What Laurel Sees: a love story (A Redeeming Romance Mystery) (13 page)

Joe pushed past her. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Debra shut the door behind him. “Exercised my first amendment rights?”

“Half of this was supposed to be off the record.” Joe gave the paper a backhanded slap. “I promised her. That was the deal. Plus, you let Adele call her a psychic, which she expressly forbade.”

Debra combed her hair with her fingers. “Since when does that matter?”

“Since when do you root through my desk? Since when do you swipe my notes?”

“Company notepad, pen, desk drawer, and company dime you’re working on...” She quacked her hand like a duck as she strode toward her kitchen.

Joe dogged her steps. He flashed the issue in her face. “She could lose her child over this.”

“Maybe she should.” Debra added some protein powder to the fruit in her blender and hit the start button. “You know, you’re the one who called her a spook.”

“Which you took completely out of context.”

“Really, Joe.” She chose a large glass from her cabinet. “You think some uber wack-job who quite possibly murdered her ex ought to get her child back?”

“Debra, you don’t know her.”

An impish smirk curled on her face. “Yes. And I totally forgot how intimately you two have become acquainted.”

Bile burned in his throat. He fought to tamp it down. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what, Joe?” Nonchalantly, she leaned against the counter. “Don’t point out your rampant unprofessionalism? Don’t hold you accountable as my employee?”

All he could do was shake his head. It was that or completely lose it. “Keep lying to yourself. Hide behind the job.”

She gestured toward the paper. “Show me something I printed there that isn’t true.”

“This is a spin job and you know it, Debra.”

“We’re a tabloid, Joe. Spin sells.”

Joe imploded. Was this really a woman he’d once found attractive? Seriously? And was he any better than she was, working for that hideous rag?

Barely holding it together, Joe backed toward the door. “You know what, Debra? Don’t expect me at work tomorrow. Don’t expect me ever. Spin that.”

Any doubt whether or not the wait staff at the Blackberry Grille would have known about the
Kickerton Press
Sunday Edition vanished the moment Joe walked in the door. That crusty cashier of theirs hadn’t been all that friendly the first time Joe had come calling for Laurel. This time, all pretense of decorum was gone. He got nothing but an icy glare.

The one with the African accent approached him head on immediately. “You got your nerve, Mr. Hardisty.”

He was tempted to leave right then and there. Still, he had to find Laurel. He read the server’s name off her tag. “Belle, just tell me. Is she in?”

Belle huffed, her guard still fully in place. “All up close and personal. And you don’t even know she’s off today.”

“Look, it’s not what you think,” Joe said. “She’s not at her apartment. She’s not picking up her cell.”

“I wouldn’t think so, after that story you ran.”

Joe slumped against a stool. “Then, you’re telling me she’s seen it.”

“Laurel doesn’t read your kind of paper. Not even in the checkout line. That’s why I took a copy over to her myself. First thing this morning when I saw it,” Belle said. “Not that I got a bit of joy from breaking that kind of news. But at least I could make sure she heard it from someone who actually loves her, instead of someone else.”

Joe rubbed his fingers against his temple. This was getting so out of control. He looked up, buckling under the weight of the world. “Please, Belle. Do you know where she is?”

She set her fists against her waist. “It’s Sunday morning. Where do you think?”

Joe leaned against a tree outside a modest-looking community chapel. Absently, he twirled a three-stranded set of pine needles between his fingers. Strains of what he could only wish was the last worship song concluded.

Finally. People began to make their way out to their cars. Hopefully, it would be as Belle had said. Laurel would be there among them.

A woman seemed to recognize him. She tapped on another woman’s arm and pointed in his direction. Joe averted his eyes. He pretended to look at the church itself.

Everything about the building was non-descript. There wasn’t even a hint of a denomination on the sign. In no way did it compare to the cathedral where he’d been raised as an orphaned child. No statues, no stained glass, and no vaulted ceilings reaching toward the heavens. There was no robe or headdress on the minister. Instead, this parson stood at the door in a white oxford shirt and khakis, greeting his departing congregation, a gregarious smile on his face. It was all friendly enough looking. Still, just the sight made something sour in Joe’s stomach.

