residents, however, who were amicable and helpful. She went into several stores with summer fashions in the window displays, found cheap stretchy bicycle shorts and a sport bra in one and might have passed over Betty's Boutique based solely on the unfair rationale that Beverly's Boutique in Marion leaned toward drab fashions for older ladies—until she saw the most wonderful fern green sundress draped oh-so carefully over a small tufted chair in the shop window. She chirped a sigh, went in, and emerged twenty minutes later with the dress, a muted tan-brown shrug, and a pair of light, breezy sandals.

She might have skipped back to her car, she was so happy, but for the peculiar notion that someone was watching her. Like at night, when she scooted faster than necessary from the trash cans to the back door with goose bumps on her arms, sensing the boogeyman who lived in the mind of her inner six-year-old. She always felt foolish and chided herself, but she couldn't stop it. And truth be told, she much preferred being hyperaware of her surroundings than to be walking around like an oblivious airhead.

So she gave herself permission to look back, just a couple of times, and saw no one.

It wasn't until she reached her car that she felt it again. Only this time she had no doubt. After stowing her treasures on the backseat, she got behind the wheel, put her purse on the passenger seat, buckled in, and looked up in time to catch a big blue pickup truck stop at the end of the block, kitty-corner to the hospital parking lot. All she could see of the man inside were his aviator glasses and a thick and jowly face under a green baseball cap. He turned off his truck but didn't get out. Instead, he sat, boldly assessing her. It wasn't another red-hair thing—it was too deliberate, too constant, too composed. Menacing even, but that made no sense at all. She hadn't been in town a week and yet . . .

Suddenly, he seemed to realize that she was inspecting him as closely as he was her. He started his engine, made an illegal U-turn in the street that crossed the front of the hospital, and sped off.

Sophie sat motionless, confused. Certainly, compared to the other odd events she'd witnessed lately, this one was pretty tame. Typical, too, for someone to be curious about the new—and now infamous—girl in town. As far as she could see she had two choices: sit in the car wondering until she was old and gray or shrug it off as one of those peculiar things that happen sometimes.

She chose the latter.

Chapter Five

“O
h. It's purr-fect.” Jesse was, Sophie sensed, an undemanding critic who would have said the same thing had she descended in the garment bag she'd brought the dress home in. Still, it was a terrific dress and she felt good in it, which all the real authorities said was, in the end, the important thing. “Tell her, Mike.”

He looked away from the flat screen, gave her a hard once-over, a nod, and a grin. “Oh, yeah. Purr-fect.”

“Smart aleck.” He chuckled and went back to his program. “You look lovely, Sophie. You certainly know how to work with that beautiful hair of yours.”

She smiled her gratitude but had to admit, “That's all my mom's doing. She had great taste and she considered me her greatest challenge. One of my first memories is of walking behind her through the kids' department at Penney's and her draping clothes over one side of my face to compare both my hair and my skin with a specific color. We did the same thing in fabric stores. She didn't know how to sew but she'd ask for swatches of this color and that color; and by the time I was insisting on shopping
alone,
she'd put eyelets in all those little pieces of material and strung them on a key chain for me to carry around in my purse.” She laughed softly. “She sounds like a complete control freak, doesn't she?”

“No, no,” Jesse protested facetiously. “Not at all.” They laughed.

“I guess she was. But I'll always think of her more as a perfectionist. A perfectionist who wanted everything to be perfect for me.”

“Was it hard living up to her expectations?”

“No, not really. You see, I already
was
perfect—to my parents anyway. Even when I screwed up, which I did fairly frequently, they always made the best of it or found something good about it. Even if they couldn't think of anything spectacular, it was at the very least a learning experience for me. . . .” She gave a soft laugh as she went thoughtful. “It isn't often you find people who believe in you so blindly.”

“I think, when your time comes, you'll find that most parents believe in their children. Maybe not blindly but faithfully. By blood or not, the bond between a parent and a child is an amazing thing.” She glanced lovingly toward Mike in the TV room, who, with a smirk on his face, was pretending not to hear them. “Or I'd have sold him to a circus long ago.”

“They
buy
all those clowns? No wonder they all dress badly.”

“Yep. Smart-alecky boys, all of them. Little ones, big ones. Jugglers, basketball players, all kinds. I've checked it out. Several times.”

Mike's grin got bigger and he shook his head but still refused to look their way—until the doorbell rang. He flew to answer it, muttering, “Ya'll 'er scary crazy,” as he passed.

“Hey, Mike. How ya doin'?”

“Let me put it this way: You're saving my life.”

Drew stepped inside, his palms up as in
ta-da
. . . “Saving lives is my job, man.” He caught sight of Sophie, and after a slow head-to-toe stroke of a look that made her squirm with delight inside, he frowned and looked back at Mike. “What? You need saving from two beautiful women? Maybe you need a different kind of doctor.”

