On the Run (21 page)

“Ivy, it’s so good to hear from you!” Magnolia exclaimed. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where you are?”

“No.” I always figure it’s better no one knows; that way they’re honestly ignorant if Braxton cohorts try to finagle the information out of them. “But I’m fine.”

“That’s good. I worry about you, you know.”

I didn’t want to worry her further with details about my encounters with more dead bodies. I also realized how much I missed her. And her creative changes of hair color. “What’s with your hair these days?”

“My hair? Oh, I’m letting it go natural.”

“Which is?”

“Silver, of course. Though I do have a few streaks to give it, you know, character. And a bit of pizzazz.”

“What kind of streaks?”

“Um, rainbow, I suppose you might call them.”

Which sounded as natural as a purple cow. But no doubt, on Magnolia, looked quite lovely. She has the flamboyant personality to carry off rainbow streaks.

“Mac called a couple days ago,” she added. “He asked about you.”

“Oh, did he now.”

Mac is Mac MacPherson. Magnolia introduced us before I left Madison Street. It would be stretching things to say Mac and I have a bumpy relationship. Mainly because it would be a stretch to say we even have a relationship. But we once spent fun time together at something called a Meteor Daze festival, and he stopped to visit me when I was staying with my niece in Arkansas. So I suppose we’re a little more than acquaintances. There seems to be a vague
something
between us. But the man also seems to think I might be laying a sly husband-snare for him, which makes me a bit huffy.

“He’s still traveling the country, I suppose, writing his travel articles?” I asked.

“Actually, I think he’s stopped in one place for a while.”

“With one of his daughters?”

“No, he’s in . . . let’s see, where was it? Some man’s name . . . Oh, I know. Hugo. Hugo, Oklahoma.”

I concealed a gasp of surprise. Hugo was, what? Only sixty or seventy miles from where I was right now sitting.

“What’s he doing there?”

“Recuperating, I believe. He suffered an attack.”

“What kind of attack?” I asked, alarmed in spite of my huffy feelings toward him. “Heart attack? Stroke?”

“No, some sort of animal attack.”

“An animal attacked Mac?”

“I don’t know the details, but he isn’t badly hurt. Nothing life threatening. But he injured his wrist and back, and he can’t drive long distances for a while. I thought he sounded depressed, stuck there in a strange place all alone, not knowing anyone.”

“Mac never goes anywhere without immediately knowing all kinds of people,” I declared. Mac is one of those people who can find something to talk about with anyone. And the thing is, it isn’t phony politeness. He’s always genuinely interested.

“That’s true,” she agreed. “But you know what I mean. Too bad you aren’t close enough that you could go visit him. Although, since you’re on the road anyway . . .”

I recognized that tone. Dear Magnolia, playing on my sympathies. Mac
needs
you. Matchmaking again.

“And I do believe he may have worked his way through some of those commitment issues that were bothering him before.”

“Magnolia, his problems with commitment are none of my concern. I am not in the market for a husband.”

“You weren’t in the market for a cat either, were you? But now you have one.”

A small touché, I suppose, though I chose to ignore it.

“Actually, I can’t get away right now. I’m caretaking on a ranch, and there are animals here.”

“Oh.” She sounded mildly frustrated by that roadblock but then brightened. “Well, then, you can at least call him! I almost forgot. He has a cell phone now. You know, you should get one too. I’ll get the number. I wrote it down here somewhere . . .”

She set the phone down before I could decide whether or not I wanted Mac’s number, so I was left twiddling my thumbs and watching my prepaid minutes fizzle by.

“Well, who’d have thought I’d write it on the back of this note about some Swedish cousins of Geoff’s in Toronto? Anyway, here it is.”

She read off the number, and I obediently scribbled it on a notepad by the phone.

“And you will give him a call, won’t you? I think a familiar voice would do so much to cheer him up. And you surely owe him that much.”

