Yesterday's Stardust (12 page)

She’d seen the older, stouter man often from the hayloft. He doffed his hat, showing a mostly bald head, and shot a questioning look, part amusement with maybe a hint of fear, at the other man. Francie followed his gaze and for a moment forgot to breathe. Eyes greener and more intense than any she had ever seen gazed back at her. Slicked, jet-black hair parted in the middle, high cheekbones, and a smile that showed an amazing dimple on his left cheek. He wore a tweed hat and a dark gray coat belted at the waist. Francie’s knees weakened.

His right eye twitched. Almost a wink but not quite. “Glad to meet you. Do you know when your father will return?”

“He went to fe—call the vet.” She couldn’t use a word like “fetch” around a man like this. She walked across the room, opened the flat middle drawer in Daddy’s desk, and pulled out the ledger. Two years of eavesdropping and snooping around the office came to her aid. “I believe we’ll be needing three gallons this time.” She closed the book and turned around.

Baldy shifted from one foot to the other. Clearly he was not the decision maker.

“I assure you I am fully acquainted with my father’s business dealings.” The words sprouted without thought. Daddy wouldn’t be so quick to call her incessant reading “foolishness” after this.

It occurred to her that neither of the men had introduced themselves. Clutching the ledger to her chest, she stared at Green Eyes. The man nodded and looked at his partner. “Everything copacetic?”

“Whatever you say. I don’t know about this, but whatever you say.”

Green Eyes grinned. “There ain’t nothin’ I can do…” he sang, “‘Tain’t nobody’s business if I do, do, do, do.”

Francie blinked hard. Leaning back, she misjudged the space between her back and the desk and banged into it. The man could sing! “That was swell,” she gushed, sounding as lame as a three-legged horse. “Sara Martin.” Mama would die if she knew she’d ever heard that kind of music.

“Sara Martin indeed.” He took a small bow.

Baldy shook his head. “We’ll tell her hi from you.”

“You know her? Personally?”

“We’ll be seeing her in Chicago next—”

Green Eyes silenced him with a hard look. “So, shall we get down to business?”

“Yes.” Her voice sounded like the youngest Huseby boy.

“Fine. That’ll be fifty-one dollars, Miss Tillman. Three gallons at seventeen clams per.”

Strength rushed back into her legs. The man was trying to gyp her! Daddy would be none too pleased if she let them walk away with fifty cents more a gallon than the stuff was worth. She smiled, wide eyed, playing the dumme girl he thought her to be. “I’m sorry, sir, but I believe that will be forty-nine dollars and fifty cents.”

His Adam’s apple lowered then bobbed to the top of his neck. “Sharp cookie. Okay, forty-nine fifty it is.”

She tried not to feel his stare as she opened Daddy’s safe. Who was this man? Dressed like he just stepped out of a magazine, with a voice better than some she’d heard on the radio at the mercantile. What would it be like to dance with him under a mirrored ball across a polished floor in—
“Chicago
?”

“Excuse me?”

She whirled around, money box in hand. “You’re going to Chicago?”

“Maybe. Who wants to know?”

“I do.” She lowered her voice. “My sister lives there. She needs me to watch her little boy, and I told her I’d be there by next week to help, but all the money I’ve saved has to go to pay the vet to treat our horse. If I could get a ride with you, I wouldn’t be any trouble at all.”

Green Eyes stroked his chin. “What would your daddy say about you riding with us?”

She glanced toward the door and straightened her shoulders. “He wouldn’t need to know.”

Both men hooted, louder than some of Daddy’s customers after a few pints. Baldy shook his head. “Sorry, sister.”

Green Eyes squinted and looked her over from her hair to her boots. For the longest time, he just stood there. Francie counted out the money and set it on the table. Finally his left eyebrow lifted. “How old are you?”

Her hands slid behind her back. Her fingers crossed. “Seventeen.”

Green eyes closed for a moment. She was sure he wasn’t falling for it.

“Can you drive?”

Her heart flip-flopped. She’d driven the Huseby’s brand-new Model T pickup from their house to the barn with Mrs. Huseby sitting beside her, telling her what to do, but just to be sure the not-quite-lie wouldn’t count, she tightened her crossed fingers. “Yes, sir.”

“You’d have to be ready to go in five minutes.”

“Not a problem.” Sara Martin’s words giving wing to her feet, she ran out the door. “‘Tain’t nobody’s business if I do, do, d—” She slid to a stop. The safe. She’d forgotten to lock it again. Spinning on her heel, she ran back.

The two men sat at the table, smoking. The safe was closed.

Under the gaze of cool green eyes, she opened it.

The box was empty.

W
hat had she done?

Rena sat in bed, knees pulled to her chest. Tree branches, quivering in the night breeze, cast flickering shadows on the sheet. She chewed a second fingernail. The first was bleeding.

Her idea could get both of them in way more trouble than the reporter knew. Maybe she should take it back.

But maybe it was her only hope.

She pushed a button on her phone to check the time. 1:38. Giving up on sleep, she turned on her lamp and got out of bed. Rummaging through the bins in her closet, she found a box of too-small clothes she’d set aside to donate. She pulled out two pairs of jeans and three shirts. The pants would have to be shortened, but they should fit. She fished a handful of earrings out of the pile on her dresser. Another piercing or two would help. What kind of reaction would that suggestion get?

If she did back out, would Dani go to the cops or to Nicky? She hadn’t shared all that much, but the girl with all the questions could figure things out.

