Authors: Deeanne Gist
Where she had perfectly reasonable dreams—wanting the same thing any mother would—his dad still thought his son could turn out to be a baseball star, snag a beauty, and solve a crime. When it came to their vicarious thrills, Mom’s were pretty ordinary, whereas Dad’s had a touch of the daredevil.
Still, reporters had been scooping policemen since the daily paper came out in cuneiform on clay tablets. And one thing his dad had said kept coming back to him.
You can’t do it alone
.
Of course, Dad meant something like, you can’t it do without Jesus. But the principle rang true. A big break would require more than waiting on a fresh tip from Nate Campbell.
Rylee’s face rose unbidden to his mind’s eye.
He needed to know if she was holding something back. He needed to know if she had some sort of connection to the Robin Hood burglar. He needed to know . . .
her
.
Rylee pulled into a visitor’s spot at the Bishop Gadsden retirement community, the brakes of her Civic squeaking. On the porch, Mr. Lusky, in a short-sleeved, plaid button-down, perused his newspaper.
She sighed, knowing she’d get yet another lecture from him on the importance of regular car maintenance. She’d have to bear it, though. She could hardly tell him that keeping her grandmother at Bishop Gadsden took some creative manipulation of her finances.
She turned off the key, the engine coughing like a lifelong smoker.
Mr. Lusky dipped the corner of his paper. “That car needs some attention, Rylee-girl,” he called. “If one of your dogs made a sound like that, you’d take him to the vet, wouldn’t you? It’s downright cruel to make your car suffer.”
She strode up the walkway, then stopped beside him. “Looks like it’s going to be another scorcher today.”
He wrestled with the paper, folding it back.
Her breath caught. A picture of Logan took up a small corner at the bottom of the page. He was sliding into home, his face in a grimace, the catcher clearly tagging him out.
He had on his Mets uniform. The same one he’d worn the night Toro had chased him. In the stillness of the shot, the muscles in his arms and legs bulged. She leaned down to read over Mr. Lusky’s shoulder.
Logan Woods of the Charleston mabl Mets was tagged out at home by Oriole Harold Hearn in Sunday’s game. The Orioles went on to knock the Mets out of the playoffs with a 4-3 win.
Mr. Lusky sniffed. “You follow the Men’s Adult Baseball League, Rylee?”
She straightened. “What? Oh, no.”
He lifted his chin, peering through the lower half of his bifocals.
“That’s Logan Woods. He’s the center fielder. Good player. Power hitter. Played for the Trojans over at the high school.”
Rylee blinked. “James Island High School?”
“Why, sure. They almost won State his senior year.”
“When was that?”
“Ninety-nine, I think? Good team that year. One of their players went on to play for the Rockies.”
She looked again at the picture. She’d attended James Island High School, too. Doing the math, she realized he’d have been a senior her freshman year.
With jihs being the only high school on the island, its enrollment was always on the high side. So it was no surprise she hadn’t known him. Still, she’d have to look him up in her old yearbook.
“He writes for the paper now.” Mr. Lusky narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “Matter of fact, he had an article about one of those breakins down where you walk your dogs. Saw you were quoted in it.”
She’d read the article over coffee this morning. A photo of the bronze jockey dominated the page, the text wrapped on either side.
She was quoted twice—once at the opening, talking about how she’d recognized the statue at the church, and a second time in the body of the story: “ ‘Whoever did this took more than a jewelry box from that family.’ ”
She hoped Karl didn’t read it. Seeing the comment in black-and-white, she felt as if she’d exploited his pain somehow.
“Rylee!”
She turned at the sound of her name. One of the nursing staff jogged toward her. “I thought I saw you pull up. Come quickly, dear. It’s your grandmother.”
Rylee hurried toward Room c5 of the Cloister. This wing of the facility was reserved for residents who needed round-the-clock care. It resembled a hospital, with an octagonal nurses’ station at the hub and halls radiating out like spokes. The rooms had hospital beds, many of their doors open.
But that’s where the similarities ended. The Cloister didn’t smell like a hospital. The halls were carpeted. There was no intercom system blaring. No dinging elevator.
