Caught Redhanded (21 page)

Well, if I ever figured that out, I could write a book called
Ten Ways to Spot a Good Guy Guaranteed
and retire a millionaire.

I got up and went to talk to Mac about how to make use of my serendipitous interview with Esther Colby. The paper had been put to bed for today, so whatever he decided, I had plenty of time to play with the material.

“So how did your visit with the Mercer kid go yesterday?” he asked before I even had a chance to tell him about Esther.

“Pretty well. She feels crummy, of course, both physically and emotionally, but she’s a good kid. Given time and some good help and sound counsel, she should be okay.”

“Sit.” He pointed to the chair I’d sat in for the first time on Friday.

“Two workdays in a row? Be careful. Precedent being set.”

“Skip the sarcasm and sit.”

I did.

“I’ve been thinking about that baby all weekend,” he said. “It brought back all kinds of memories of my older sister, Giavanna. She had a baby when she was seventeen. Little Angela. Of course, Angie’s twenty now and we all love her like crazy. But back when Gia was carrying her—” He shook his head.

“It was bad. My parents wanted her to marry the father, but Gia refused. ‘I made one mistake,’ she said. ‘Don’t ask me to make another.’ The guy solved the problem by disappearing and not returning to Amhearst for three years. Turns out he had enlisted and sworn his parents to secrecy.”

Mac started straightening a pile of papers, a sure sign he was agitated. He never straightened his papers. His hands finally stilled and he started talking again.

“I was only ten and the arguments scared me. I’d lie in bed and listen to Mom and Dad reaming Gia out for embarrassing the family, for having no standards, for being loose. She’d yell right back that she was not an embarrassment, she had standards, she wanted this baby and they’d better get used to it. But I’d hear her crying in her room in the middle of the night. It was a long time before they forgave each other for all the terrible things they had yelled.”

I could set his mind at ease about one thing, anyway. “Tug and Candy are standing behind Bailey. They’ll do everything they can to help her.”

“If she keeps the baby, they’ll need to. Wonderful as little Angie was, she brought Gia’s life as she knew it to an abrupt halt, especially her social life. Boys suddenly saw her as either fast and easy or as a mom with a kid. The first group she didn’t want. She wasn’t dumb enough to get stung twice. The second group didn’t want her. Even into her midtwenties guys would take her out once or twice, but when they found out about Angie, they disappeared. Gia was twenty-seven when Bob came around. He was thirty, old enough to deal with having a kid that wasn’t his.” Mac smiled. “He was the best thing that ever happened to the two of them.”

“They have their own kids?” I was fascinated by this slice of Mac’s life. All I’d ever heard him talk about before was his mother and her distress that he didn’t go to church. Of course, Dawn was changing that even if it wasn’t the church Mrs. Carnuccio would have preferred.

“They’ve got three great guys.”

I grinned. Proud Uncle Mac.

He reached back and whipped out his wallet. I saw a picture of three little boys with dark hair and dark eyes and mischief as obvious on their faces as a sprinkling of freckles would have been. He flipped the photo holder and there was a gorgeous dark-haired young woman.

“Angie? She’s beautiful.”

Mac nodded. “She was probably ten or twelve before Mom and Gia really forgave each other for that terrible time and terrible words. ‘Of course I forgive you, Gia,’ Mom would say for years, ‘but if you ever do something like that again…’ She sounded like that was exactly what she expected Gia to do. Or if Gia was late coming home, ‘What was his name, Gia? And what did you do that you’re so late, as if I didn’t know?’ Or, my favorite, ‘What do you think, Gia? Can a leopard change his spots? Can a bad girl ever be anything but a bad girl?’”

“Yikes. Poor Gia.”

“I know Mom was scared and a lot of her fear came out in anger, but understanding that didn’t make things any easier for Gia. Bailey’s parents—they need to forgive her and not let the resentment over the forced changes in their lives fester for years. And that means they can’t bring it up every time they get mad at her over something. If there’s one thing that I’ve learned, it’s that forgiveness, true forgiveness, means gone.”

I studied him for a few seconds, thinking what a mixture of wisdom and hardheadedness he was.

“What?” he demanded. “Did I say something wrong?”

