Caught Redhanded (13 page)

Mrs. Santiago nodded. “So wonderful people. But first I get you something to eat. Sit.” She indicated the worn sofa along one wall of her living room. “I be a minute.”

I watched the old woman shuffle toward the back of the house and the kitchen. “Can we help?” I asked, half rising. “What can we do?”

“
Nada, chica.
I am fine.”

“I’ll help her.” Bailey rose and followed Mrs. Santiago. In a moment she returned with a glass of iced tea in each hand. She handed one to me as Mrs. Santiago inched her way into the room with a third glass of tea and a plate of wonderful-looking goodies.

“This is
pan de dulce,
” Mrs. Santiago told me, pointing to the bread. “It is sweet. You will like it. And this is
buñeulos.
” Cinnamon and sugar flaked off the crisps and made my mouth water. “When I heard you were coming today, I made them for you.”

“Thank you! They look wonderful.”

She held the plate to me and it was no hardship to fill the pretty flowered napkin she gave me with her offerings.

“And you,
mjjito.
” She offered the plate to Bailey.

After she was satisfied that Bailey had enough to eat, Mrs. Santiago set down the plate on the scarred coffee table and sat in a green stuffed chair that had seen better days. Her small house was definitely in a less than desirable neighborhood, but it was neat and clean, even pretty. The iced tea was cool and flavored with mint—“I grow it in my backyard,” Mrs. Santiago said—and the
pan de dulce
and
buñeulos
melted on my tongue.

“
Mi esposo
died ten years ago,” she began. “The
niños
were grown and not here but in California, Florida, Texas, one even back to Mexico. With my social security I was able to eat, but there was not much more. This house that Carlos buy and keep up with such pride began to fall apart.”

She clasped her hands over her heart. “It made me so sad, but what could I do? I did not know how to fix things and I did not have any dollars to hire someone. When the roof in the bedroom began to leak, I move the bed and put a pail under the leak. When there was a drought, everyone pray for rain. I pray the drought would continue. What if my roof fell in?”

I thought of the house I’d grown up in and the house Curt owned and which would become my home in another week. If there was any problem that needed fixing, both my parents and Curt had the means to get someone to do the work if they couldn’t do it themselves. But Mrs. Santiago had no one and no money. She moved the bed.

Her face broke into a smile, her eyes bright. “Then my mailman tell me about Good Hands. He give me a paper one Sunday when he walk his route on his free time. ‘Call them,’ he tell me. ‘They will help you.’ But how could I call strangers?” She spread her tiny hands in question.

“Then we have a week of rain, every day, and another leak started over the bed. I put plastic over the bed and a bucket on it, but it was no good. I think I will have to move the bed to the living room when I remember the mailman’s friends. I call them, and they come.” She smiled. “They fix my roof. They fix everything! The ladies come and make things
muy
pretty. And they come back every year to check on me. I still have only my social security, but I have friends now. Like the
bonita
Bailey.”

Bailey was still beaming when we left and I felt blessed by Mrs. Santiago’s hospitality and gratitude. I just hoped the other four people we were scheduled to see didn’t feed us, too. I wasn’t sure I would have room.

Bailey gave a little gasp as we were getting into the car.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Fine,” she said, her smile gone. “I stubbed my toe.”

I looked at her black flip-flops, which matched her black eye makeup and today’s black fingernail polish. At least her toenails were au naturel.

“You go to Faith Community Church, don’t you?” Bailey asked hesitantly.

“I do. Do you?” I didn’t remember ever seeing any of the Mercers at church except for the time Tug spoke.

“I do. Mom and Dad still go to our old church.”

I didn’t say anything, but I wondered at the wisdom of families going to separate churches.

Bailey brought a finger to her mouth and began trying to find some remaining nail to bite. “I told them I wanted to go to a church that had a larger, more active youth group. They didn’t like splitting us up—they can’t leave where they are because Dad’s an elder—but they’re so worried about me that they agreed.” She smiled sadly. “Anything to help Bailey.”

“They love you,” I said.

“I know. And I’m very proud of them.”

But it wasn’t enough to help her with the unhappiness that enveloped her like a shroud.

There was a moment of silence. Then Bailey said, “You play in the bell choir, don’t you?”