Where was Laurel?

Her car was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she had walked. He had zero desire to darken their doors, but it appeared that he would have to at least check inside. Gratefully, the minister was drawn into conversation with a family. Joe took the moment to ease through the other side of the door.

Joe peered in from the rear of the sanctuary. It was as plainly appointed as the outside had been. A simple, unoccupied cross hung on the front wall, behind a simple podium.

He scanned the few folks that remained, chatting in the aisles. There, toward the front, was Laurel. Sitting in a pew by herself. What must she think of him and all his promises?

Joe took a deep breath and made his way up the aisle. He stopped at the end of the pew. Now that he was there, he searched for words. There seemed no good way to begin.

When she barely looked up at him, he could only suppose the worst. He slid into the pew beside her. “You saw the story.”

Laurel nodded her head. She looked so very disappointed.

He didn’t dare touch her. “Laurel, believe me. That wasn’t my story they printed.”

Finally, she looked up at him. “I’ll admit I felt pretty betrayed over it. At first. But then—”

“Laurel, they broke into my desk. They took my notes. I didn’t write anything you said was off the record.”

“I know,” she said.

Joe took it in thoughtfully. For a moment, he had forgotten about her gift. “You know because, uh...” Joe tipped his eyes toward the ceiling. “You know because He told you?”

Laurel’s lips barely turned up. “I know because I’m a woman.” Finally, she turned to him. “I know what happened between us, Joe.”

He checked all around them. No one was anywhere close. Still, he shifted in his seat. “Could we...maybe go somewhere else and...”

Sadness gleamed in those aquamarine eyes. “You’re not comfortable here.”

Joe scanned the place. It was just a plain old building, retrofitted as a sanctuary. Why did he still find just sitting there so completely unsettling? “I don’t know, it just...”

“...brings things back.” Laurel rose to her feet. “It’s okay. We can go.”

Joe stood, his mind flashing to a past he’d long attempted to bury. What did Laurel think she knew?

twelve

L
aurel ambled along the urban street at Joe’s side. It seemed such a normal thing to do on a Sunday afternoon. But for Laurel, it was something of a first. Frank had loved to drive, but he’d never been much for walking.

She filled her lungs with the afternoon air. Life sure had been full of surprising turns for her, and whatever it was that was going on with Joe—that was certainly one of them.

Secrets rolled over inside of her, whispers that had come as she’d interceded for Joe, late into the night. Concern for him weighed heavy on her heart. She glanced over at him. How much should she tell him? It was hard to know sometimes, just when to disclose what she saw and heard. All she knew was that these were confidences that had been shared with great empathy and purpose.

Laurel caught hold of her heart. Something was growing there, against her better judgment. There was no point in denying the chemistry between them. Joe seemed to be feeling it, too. But as well as they were starting to get along, there was still such a vast spiritual gulf between them.

She drew in a breath. Joe was a prodigal, too. Just like she had been. Perhaps he’d return to the faith he once had as a boy, before human hypocrisy had alienated him so. Would he ever find his way back across that divide? When she’d inquired about that in prayer, the heavens had been decidedly silent. Perhaps not knowing was best. It reminded her to resist the urge to run ahead of what might be intended.      

Joe was still so quiet. He seemed so content to just stroll with her down the sidewalk. They stopped to watch as some scrappy kids played basketball on a fenced-in municipal court. There was nothing left of the net on the hoop, but that didn’t seem to compromise the boys’ fun. These were the simple joys of life in the city.

Joe turned away from the game. “I quit today.”

Laurel nodded. “I heard.”

He looked surprised.

“Not like that. Not from, you know...” She pointed up, then tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “I got a call from someone named Adele Stedler. She said she was assigned to take over my story. I told her my deal was with you.”

“Really.” Joe seemed pleased.

“Yeah.” A crooked grin formed on her lips. “I’m more loyal than the average spook.”

