Between a Wok and a Hard Place (30 page)

you that Pearl Buck was a dear friend of mine? As a matter of fact, it was I who suggested she write - "

The last piece of the jigsaw puzzle fell neatly into place. Unlike the game, however, this real-life puzzle did not

resemble the picture on the box. Not the mental picture I'd painted, at any rate.

"This is all very interesting," Melvin said, "but you people are interrupting police business."

I gave Melvin a look that could freeze asphalt on a summer day. Then I took a deep breath and smiled warmly at

Caitlin. She smiled back.

"I'm fine, dear," I said to her. "How is your dolly?"

"Wan Oou likes you," she said and giggled.

"Tell her I like her, too."

She said something to the doll in a singsong voice and then thrust the sorry thing at me. I reluctantly took and patted

it, and returned it forthwith.

"Where are your mommy and daddy?" I asked the urchin gently.

She shrugged.

"I'm sitting for the kids," Terry said. "They had some things they wanted to do in town."

My blood ran cold. "Which town?"

"Bedford, I guess. They said they might be gone for a couple of hours. Don't worry, I'm good with kids."

"I'm counting on that," I said and bolted for the door.

I have a list of ten things I want to ask my Maker some day, and one of them is to do with why hospitals serve their

evening meal at such an ungodly early hour. My uncharitable guess is that the staff are in a hurry to get home to fix their

own meals, to be eaten at the regular time.

The front receptionist was unfamiliar to me, so I tried to read her name badge. It wasn't easy to do, because the

woman was hunched over a magazine laboriously sounding out the difficult phrases like "six easy payments" and "a

collector's piece you'll be proud to call your own." When I finally read her name I did a double take. Hillary Clinton. This

woman was not the First Lady, I was pretty sure of that. She didn't look a day over twelve to me.

"Excuse me,”' I said politely. "Which room is Thomas Arnold in?"

She glanced up casually from her magazine. "Visiting hours don't resume until after supper. Come back at five."

I glanced at my watch. It was four thirty-two. "This is an emergency," I snapped. "I have to see the patient now."

She treated me to a wide yawn. "He's not here."

"What?"

She looked down at her magazine. "I said he's not here."

"What do you mean he's not here?" I screamed. The lady in the gift shop must have heard me, because she was

looking nervously my way. I smiled and waved until she waved timidly back.

Hillary, however was not impressed. "You speak English," she said without looking up. "Which word didn't you

understand?"

"I understand that your job is in jeopardy if you don't cooperate, toots. I'm here on police business."

Hillary slowly turned a page in her magazine. "You don't look like a cop."

"Hernia Police Department, dear. If you don't believe me, let me use your phone."

"You're supposed to have a badge. Do you have a badge?"

"It's in the car, dear." All right, so it was a lie, but a young man's life was at stake.

"Then I'm afraid I can't help you." She turned her attention back to her magazine and was immediately captivated by

an ad for perfume. While Rome burned down around her, Hillary Clinton ripped back a paper flap and rolled her wrist

around on the page. The scent that reached my nostrils smelled like the dead squirrel I found in the rain gutter last spring.

It may surprise you to learn that patience has never been my forte. It certainly surprised me when I reached over the

counter and grabbed her skinny wrist. Not the one that smelled like a dead squirrel.

"Where is Thomas Arnold?" I demanded through clenched teeth. My adrenaline was pumping.

At last, I had Hillary's undivided attention. I don't believe in reincarnation, but if I did, I would want to come back as

someone who was big and strong and had a viselike grip. Either that, or a natural blonde for whom wearing a bra was a

necessity, not a privilege.

"Hey, you're hurting me," Hillary whined, but she didn't scream, or try and jerk away, so I knew I was well on my way

to obtaining her cooperation.

I squeezed harder for good measure.

"Okay!" she gasped. "You win. The guy you're asking about just left with his parents."

I let go of her wrist. "He what?"

Her newfound respect for me began to fade before my eyes. "You're not going to make me repeat everything, are

you?"

I thought for a moment. "Were his parents Amish?"

"Oh, please! Give me a break," she said and returned to her magazine as if nothing had happened.

Buffalo Mountain runs north and south, and Highway 96 between Bedford and Hernia runs right alongside it. There

are no parallel roads to connect the two communities. Had there been, I would have succumbed to temptation, taken the

one least traveled, and pushed my pedal to the metal. Don't get me wrong, speeding is a sin, and the Devil is on a first-

name basis with those folks who do so just for fun, or can't be bothered to get up in time to drive to their appointments at

the legal speed. But neither of those situations applied to me that afternoon, and I was on a sacred mission to save a life,

so I pressed the pedal anyway. If I got a ticket, I would drop it in the offering plate at church.

I assure you that I neither swore nor gesticulated as I barreled along at almost twice the speed limit, although I had

occasion to do so more than once. Tourists might think of Highway 96 as bucolic, but it can be an obstacle course when

there is a life on the line. I deftly dodged Delbert Detweiler's demented dog, which darted out into the highway, but wasn't

quite as successful with Rachel Rickenbach's Rhode Island Reds. I made a mental note to give Rachel the recipe for

Freni's famous chicken salad. Fortunately the cars I needed to pass were more cooperative, and I didn't encounter any

buggies.