I nodded.

“Is it as fun as it looks?”

I grinned at her. “More. I have to really concentrate because I’m not that great a musician, but I love it. After all, you only have to read your notes and keep count. For me the notes aren’t hard, but the rhythm can be very challenging.”

“Do they ever have openings?”

“Sometimes.” It struck me that my bells would need someone when Curt and I moved to Pittsburgh. Maybe Bailey could take my place.

“Why don’t you come to practice with me tonight and see if you think you want to let Ned know you’re interested?”

“Tonight?”

The more I thought about it, I more I liked the idea. Bailey would have something to look forward to, something to get involved in, and I wouldn’t feel I was letting Ned and the others down when I left. Bell choir isn’t like a vocal choir. If someone is missing with bells, those notes don’t get covered, where in a vocal choir the rest of the section covers for the missing person.

“I could pick you up on my way,” I told her. “You’d love it and maybe you could play a bit.” I slowed as I approached a Stop sign. “Do you play any instruments?” It had just dawned on me that I didn’t want to stick the choir with someone who wasn’t competent.

“I play the piano a bit and I used to sing in the kids’ choir when I was little.”

Good. If she could play the multiple notes of a piano score, she could handle the bells. “Do you sing in the school choir now?”

She didn’t answer immediately and I looked over at her. She was sitting stiffly and holding her breath, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Oops, touchy subject.

She let out a breath. “No, I don’t. Would you mind taking me home?”

I blinked. “What about our list of people to visit?”

“You don’t need me and I need to go home.” She sounded strained, almost desperate.

“Sure,” I said, turning to go back in the direction we’d come.

We drove in silence for a bit, then I asked, “How do you like Pastor Tom?”

“Who?”

“Pastor Tom, the high school pastor.”

“Oh, him. He’s very nice.”

Nice wasn’t usually the word people used for Tom. He was wonderful, creative, fun, super, over-the-top, a maniac—superlative words. Nice was very bland for Tom. And it clicked that she didn’t know him, that she wasn’t going to the youth programs either Sunday morning or any other time. No matter what she told her parents, she wasn’t coming to Faith for the youth programs.

But she was coming for the main service. She had to be to know I was in the bell choir. I glanced at her, huddled miserably against the passenger door.

Lord, this kid needs Your help big-time.

FIFTEEN

W
hen Curt and I pulled into the church parking lot for bell choir practice, the first thing I saw was Bailey getting out of a van parked by the side door to the building. She was back in all black, a men’s vest worn over a black men’s shirt whose tails tickled the backs of her knees. Not that they actually tickled her knees. She had on her usual sweatpants and nothing would tickle through those.

I began to sweat just looking at her. It was almost seven-thirty in the evening and the temperature was still eighty. I was wearing khaki shorts, a red T-shirt and flip-flops. At least Bailey and I agreed on casual footwear, though mine matched my shirt and had little plastic daisies all along the thongs.

“I’ll be back around nine,” Curt said.

“Sounds good.” I gave him a kiss and climbed from the car.

I walked over to the van where I found Candy sitting in the driver’s seat. She gave a little wave and leaned out her window. She indicated Bailey. “She said you said she could come. Are you sure it’s all right?”

“I did, and it’s fine.” I grinned at Bailey. “I’m glad you made it. You must be feeling better.”

She shot a quick look at her mother. “Oh, I’m feeling fine. Like always.”

I nodded, knowing she was keeping something from Candy. But then didn’t all teens keep things from their moms? “Don’t worry about picking her up afterward, Candy. Curt and I’ll bring her home.”

“You sure it’s no trouble? I’ll be glad to come get her.”

“Go home and enjoy your evening. Bailey and I are going to enjoy ours, right?”

Bailey nodded, looking hopeful for a change.

Candy left and we walked into the rehearsal room. It was ordered chaos with everyone helping with the setup of the tables, topping them with heavy foam pads to protect the bells. Over the foam went cloths to protect the foam and on them the bells were being arranged in progressive order, each ringer responsible for his or her own bells. One of my bells being middle C, I was just about smack in the center.

I didn’t even have a chance to get my bells before people began rushing me. It was a bit disconcerting.