“Ooh. Busted.” An apologetic grimace cracked. “I actually did say that, you know.”

She dropped her jaw in mock disapproval.

“But,” he said. “You have to know I meant it in the best possible way.”

She returned a good-humored shrug. “That’s the problem with black and white, you know? A person can take a perfectly affectionate shot. And without the proper vocal inflection, it can be completely misconstrued.”

Joe chuckled.

How wonderful it was to see the heaviness lift from Joe’s face, to see him smile at her. He got her little joke, and he’d volleyed it right back. Was it possible that he was actually starting to enjoy spending time with her, just as much as she was with him?

Neither of their lives was perfect. Not by a long shot. The huge challenges they both faced—they loomed just as large. And there was still that spiritual divide between them. She couldn’t cross it for him, as much as she wished she could. It was something he’d have to come to himself.

What the future held for them, Laurel didn’t know.  But what she drank in was the moment, the refreshing wonder of that small space in time when, in the simple pleasure of his company, a ray of sunshine peeked through.

Adele Stedler gazed at the historic cathedral. This was
Saint So-and-So’s
, at least according to Clay Hardisty. It was where Clay’s story began, well over two decades ago.

Hard to believe it, but all those years of paying her dues had come to a close. This wasn’t some puff piece she’d been tossed—this or the Fischer murder story. These were real, hard-hitting news pieces with larger-than-life characters in stranger-than-fiction situations. These were the kinds of stories that careers were built upon. Told well, they could catapult her from
Kickerton Press
to the
Times
.

Sure the church had declined her request for a meeting. But after that bombshell of an alert they’d just posted on their website, how could she let herself be so easily deterred? True journalists knew no such boundaries. And Adele Stedler was a true journalist. The sign on the grounds announced that the cathedral was open to the public. She certainly qualified as part of that great number.

Adele studied the lofty bell tower. Looking up from below, it was dizzying, really. What must it have been like, to suffer the abuse that Clay had there? She could hardly imagine it. And what seemed even more unthinkable was the parish’s most recent hire.

Tom Zoring.

Their own defrocked priest.

Clay’s abuser.

Zoring must have felt so high and mighty, so powerful, before his hypocrisy found him out years ago. Now, he was just a pathetic old man, huddled over a bucket and brush, scrubbing the courtyard steps. Part of his penance, no doubt.

As far as Adele was concerned, it was a debt the man could never repay. How could anyone begin to put a fair price on those lives he had damaged? Zoring would keep scrubbing from now to kingdom come if she ever had a say in the matter. Still, he would make a good subject for her story, if she could manage to get a statement. No time like the present to give that a go.

Zoring cowered as she neared him. Soapy water sloshed as he scrambled to gather up his cleaning supplies. He was like a scared animal—trembling at the sight of her—not even knowing who she was.

“Mr. Zoring,” she called. “Adele Stedler,
Kickerton Press
. May I have just a moment of your time?”

It was no use. Like the rodent that he was, Zoring scurried away. Ah, well. It had been worth a shot. Adele turned. She startled to find herself facing a man in a clerical collar. His hands were clasped at his waist. Maybe this wouldn’t be a dry run after all.

“Ms. Stedler, I’m Father Via,” the priest said. “As my staff informed you when you called here earlier, Mr. Zoring is not available for interviews. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Adele studied the priest. He appeared to be in his late forties. Quite a bit younger than Zoring, but surely this priest had heard all about the scandal years ago. What role had this man played in the decision to employ Zoring now that Oliverio’s had given him the boot? There must have been some heated discussion about that within these hallowed halls. Perhaps a statement from the good Father Via would be the next best thing.

She made sure he noticed when she started her recorder. “So, you’re really asking me to leave,” Adele echoed. “Tell me, Father Via. Has the church taken to turning people away these days?”

The priest bowed ever so slightly with a genteel air. “I’ll remind you that the last time you approached Mr. Zoring, he lost his job.”