I spoke carefully because I thought we were on very important ground here. “Given Gia’s story, I understand why you’re so concerned for Bailey and I understand why you see forgiveness as so important between her and her parents. But, Mac, what I don’t understand is why you have so much trouble with forgiveness when it relates to you. Why can’t you see that you can be forgiven?”

He narrowed his eyes. “We are not talking about me.”

“Yes, we are. Mac, don’t you see? You want everybody to forgive everybody, but you won’t let people or God forgive you. Doesn’t that sound a bit strange? Or contradictory?”

“Drop it, Merry.”

I ignored him. Sometimes things just needed saying. “The very thing you want others to offer and receive, you refuse to receive. For some reason you seem to think you’re too bad to be forgiven. It’s like God looks at you and says, ‘Oh, I can’t handle Carnuccio. He’s too much for me.’ Or Jesus says, ‘I died for everyone but Carnuccio. He’s beyond my power to save.’ Right? It’s like you’re telling God, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’”

“Merry, you’re meddling.” His voice was as cold as a refrigerated meat locker. “No one talks to me like that but Dawn.”

“Well, as of now, me, too.” I leaned forward in my chair.
Dear Lord, let him hear me.
“Mac, in a sense it doesn’t matter what you’ve done in your past. The Lord wants to forgive you for any and all of it. Jesus became our great guilt bearer when He died on that bloodstained cross. It may sound clichéd that all you need to do is believe in Jesus and be saved, be forgiven. But like many clichés, it’s the truth.”

“Thank you, Reverend Merry.”

I should have felt flash-frozen, but I didn’t. “That nasty attitude of yours used to work,” I said as I stood, knowing it was time to leave. “But that was back before I realized you were a chocolate-covered cherry.” I smiled. “Just do me one favor. Think about what you’re telling God when you say you’re too bad to be forgiven. Think about what that says about the great sacrifice Jesus made for you. Do you really want to say no thanks?”

He glared at me.

“I’m going right now,” I assured him and fled to my desk. We could talk about Esther Colby later.

At lunchtime Jolene and Edie walked to Ferretti’s with me, keeping so close in their effort to protect me that it was all I could do not to trip over them.

“How come this guy isn’t trying to get me?” Jo asked as we slid into our booth. She looked slightly put out that she was being left out. “I’m the one who tripped over Martha’s foot.”

I’d voiced the same question to Mac, but since I had no more answer today than when I’d originally asked, I merely shrugged. Edie looked at her as though she was a few rhinestones short of a necklace.

“It’s a fair question,” Jo shot back, just a tad defensive.

“Read the menu, Jolene,” Edie ordered. “I’ll contact the demolition guys after we get back to the office and get your bomb ticking.”

Jo gave her a sour smile, but she did get busy considering her order and forgot the questions.

Later that afternoon when it was time for me to go see Tony Compton, Jolene offered to walk me down the street.

I politely declined. “I’m walking a few doors down on Main Street. What can possibly happen?”

Mr. Weldon was in the front hall up in his stepladder changing a ceiling lightbulb when I arrived unscathed. Of course, I’d spent the three-minute walk looking over my shoulder every ten seconds, but who’s telling?

“Merry,” he said as he saw me. “I need to talk to you!”

I was in no humor to hear more slander about Mac. I smiled vaguely up at him. “I can’t stop right now. I’ve got an appointment.” I hurried to the stairs.

“Well, I’ll look for you when you leave. It’s important,” he called after me.

I just bet. More bash-Mac stuff.

I walked into the reception area of the law firm. Annie was wearing a skirt again today and it reminded me of the article idea on dressing for work that I needed to pitch to Mac.

“Mr. Compton is expecting you,” she said. “Just knock.”

I knocked, pleased that today I didn’t have to wait around for Tony to return from court. His deep voice called, “Come in.”

He rose to greet me, his smile going full bore. “It’s so good to see you again!” Like it had been years. He shook my hand and ushered me to the chairs before his desk, but I was too busy looking around the office to sit.

There was no sign of all the boxes and clutter of his moving in. Impressive legal tomes and reference books lined the shelves. Awards and diplomas hung on the walls or sat in strategic breaks on the shelves. A file cabinet fronted with wood sat along the far wall beside a closet. And my handprint had disappeared.

“Very nice,” I said. “Someone’s been working hard.”