She checked the numbers posted beside each door, catching brief impressions of the rooms inside—a television playing reruns of
I Love Lucy
, a walnut chest of drawers belonging to a long-term patient, a pair of lonely feet wrapped in pink slippers propped on the footrest of a recliner, and then Room c5.
The door was closed. She gently tapped, then pushed it open. Monitors beeped.
Dr. Craig Morris looked up from the clipboard in his hand.
Nodding to him and Nurse Melanie, Rylee went straight to her grandmother’s bedside. Nonie’s eyes were closed.
“Is she all right?”
Dr. Craig nodded. “She’ll be fine. She was making some cookies and forgot to use a hot pad before she removed them from the oven.”
She glanced at her grandmother’s hands. The right one was wrapped in gauze.
“How bad is it?”
In his late forties, the doctor was young enough to be approachable, yet old enough to instill confidence. “It’s a second-degree burn.
She has some blisters that’ll be red and painful for a while. But it doesn’t appear she suffered any nerve damage.”
“Thank goodness.” Rylee released a long breath. “How could she have forgotten the hot pads?”
He exchanged a look with the nurse.
Rylee looked up sharply. “She hasn’t been wandering again, has she?”
“Not wandering, no,” Nurse Melanie said. “But she’s been losing track of time and events. I’m afraid her bad spells are getting to be more frequent. Not as many lucid moments as before. We make sure she doesn’t miss mealtimes. . . .”
Rylee brushed a tendril of hair from Nonie’s face. She’d been at Bishop Gadsden for almost three years now. The decision to move her here had not been an easy one. But she couldn’t support her grandmother and take care of her at the same time.
The sale of their Folly Beach home had financed Nonie’s entrance into Bishop Gadsden and subsequent stay.
For now. But when Rylee had originally done the math, she hadn’t taken any future medical problems into account—and there had been plenty. Now the funds were dwindling, and the new healthcare bills would deplete their resources even more.
“Can she hear us?” she asked.
The doctor shook his head. “I gave her something for the pain. She’ll sleep comfortably for a while if you need to return to work.”
“No, no. I don’t have to be back until two. So if it’s all right with you, I’ll stay with Nonie. Thanks so much.”
The doctor slipped out, followed by Nurse Melanie, who promised to check in after a bit, leaving Rylee to contemplate Nonie’s fragile form under the covers, the hum of the overhead lights punctuated by the beep and hiss of the machinery at her back. She reached to take her grandmother’s hand, then remembered the bandage. Even here, Nonie could manage a minor catastrophe.
She sat and listened to her grandmother’s breathing, the irregular in and out, worrying at every overlong pause that this would be the last. Nothing would erase that dreadful possibility from her mind. Rylee struggled as a sense of loneliness and abandonment swept over her again.
Please, Lord. She’s all I have.
Rylee let herself in the Petries’ front door, cocking an ear, trying to determine where the mewling was coming from. She slipped her key ring back into her messenger bag, listening.
Tin Man—a gray tabby with a ringed tail—ran to the door, doing continuous figure eights through her legs. She picked him up, then looked for the other three cats Mrs. Petrie had named after characters from her favorite movie,
The Wizard of Oz
.
She found Dorothy in the parlor curled on the seat of an upholstered armchair, too supercilious to be bothered.
The mewling continued. Probably Lion. He’d been mauled by a Rottweiler as a kitten, so Latisha Petrie had coaxed the Persian into eating by petting him the whole time. Now he wouldn’t touch his food without being stroked through the entire meal.
Passing through the dining room, she released Tin Man and dropped her bag on a sideboard. “Li-on?” she singsonged. “Here, kitty-kitty-kitty.”
Stepping into the kitchen, Rylee noticed a suitcase by the back door.
She glanced toward the sunroom. “Lion?”
The cat came through the doorway, apparently fine. But the mewling kept up. It was coming from the other side of the half-open door. Rylee edged forward, then gasped.
Latisha sat curled in a fetal position on a padded wicker armchair. Her slacks were rumpled, her hair in disarray, her black suede pumps lay haphazardly at her feet.
“What’s wrong?” Rylee rushed to her side. She knelt on the seagrass mat that served as an area rug. “Are you all right?”
“That robber . . .” Latisha looked up, tears flowing down her ebony cheeks.