Unintimidated, Adele stretched her hands out to her sides. “He’s a known predator. There are school-aged children on these premises.”

“I assure you, the situation is being monitored quite vigilantly. Mr. Zoring wears an electronic device round the clock. He can’t get anywhere near the children without triggering an alarm. In addition to the public alert on our website, the entire staff, as well as all the students’ guardians, have been fully informed and advised.”

All Adele could do was stare, agape. This was beyond preposterous.

Father Via unclasped his hands. “We may not see eye-to-eye on this, Ms. Stedler, but you may quote me. This cathedral remains a haven for the needy. And no matter how vile, if a sincerely penitent sinner can’t come to this place for help—well, that’s when these doors should be closed.”

Joe scanned the area as he walked with Laurel. There was no sign of a photographer, but after the picture in this morning’s paper, he couldn’t be completely sure. Was this how it felt to be on the other side of a story, like the kind
Kickerton
printed?

“So, what do you think you’re going to do about work now?” Laurel asked.

He mulled it over. “I don’t know. Not like the
Times
is beating down my door.”

“I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”

“Fairly foul job at
Kickerton
anyway.” Joe ducked under a low tree limb. “Maybe I’ll...who knows, just get in my car. See where it takes me.”

“I feel like that sometimes, too.” Laurel’s face brightened.

Joe cocked his head to the side. “I wouldn’t have thought that...with Grace and all.”

“Especially with Gracie,” she said. “Do you know how tempting it is to me to just grab her, just disappear? Totally wrong, but tempting.”

“I guess.” Joe nodded wryly. “Forget the job. Who needs money? Forget hassling with my boss, my brother and just...open road.”

Laurel took it in, a contemplative look on her face. “Joe...” She slowed to a stop. “Joe, I’m not trying to freak you or anything, but... I’m really getting concerned, about your brother, Clay.”

“So am I.” Joe sighed. When had he not been concerned about his brother, over the past twenty-some years? The problem was, as much as he thought about Clay, as many times as he’d tried to help him, Clay insisted upon living life his own way. There seemed no way to change a person who didn’t want to be changed.

Worry flashed in Laurel’s eyes. “It’s just that... I keep seeing him and... Joe, there’s blood on him.”

Inside, Joe staggered. “Clay, he... He got beaten up last night, pretty badly. But it’s okay...it’ll heal.”

Pain flitted across her face. “He just seems so knotted up...really confused and scared...he hides it, but that’s what I see.”

Joe took it in. It was all so unnerving. “You’re saying you got all this in a vision.”

She nodded. “It’s like a flash. Just a quick picture. But repeated.” She gazed at him, her eyes filled with compassion. “I’m afraid... You could lose him, Joe.”

Joe looked straight into Laurel’s eyes. “You’ve never seen Clay, never met him, read about him, heard anything from any natural sources?”

“No.” Laurel held his gaze. “Just what comes to me.” Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head. “That, and the name Marilyn, for some reason.”

The bottom fell out of Joe’s logic.

“Does that make any sense to you, Joe?”

“Yeah, that...tracks.” He scratched his hairline. “Pardon me, but this whole gift of yours, it takes some getting used to.” His eyes fell on a child in the distance, over Laurel’s shoulder. It seemed so incongruous in this neighborhood, but a little girl in a crisp dress sat waiting on the steps leading to Laurel’s building. “Isn’t that...?”

Laurel’s gaze followed his. “Gracie!”

At the sound of her name, the little girl rose. She ran as fast as those Sunday shoes on her feet would carry her. “Mommy!” Grace threw herself into her mother’s waiting arms.

Laurel squeezed her daughter tight. “Sweetie, what are you doing here all by yourself?”

“I waited inside for a while, but I put the key back where you hide it.”

Laurel held Grace out at arm’s length. “That’s fine, but...the court says we have to set up these visits.”

Grace took her mother’s hand. “I heard you were calling and they wouldn’t let you come, so I came here instead. I rode the bus and everything. That nice man helped me.” Grace pointed across the street. “He said he’d stay till you got home.”