“Annie,” Tony said, smiling that charming smile. “She unpacked it all. I just put the books on the shelves where I wanted them.”

On the edge of his desk sat a very healthy philodendron; a flourishing ficus tree stood by the window. I indicated them with my hand. “Annie?”

“Annie.”

A pair of signed baseballs sat on little stands on the corner of the filing cabinet. I walked over and saw Cal Ripkin Jr.’s autograph on both. Next to them was a black Baltimore Orioles cap with an orange oriole embroidered on it, and leaning against the cabinet was a baseball bat, also autographed. On the wall beside the filing cabinet was a shadow box holding a baseball jersey bearing the legandary orange number 8 and the same autograph.

“Not from Annie, I trust?”

He shook his head. “Never. I got them on a couple of my many trips to Camden Yards. Caught that ball when Cal hit a foul.” He pointed to the one on the left. “I got the shirt right off Cal’s back at a charity auction night.”

I was impressed. Even I knew about the legendary and now-retired Ripkin, one of the good guys of baseball.

“I got the other ball at a baseball card show where Cal was autographing. I got the bat on eBay. Four of my proudest possessions. There was never anyone like Cal.”

The way he said Cal, you’d have thought they were best personal buds, but that’s the way it was with true fans. They did feel like best buds with whomever they idolized.

I walked back to the chairs by Tony’s desk and sat. My eye fell on the fancy metal name plaque sitting on his desk. M. Anthony Compton, Esq. “Annie?”

He frowned and shook his head. “My mom. Law school graduation. But Annie put it there.”

“Ah. And the
M
stands for?”

He tried to force a smile, but something had angered him. Hadn’t I fawned over his Ripkin trophies enough? “Michael.”

Michael Anthony Compton.

My breath hitched.

MAC.

TWENTY-FIVE

M
ac? Tony?

Words from Martha’s diary raced through my mind: No wonder he can convince people so well. Words are his stock in trade.

They didn’t have to refer to an editor as some seemed to think. They could refer to a lawyer just as readily.

Then another memory popped up and I felt my skin grow chilled.

“He always wears a cap with some logo on it,” Mrs. Wilson had said of the new boyfriend. “It was a bird.”

Since we were in suburban Philadelphia, I’d automatically equated bird with eagle, picturing the stylized eagle’s-head logo of the city’s football franchise. But Tony had lived in Harrisburg, right up the interstate from Baltimore. And I’d never asked Mrs. Wilson what color the bird was, only the cap. I was willing to bet that the bird was orange, an orange oriole just like the one stitched on the black cap sitting on the file cabinet. Oriole, not eagle. Baseball, not football.

I bent quickly to pull my camera out of my purse. I didn’t want Tony to see my face since everyone said that what I was thinking showed there clearly. I needed a few seconds to wipe all expression away.

But my mind kept churning. What possible motive could he have for killing Martha? By all accounts she was as threatening as a newborn pup.

Well, for one thing, if it came out he was beating on her, there went his career and his reputation. I wondered suddenly about Valerie Gladstone, his dead fiancée. Had he been abusive to her? I made a mental note to contact the Harrisburg police and Representative Gladstone, Valerie’s father. My blood started to fizz as I contemplated the story I might be about to break.

Easy, kid. You’re jumping to conclusions—big ones.

My new mini-tape recorder tumbled out of my purse as I rooted for the new little camera I’d gotten to replace the one that had been in my old purse in the car. So did my new cell phone. I grabbed the phone and slid it back in the pocket in the lining I’d designated as its home. Unfortunately the soft-sided purse I had just bought was always collapsing and the phone was always sliding free. I grabbed the little recorder, too. Then, face as bland as I could manage, I straightened, giving him a small smile, trying not to fidget as he studied me.

“Where do you want to stand for your picture?” I asked brightly. I sounded very false to my ears and I fretted that he heard the same phony tone.

He blinked and broke his stare, then gestured behind him. “I thought I could stand by the bookshelves with an open book in my hand, like I’m researching something, you know?”

“Good idea,” I said, trying not to remember that someone had destroyed my car and my apartment and this man might be the one who had done it. “Different from the static head shot.” And, I couldn’t help thinking, it keeps a full face shot from being in the paper to be recognized by someone like Mrs. Wilson.