“Dude. One of 'em is my mom.”

The man gave the boy a commiserating bob of his head. “Right. In that case, I can certainly feel your pain. Unfortunately—”

“Oh, pooh.” Jesse broke in with a laugh. “You two have the nicest mothers in town. Give us gratitude, not grief. Now, where are you taking our girl here? Someplace nice?”

“Burger King,” he told Jesse without hesitation. “McDonald's has better fries, of course, but
King
implies a more elegant dinning experience, don't you think?”

While she sputtered playfully, he offered Sophie a wink and his hand, which she took, knowing as well as he did that if they didn't keep moving, they might never get out of the house.

“Now, how did I know you'd be such a culinary snob about this, Jesse?” He gave Mike a fond, reassuring squeeze on one shoulder and pushed the screen door open to let Sophie out. “So purely to keep you happy, I also made a reservation at Tony's. He said he'd hold it until nine o'clock when I called to push it back, which means we should probably get going or we'll end up out on the curb eating leftover spaghetti off paper plates. In which case Burger King
would
start looking good.”

“Oh, like Tony wouldn't stay open all night if you asked him. Don't let them fool you, Sophie. Two more unlikely friends you'll never see. Tony's a mountain-sized football player who turned his fondness for food—”

“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. This is
my
date. If you tell her everything, I won't have anything left to say. She'll think I'm dull as dirt and it'll be your fault.”

“Oh, please.” She tsked, pretending to be indignant. “Fine. Go. Leave me with the ungrateful child.” She threw her arms around Mike's neck from behind and he let her. “Be back before dawn.” Mike rolled his eyes and started pushing the door closed. “I don't want to have to explain anything to the neighbors, but I do expect a full report when—”

They were both laughing going down the steps to the sidewalk, still holding hands. Drew stopped, turned to her, and heaved a sigh. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Sorry I'm late.”

She smiled. “I appreciated the call. Your patients can't exactly call in to schedule a crisis. I hope it went okay.”

He gave a nod. “In case I don't mention it every time I think it tonight, you look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said, happy to hide her heady flush in the twilight—it not being in her color wheel and all. “New dress.”

“Mm. It's nice, too.” His second compliment caught her off guard and the double flush that came in response was almost painful, though apparently the dusk wasn't as concealing as she'd hoped. He grinned perceptively and moved on, ignoring her stunned silence. “I hope you like Italian. Tony cooks a bit of everything, otherwise he'd never make it in a town this size; but he loves eating Italian, so that's what he cooks best.” He pulled the iron gate open and let her pass through. “He's likely to come out of the kitchen, brag about his secret recipes, and even tell you what you should eat, but feel free to order what you want or he'll—” He stopped when she did and frowned at her expression. “What?”

“That truck.” She nodded sideways to the big blue one parked up the block. She wasn't sure if she should stare back at the man seated inside to show she wasn't troubled by his presence—which was a lie—or casually look away to withhold any satisfaction he might be getting if he was indeed stalking her. “I saw it . . . him”
—if the cap he's wearing is green
—“this morning. Across from the hospital.” The rest of what she was thinking was too strange to say out loud; and yet, with the sickening drain of blood from under her skin that left her feeling clammy and queasy, she couldn't help herself. “I think he's watching me.”

Drew's hesitation to believe her was so brief she almost kissed him. “I'm pretty sure that's Cliff Palmeroy. I . . . well, wait here a second. I'll be right back.”

“No, don't,” she said, totally without heart, instinctively following him into the street. “I mean, it could be coincidence.”

“Then we'll only be a few more minutes late for dinner. We'll say hi and be on our way.”

“I feel ridiculous.” But only marginally. “I'm probably overreacting.”

“Do you do that a lot? Overreact?”

“Well no, not usually but—”

“One of the most amazing things I've learned in my profession is that people often don't give their instincts enough credit. So many of the people I see have known or suspected, but refused to believe, that they're desperately ill until it's too late. And when relatively stable patients tell me they are dying—imminently, at that very moment—despite all evidence to the contrary, I always call their minister and loved ones in. And sure enough, they die a few hours later. My advice: always listen to your instincts.” He hesitated. “What's he doing? Sleeping?”

With his arm from the elbow down dangling out the open window of the truck, Cliff Palmeroy's head was tipped at a backward angle to the left, his cap bill low over his eyes. “See? Stupid. Let's not disturb him.”

“He might not be asleep. Could be a coronary or a stroke or a diabetic—” Abruptly he stepped in front of her, putting his back to the truck and turning her around, her back to him, calm but urgently saying, “Call 911.”