About five miles out from Hernia the highway curves in close to Buffalo Mountain and begins to follow the lay of

Slave Creek, with many quick twists and turns. The fields give way to woods here and some of the old trees hang over

road forming a virtual runnel. This is the most dangerous stretch of Route 96, and Susannah and her friends refer to it as

Accident Alley. I was slowing down a mite to take the first turn when I saw a familiar car ahead. It was the Dixonmobile.

My first reaction was to let off the brake and step on the gas. I would ram the fiends from behind if necessary. But

that would undoubtedly injure poor Samuel, and besides the diabolical duo hadn't a clue I was on to them. No, much

better to hang back and follow them. When they made a left turn on Zweibacher Road to get to the Kauffman farm, I'd

zoom on past them and then, for better or for worse, get Melvin. And Zelda, too, whether she was done helping her mama

or not.

A few people have accused me of being inflexible in my thinking, and I'm beginning to think they are right. Even

though the Dixonmobile didn’t turn left to the Kauffman farm, I nearly did. I mean, my eyes saw the criminal car sail right

on past Zweibacher Road, but my brain apparently didn't - not until I was halfway into the turn. The corrective maneuver I

attempted defied the law of physics and made me a staunch believer in miracles. Although my BMW bucked like a

bronco, and I lost a quarter inch of rubber from my tires, I was able to continue my pursuit almost uninterrupted. A faithful

Christian, I didn't forget to thank the Good Lord for inventing antilock brakes.

Because of my near mishap, I was ready when the Dixonmobile made an abrupt right turn on the gravel lane that

winds up Stucky Ridge. That's not to say, I wasn't surprised. I had just assumed the diabolic duo would be headed for the

Kauffman farm. Why I had assumed that, I don't know. Let's just say that my aging gray cells don't do their best thinking

careering on a country road at ninety miles an hour.

I slowed down considerably since there are no roads that intersect that gravel lane. There was no need to worry

about me losing them, and I certainly didn't want them to discover that I was on their tail. Believe, me, my decision to

reduce my speed had nothing to do with the damage gravel was capable of inflicting on my vehicle.

At any rate, with the slower speed my senses returned. Yes, of course, Stucky Ridge, and Settler's Cemetery in

particular, made perfect sense to commit the I dastardly deed. The historic cemetery was hardly used anymore, and at

that hour of the day one wasn't likely I; to find spooning couples on the picnic side, either. The copse of woods between

the two areas was the perfect place to dump a body. If their car was spotted and they were later questioned, the Dixons

could claim they had driven up for the view. My slow speed assumptions were correct, and as I emerged from the last

curve I spotted the Dixonmobile parked at the far end of the left fork of the gravel lane, alongside Settler's Cemetery. I

stopped and turned off the engine while I considered my options. The safest thing for me was to turn around and drive into

Hernia for help. But if young Samuel was alive - and I had no reason to believe he wasn't - a brash frontal attack on my

part might be what was required to keep him that way. After all, the Dixons had no reason to suspect that I knew what

they were up to. I could simply drive up the road and park beside them. My pretext could be a visit to my parents' graves.

Somehow I would find a way to wrest Samuel from them and get him to safety.

I am not a screamer by nature - just ask Aaron Jr. - but I let out a holler that was heard two counties away when

Dorothy Dixon tapped on my window with the barrel of her gun. Then like the fool I never suspected I was, I stupidly rolled

down the window at her request.

"You're quite a clever woman, Mrs. Miller," she said. "You know, you might even be bright enough to be a writer. Too

bad you won't get the chance to find out."

I was still gasping, aftershocks from my mega-scream. "It's - Miss - Yoder - now. How did - I mean - your car - "

"Oh, that. You thought we didn't see you? Well, then perhaps you're not as bright as I thought. Maybe you should aim

for being an editor."

"But I stayed way behind you!"

"You're driving a bright red BMW, for crying out loud. Astronauts on the space shuttle could have tracked your

progress."

"You left a pretty messy trail yourself," I said, and knocked my standing down from book editor to literary agent.

"Yeah, well, who knew that Flower had it in her? Blackmail! And just because Angus likes to take a few creative

photos now and then. They bring in good money, you know. A lot more than the ones he sells to so-called legitimate

publications. Or my children's books, for that matter. And Angus is good."

"How could he do that? He's a father, for pete's sake!"

She seemed positively shocked. "Angus never photographed our children. He's a wonderful father. And I certainly

never do anything to harm them."

"Thank heavens for that at least. So, what was Flower to you, their nanny?"

"Very good, Mrs. Miller."

"Yoder," I snapped.

She smiled. "We sponsored Flower - her real name is Mei Wua - on a student visa. She worked for us as an au pair

girl while she went to college. Then like you, she got to poking around. But" - she laughed pleasantly - "that's all ancient

history."

"No it's not," I said, and reduced my IQ to that of a book reviewer. "Flower's new roommate showed up, and she's not

the giving-up type. Not to mention there's a coal room full of pornography back at the inn. Oh, yes, and let's not forget the

license plate we found with your husband's fingerprints on it."

She blanched. "You searched our room?" I nodded which, of course, isn't the same as lying. Frankly, I was

impressed with their cleverness. Throwing the telltale tag away back home in Philadelphia was a stroke of genius. Well,

she was a writer after all.