What if she went ahead with the plan and Jarod figured it out? Or a story came out in the paper that brought cops crawling all over the neighborhood? Would things get better? Or way, way worse?

Like the wolves in a nightmare she’d had after that horrible night a year ago, fear circled.

Closing in on a wounded animal.

Dani opened one eye and stared at the clock. After three hours of fighting with her sheet, she’d apparently won the battle. It lay on the floor in a twisted mound.

She pressed the heels of both hands to her temples, wishing the pressure could stop the thoughts.
You gotta draw a line between reporting and social work.

Yes, she wanted to help Rena get out, but the bottom line was still the story. Lots of reporters went incognito to get the scoop. In college she’d spent a day at the mall in a wheelchair, recording people’s responses to her. This was no different. It wasn’t a lie, it was research. She was an actress on the stage of life. An actress for a cause. The more awareness she brought to the lure and danger of gangs, the more chance there was that someone would do something about the problem.

And she wasn’t doing anything illegal.

She exhausted every possible rationalization and still didn’t have an ounce of peace, but turning back didn’t seem the right option either.

Maybe Rena would change her mind and call. Maybe Evan wouldn’t answer the message she’d left him. Or maybe he’d say no to what she was going to ask and then that would be her answer, too. No.
Sorry, Rena. Thanks but no thanks. Not going to risk my life for a story.

Sometime after three she fell asleep. In one of many disjointed dreams, Nicky Fiorini took Agatha’s keys from her and baked them inside a spinach calzone.

Dani’s phone rang at five-thirty in the morning. Sitting bolt upright, she fumbled for the phone. Evan. Flopping back on the pillows, she answered in a barely audible croak.

“Rough night?”

“Mostaccioli. Cannoli.”

“Ah…the oregano morning after. Thought your message sounded a little weird. Sorry I didn’t return your call. Had my phone on vibrate, and it was after midnight when I saw it. So what’s up? What are you getting me into now?”

“Do you know what time it is?” She flipped a pillow onto her face. “I’ll tell you at work.”

“No. You’ll tell me in twenty minutes when I pick you up.”

“Evan. No. I had a horrible night and—”

“Okay, fine, if you won’t do a favor for me I guess I can’t do whatever it is you want me to do on Fri—”

“I’ll do it.” She sat up again. “What am I doing?”

“It’ll only take about an hour. I’ll get us to work on time.”

“Sure.” Whatever it was, she wasn’t in a position to refuse.

“I’m making coffee for you. Hazelnut. Smell it?”

“Hurry.”

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

Ten minutes into a hot shower, Dani regained full consciousness. Hazy snips from another dream surfaced in the steam, sending chills skittering down her back. She was sitting at a picnic table by the lake, watching the sailboats. She could even remember the colors—a striped red and yellow sail dipping and rising on surreal vibrant blue waves. And then someone tapped her shoulder. She turned. China stood next to her, her face lined with hideous black streaks. Intense relief washed over her, but as she reached out to hug her, China placed a gun in the palm of her hand. The barrel was still hot.

She turned the water temperature down, rinsing in the slowly cooling water until her skin tingled. As she dressed, the sick feeling of the gun in her hand remained.

When she walked out of the bedroom in a sleeveless poor boy shirt from the seventies and plaid peddle pushers, Evan sat at the counter with his back to her. “Morning,” he said, “you decent?”

“Ugly, but dressed.”

He turned and held out a travel mug of coffee. “You are particularly retro this morning. Let’s go. I want to use this light.” He put his keys in her hand. “In fact, I want you to drive the H1 so I can get some shots on the way.”

“That’s a first.”

“I’m so crunched for time I’ll chance it.

“Crunched for time? As in an official deadline? As in
Urbanart
likes your idea?”

Evan beamed. Dani hugged him then ran ahead of him down the steps and opened the driver’s side door of the Hummer. She drove in silence, turning, slowing, and stopping at Evan’s commands. The click of the shutter formed a backdrop to a replay of her talk with Rena.

She had to get on the inside to be trusted. That’s just how it worked in this business. Sure, there was a risk. The Swamp wasn’t a safe place, though she wouldn’t admit that to Nicky.

Nicky. Did he really expect her to call him? Why? So he could apologize? Or shoot her down again?

It took effort to channel her thoughts back to Rena and this coming Friday night—and what kind of chances a reporter should take for a story. There was a risk, but it was Kenosha after all, the town she’d grown up in. It wasn’t Afghanistan. Or even Chicago.

If Evan said yes, so would she. Evan had acted in a few dramas at his church. They could pull this off.

“Park up there.” Evan pointed toward what appeared to be a vacant building. Finding a place along the curb where she didn’t have to parallel park the monster, Dani put the H1 in P
ARK.

Evan jumped out. She watched him crouching, backing up, then jumping up on the concrete base of a light pole, taking several shots of the side of a redbrick building. Colored swirls outlined in black covered the bottom four feet of the wall.

She hadn’t painted much since college, but she could easily summon the exhilaration of a fresh, blank canvas. If conscience and ethics were not an integral part of her, a forty-foot-tall span just begging to be painted would present an incredible rush.

Evan finished more photo-gymnastics and jumped back in. “All done. Thank you. Now, what’s this favor you want from me? I put my Friday night in your hands.”

Dani sucked in a breath and locked her eyes on his. “How would you feel about putting your
life
in my hands?”

A
cobalt sky outlined the red roof of the Kemper Center as Dani backed Agatha onto Third Avenue. She straightened the wheel and took another swig of strong morning coffee. “It’s Thursday, right Agatha?”