“What? Why?” Her hands shook as she went for her phone. “What is it?”

“Don't turn around, Sophie.”

But even as she dialed the ominous number, she turned and asked, “Why? What's happened? Is he ill?” And putting the cell to her ear, she finally looked up and took a step closer to see if she could help. “Oh, Jesus!”

She saw the man's gaping mouth, the dark bib of blood, thick and wide, down the front of his T-shirt; the explosion of splatter that spotted the driver's window casing and dripped down the door panel—she caught the scent of feces and rusty nails, and the wide-open look of horror in his eyes before she could turn away again.

“What's happened to him? Yes, hello. Hello? Yes. There's blood . . .” She took a deep breath—swallowed several times to keep the salt and bile in the back of her throat. “A man's been injured. We're on Poplar Street, a few blocks down from the hospital. I can't see an address, but we're across from Jesse Halleron's bed-and-breakfast. He's in a truck. There's a doctor here but he's going to need help. There's a lot of blood. What? His name? Dr. McCarren? Oh, the man's name. Cliff . . . something.”

“Palmeroy.”

“Cliff Palmeroy. Well, I don't—” She half turned but didn't look at Drew. Her hands were shaking—she trembled as if she was standing inside her own personal earthquake. “Is he . . . ?”

“Yes. He's dead,” he said directly behind her, reaching to take the phone—which she gave up willingly. He put an arm around her shoulders, no doubt an automatic thing for someone like him but she didn't care; she leaned into him before the shivering took her to her knees. “Drew McCarren. We're going to need the police, too, and someone from the coroner's office will want to see this. Thanks. No, I'll stay. I can hear them already.”

Her stomach pitched like waves in a storm—up and down and up again. Salty saliva pooled in her throat again and her mind raced in no specific direction.

Sirens had started to whine in the distance. Closer, far off down the street, they could see red lights flashing as an ambulance sped to their aide.

“Why don't you go back to Jesse's? You don't need to be here. The cops'll want to talk to you, too, but it'll be a while and I'll tell them where you are.”

“Are you sure? I'm not as wimpy as I must seem right now. I wasn't expecting . . . it's a shock is all. I can stay. You shouldn't have to deal with this alone.”

“There's isn't anything for me to deal with. Once the cops get here, they'll handle it. Go ahead. I'll be along in a few minutes.”

There was no point arguing—she'd rather be the full-time poop scooper at Kaufman Dog Park
and
the vomit monitor during flu season at her school than contend with the huge strew of blood.

“A
nd you're sure you've never seen the victim before this morning?” This was the third time Sheriff Murphy posed the same question. He was a tall, sandy-haired man in his midforties—very serious and awfully intimidating in his efforts to be thorough.

“Yes. I'm positive.” But that was all she was sure of. Her ankles and the tips of her fingers were numb—and vomiting again was not out of the question.

“And you're certain it was the same man because you recognized the truck?”

“Yes. Well, and the green hat.”

“So seeing a man in a blue truck, wearing a green hat convinced you that he was watching you?”

“For crying out loud, Freddy!” A disconcerted Jesse sprang from her chair to begin pacing again. “Pay attention!”

“Mom,” Mike said, but she ignored him.

“How many times does the girl need to tell you? This morning, at the hospital, was the first time she'd ever seen him in her life. He stared at her from across the street and then drove off. She thought it was weird but didn't put too much stock in it. She was here with me the rest of the day until Drew showed up for their date. They left the house and she saw him, for the second time in her life, parked up the street in front of the Levy's house. She mentioned both encounters to Drew, who decided to go say hello to Cliff and find out why he was watching Sophie. And that's when they found him dead in his truck and . . . my God, who would
do
such a thing? I know lots of us have
wanted
to at one time or another—he was a miserable excuse for a man but . . . who would do it? I saw Carla at the grocery store the day before yesterday. Poor thing's so flighty . . . if there'd been anything amiss at home she'd have been a wreck. But she was as calm as she ever gets, the kids were with her— Who would
do
this?” She stopped to glare at the sheriff. “Don't make me sorry I voted for you, Freddy. If you accuse Sophie again I'll . . . I'll run for sheriff myself next time. And I won't need a badge to see when someone is so obviously innocent.”

Sheriff Murphy glared back. “First off,
Ms. Halleron,
I'm not accusing anyone of anything,” he said, walking toward her. And when he was close enough, he muttered under his breath, “You call me Freddy again and I'll arrest
you
.” He turned back to Sophie and Drew, sitting on the couch. “And secondly: sometimes, if a witness repeats what happened more than once, they can recall additional facts like: Did he speak to anyone this morning or did he seem agitated; could there have been anyone with him, in the truck bed maybe, or . . .”