Rylee sucked in her breath. “He came here?”
Latisha nodded, her long black ringlets bobbing.
Rylee glanced around. “When? Were you here?”
Scarecrow leaped from Latisha’s lap, leaving a layer of red hair on her white cashmere pullover.
“I flew back early from London because of a work emergency,”
she began.
Rylee pictured the suitcase in the kitchen.
“When I got to my room, it was, was . . .” She covered her face, her shoulders shaking.
The hairs on the back of Rylee’s neck prickled. “Was he still here when you arrived?”
“No.”
“Have you called the police?”
“They’ve been and gone. But they did nothing.
Nothing
.” She slammed her hands on the arms of the chair. “They just took down enough to file their reports, then left.”
That was exactly what they’d done at Karl’s house, too. It hadn’t occurred to Rylee until now that they probably should have done more.
“They told me to call if he comes again,” Latisha said. “Can you believe that? They aren’t going to dust for fingerprints or take pictures or post a guard or anything.”
“I wonder why.”
“They said what he took wasn’t valuable enough for all that.”
Rylee’s lips parted. “That shouldn’t make any difference. A crime’s a crime no matter what was taken. Breaking and entering and all that.”
“That’s what I thought, too. But all they said was that they’d let the local nonprofits know to keep an eye out for it. Evidently, the stolen item has to be worth a lot more than my mourning brooch for them to do anything. It simply boggles the mind.”
“Mourning brooch?”
“Yes. It’s an old Victorian one Paul’s mother gave me. I always wear it with that red cape. You know the one I mean?”
Rylee nodded as comprehension dawned. “Of course. The onyx one. Did he take anything else?”
“Nothing.”
“And you’re sure you didn’t misplace the pin?”
“Positive.”
Rylee deflated, remembering Officer Quince’s description of Robin Hood’s m.o. He took only one thing, and not the most valuable. He’d definitely struck again. “How did he get in?”
“Right through these doors.” She indicated the French doors overlooking the garden. The pane next to the bolt was nothing but jagged edges.
“It wasn’t like that when I left last night. I’m positive.” Tin Man brushed against Rylee’s arm. She ran her hand over his head, back, and tail. “Well, I can’t see Paul standing still for all this. He’ll make sure the whole thing is investigated properly. Have you called him?”
Sighing, Latisha fell back, resting her head against the chair. “He’s still in London and not answering his cell phone.”
Rylee glanced at her watch. “What time is it there?”
“Past midnight.” She drew in a shaky breath. “Our bedroom’s a mess.” Her eyes filled again. “I don’t want to sleep in there. I don’t want to sleep in the house at all. Especially not by myself.”
Rylee stood. “Well, don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll stay with you until Paul returns.”
A wobbly smile touched Latisha’s lips. “No need for that. My sister’s driving in from Asheville, and I’ve left a message for my girlfriend Cheryl. I expect to hear back from her any minute.”
“Good. For now, though, I’ll make you some tea, then start straightening your room.”
Latisha reached out and grasped Rylee’s hand. “You’re so good to us. Thank you.” She straightened. “Oh, I almost forgot. The detective wants you to call him.” She picked up a business card off the side table and handed it to Rylee.
Nathan Campbell. Detective Division. Charleston Police Department
. Rylee fingered the card. “Did he say what he wanted?”
“Just routine things, I imagine. He had lots of questions about who all has access to the house and their comings and goings. Probably wants to confirm that the doors were secured when you left last night.” She looked at the broken glass on the floor. “I guess they’re following up a little, anyway.”
“Does he want to speak with Carmel? And George?”
Latisha crinkled her brow. “Actually, he didn’t leave cards for them—though I did tell him we had a housekeeper and a gardener.
Should I have them call, too?”
Swallowing, Rylee shook her head. “No. I’m sure he’ll let you know if he needs to speak with them.”
Tucking the card into her pocket, she moved into the kitchen to brew some tea. .
Rylee stood at the threshold of the master bedroom, eyes wide, hands covering her mouth. Family photos had been knocked off the bureau, shattered glass studding the carpet. Drawers ripped free of the mahogany dressers, their contents dumped everywhere. Designer clothes flung from the closets and trampled in a frenzy of destruction.