“Merry! Thank God that you’re here!” Maddie Reeder, my best friend at church, grabbed me in a tight hug. “Are you all right? I’ve been so worried!”

I blinked and patted her back. She’d obviously heard about the car. She was shaking and I was afraid she was crying. “I’m fine, Maddie. Of course, my car’s seen better days, but I’m fine.”

She pulled back and searched my face. “Are you sure? When I heard, I almost died. I tried to call you all day.”

“My phone was in the car,” I explained. “In my purse.”

“It’s gone.” Her voice was full of sorrow, as if it had been a living thing. “What will you do?”

She must be more upset than I thought if she didn’t know the answer to that one. “Get another.”

“That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it.”

Oh.

“What happened?” Bailey asked, eyes wide at Maddie’s show of emotion.

“Her car got blown up!” Maddie said dramatically.

Bailey looked at me like I’d grown a second, make that a third, head.

“And she works for a man who’s a murderer and probably an attempted murderer!” Mrs. Weldon stood just behind Maddie. She had her arms wrapped around her middle like she was cold. Mr. Weldon was beside her, nodding his head, his lone bell held in his gloved hand.

“I don’t!” I said, shocked at the comments.

“Merry,” Mr. Weldon said, “you’ve got to go someplace safe. What if he tries to blow up your car again and this time you’re in it? Maybe the FBI or the CIA can put you in witness protection or something.”

“What?” I stared at the Weldons aghast. Witness protection? “But I didn’t witness anything.”

“We don’t want something bad to happen to you,” he said, patting my shoulder. “We care.”

“It’s that Mac Carnuccio.” Mrs. Weldon shook her head, her face dark with some emotion. Dislike? Concern? Anger? “He always was a bad one.”

“Mrs. Weldon, don’t say that, please!” My heart was racing and the chicken divan I’d made for Curt was rolling around uncomfortably in my stomach. “Mac’s a nice man and a good boss. I like him. He’d never hurt anyone.”

“If you say so, dear.” She patted my hand, obviously having decided that my judgment had been turned by the trauma of the explosion.

“Mac hasn’t been accused of anything.” I tried to keep my voice level, but it was hard when I wanted to scream at her for saying something so unfounded. “And I don’t think he’s done anything wrong.”

“I heard it was just a matter of time before they come and cart him off in cuffs.” Rob Ramsey, a slim but strong man who played the biggest, deepest bells, was eager to add his information to the mix. “They’ve got a diary and she had that tattoo. Mac’s guilty.”

I went cold. “What diary? How did you hear about a diary?”

“See? I told you,” Rob said to Jeni Whitman, who played the F and G to Maddie’s left. “There’s a diary. And Mac’s name is in it.”

“I didn’t say that!” How had people heard? Who had leaked the information? Was William going to think it was me? “Where did you hear that, Rob?”

He frowned as if he was trying to recall. Finally he shrugged. “Everyone knows.”

Several people nodded. “Yeah, everyone knows.”

“Haven’t you heard of innocent until proven guilty?” I demanded.

“Mac has a reputation,” Jeni said, looking worried though I wasn’t sure whether she was concerned for me or for herself because she expected Mac to track her down and do her in.

“It’s a long way from being a womanizer to being a murderer,” I said, quoting Curt. “And besides, he has an alibi.”

“Oh, my dear,” said Mrs. Weldon kindly. “Don’t you know that alibis can be arranged? There are always people who will say anything for money, just like the vile men at Jesus’s trial.”

Everyone nodded, and I thought,
Hello? Do you hear how ridiculous you all sound?
So the rich rulers paid men to give false testimony at Jesus’s trial. What did that have to do with Mac? There were no rich rulers in his life, no trial, not even any legal action.

“Be sure your sins will find you out,” Rob said pompously.

Thankfully at this point of the discussion, Ned clapped his hands. He was puffing and he’d deposited a tennis racket on a chair by the door. “Sorry I was late, people. Let’s get to our places.”

I was seething and I was scared as I took my place. As a result I had a hard time concentrating. Usually I could push everything out of my mind and focus on the bells, but the stark reality of what people were saying and thinking about Mac wouldn’t stay conveniently tucked away. I was so bad that Ned finally stopped us midsong and said, “Merry, you’re so off beat that you’re making all of us crazy.”