Owe him? The man has sent me maybe three or four postcards since the last time I saw him. However, hearing Mac had suffered some mysterious animal attack did concern me. And being incapacitated and alone in a strange place might well be depressing, even for a man as light-footed as Mac.

“Okay, I’ll call him.”

“Good. Now repeat the number back to me so I know you have it right.” I did, and then she said, “Oh, something else.”

Something in her tone put me on alert. “Yes?”

“Remember I told you a development outfit was nosing around about buying up houses here so they could put in a big motel and convention center? Well, they made us a definite offer. A very good offer. And I-I think we’re going to take it.” Her voice gave an uncharacteristic quiver, but she also sounded resolute.

“Sell out? Leave Madison Street for good?” I could hear the dismay in my voice.

“It’s all different here now. Everyone’s gone. Including you.”

“But I’ll surely be coming back!”

I wanted the Margollins to be there on Madison Street, even if I wasn’t. They were right. The area was different now, no longer the everybody-knows-everybody neighborhood it had once been. But as long as they were there, a certain foundation of my life remained, a solid root, proof that I could go home again, that I wouldn’t always be running from the Braxtons.

“But where would you go?” I asked.

“We might just live full time in the motor home, like you’re doing. Or maybe we’ll find some wonderful new place where we want to settle down.”

I had the feeling she was trying to convince herself they were doing the right thing, and, even though I hated to see them leave Madison Street, I didn’t want to undermine that decision.

“God filled the world with wonderful places,” I agreed.

“Maybe they’ll make you a good offer too.”

Me, sell
my
house on Madison Street? The thought opened a hollow spot in the pit of my stomach. However many wonderful places there might be in this world, Madison Street was
home
.

And then I reminded myself, as I sometimes have to do, that the foundation of my life is not in a place
,
or people, or anything else that is of this world. It is only in the Lord, and wherever I am, he is there too.
He
is my foundation, and with him is my true home. Everything else is temporary.

“Just let me know if you sell out and leave, okay?” I said. I gave her the name of the mail-forwarding outfit in Little Rock. “I don’t want to lose touch with you.”

“And you’ll call Mac?” she asked again.

“Yes, I will.”

22

I sat there holding the phone after she hung up, and I felt a powerful urge to jump in the motor home and barrel right down to Hugo.
Now where did that come from?
I wondered, quite startled at myself.

Hastily I punched in the long string of numbers again, then the cell phone number Magnolia had given me.

Mac answered on the first ring, as if he’d been sitting there with the cell phone propped in his lap. You surely can’t tell much from a one-word hello, but he didn’t sound like his usual upbeat self.

“Hi, Mac. It’s Ivy Malone.”

“Ivy!” He instantly brightened, which gave even this well-worn heart a short swoop on the ol’ roller coaster. “Hey, what a nice surprise to hear from you.”

“Magnolia tells me you were injured in some animal attack?”

“No big deal. Just a few problems with my wrist and back. But I can’t sit for long, so I’m using this chair the doctor prescribed. You kneel instead of sit on it. An ergonomic chair, he calls it.”

“I had a friend who used one at her computer. She liked it.”

“It’s more comfortable than it looks. But no help as far as driving goes. I don’t suppose you’re anywhere in the vicinity of Hugo, Oklahoma?”

“You know I’m living in a motor home now?”

“Magnolia told me you’d decided to take up traveling for a while. So if you’re anywhere near Oklahoma . . .”

“And if I were?”

“Maybe you could stop in for a visit. Or even stay a while. This is a great RV park. Nice swimming pool. Nearby video store and a drugstore that delivers. Reasonable rates, and they run a van downtown daily.” He paused after the sales pitch. I stubbornly remained silent, and he finally made the big plunge. “I’d really like to see you again, Ivy.”

I wouldn’t mind seeing him too, but I perversely didn’t admit that to him. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Too long. But I guess you’re too far away to come?”

“Actually, not all that far. But I can’t get away.” I explained about caretaking the Northcutts’ ranch. “How far could you drive?”

“I’m not sure. Do you have something in mind?”

I hesitated. Did I have something in mind?

Ummm, well, yes. Maybe. But the prospect jiggled my nerves for a couple of reasons. Did the Braxtons’ tentacles extend far enough that they knew about Mac, and he might inadvertently lead them to me? Was my subconscious slyly working on some devious husband-snaring agenda unknown to my conscious self, some scheme the conscious me would toss like a rotten tomato?

“Ivy?” Mac said tentatively into my silence.

I determinedly kicked Braxton worries aside and told my subconscious to take a hike. Mac was a friend who needed someone right now, and I wasn’t going to turn my back on him.

“There’s plenty of room here to park, with a septic hookup for an RV. It’s only about seventy miles or so from Hugo. If you could drive that far . . . ?”

“Yes, definitely,” he interrupted eagerly. “If my back gets to hurting, I can just pull over for a few hours.”

“Although you might find it’s too isolated here. Doctors and hospital and stores are a long ways away. There’s nothing to write a travel article about. And I wouldn’t want you to do anything that might make your back problems worse.”

I was backpedaling, the appalling thought occurring to me that if he showed up maybe I’d revert to some starry-eyed adolescent state and fall head over heels in love with him. He recognized the retreat immediately.

“So is this an invitation or not?” he demanded.

“Yes, it’s an invitation,” I said firmly. “Although I’ll have to okay it with the owner first. I’ll call you back, okay? Oh, hold on, I hear something.” I stood up so I could see out a window. “A car from the sheriff’s department is here, so I’ll have to go now.”

“And the sheriff’s department is visiting you because . . . ?”

“Well, umm, there were a couple of dead bodies here when I arrived. And we just found another bullet hole. Not a brand-new one,” I added hastily so he wouldn’t think killers were standing in line to take potshots at us.

Moment of silence before, sounding resigned, he said, “Why doesn’t any of this surprise me?”

“These things happen, you know,” I said defensively.

I thought I heard “
Only to you, Ivy Malone
,” but perhaps I imagined that. I quickly said, “But the bodies are gone now, and it’s quite peaceful and beautiful here.”

“Good. I’ll be ready to head out whenever you call. You can explain the dead bodies to me when I get there.”

“Fine. You can explain your animal attack.”

By that time Deputy Hamilton had pulled around to the backyard, and I opened the sliding glass door for him. He was in khaki pants and short-sleeved shirt, gun holstered on his lean hip with various other pieces of cop equipment dangling from his belt. He looked around as I led him across the great room to the deer head. I thought he was wondering what had happened to the bloody sofa.

“Frank moved it to a burn pile out toward the barn.” I waved in that direction. “It’s still out there, if you need to examine it.”

Deputy Hamilton looked at me blankly, and I realized the sofa was not what was on his mind.

“Abilene is outside somewhere,” I said.

Deputy Hamilton had too much law-officer self-control to blush, but his self-conscious smile told me I’d guessed correctly about what he was thinking.

“Perhaps she’ll be around later,” I added. Although I doubted that. Abilene was still skittish.

He squatted by the deer head and inspected the hole. Koop came over to look too, did the cigarette sniff-test, and decided the deputy was okay.

“It’s a bullet hole, all right.” Deputy Hamilton pulled out a pocketknife and dug into the back side of the plaque. The bullet fell out on the hardwood floor with a small clunk.

“So, what do you think?” I asked.

He bounced the lead lump in his hand. “Peculiar.”

“But it doesn’t mean anything?”

“I wouldn’t say it doesn’t mean anything. But I don’t think it proves anything. There’s no telling how long it’s been in there.” He glanced upward. “That bracket over the fireplace, that’s where the head was hanging?”

“Yes.”

“Were there any other bullet holes?”

“We never looked,” I said, aghast that I hadn’t thought to conduct that elementary bit of investigation.