I took it easy on Saturday. I did feel better; the headache was still there, but thanks to the ibuprofen, less intense. Mom reported in that she hadn't yet been able to contact the wedding-cake maker;
Jenni
called to say she had located an arbor that was the perfect size but needed a coat of paint. It was in a yard sale of all places, and the owner wouldn't hold it if someone came by who needed an arbor right then. The price was fifty dollars.
"Get it," I told
Jenni
. Fifty dollars! That was such a steal, it was a wonder the thing hadn't been snapped up already. "Do you have enough cash on you?"
"I can swing it, but I need a pickup truck to haul the thing. Is Wyatt in his truck?"
I was upstairs in the second bedroom, on the computer surfing the upscale department stores looking for a wedding dress, and he was downstairs doing laundry, so I couldn't ask him unless I went to the stairs and yelled down. Going to the window and looking out was easier. Wyatt's huge black Avalanche, a mobile monument to manliness, sat at the curb. "Yep, it's here."
"Can he drive over to get the arbor, then?"
"Give me the address, and I'll send him over." Now I
had
to go downstairs, but I held on to the banister, kept my head as still as
possible,
and tried to keep my movements slow and
nonjolting
. I didn't call Wyatt, because then he would stop what he was doing, and I wanted to watch him doing laundry. I get a kick out of seeing him do domestic stuff. He's so testosterone-laden that you'd think he wouldn't be good at it, but Wyatt handles household chores with the same competence that he handles his big automatic pistol. He had lived alone for years, so he learned how to cook and do his own laundry, plus he was good at repairs and mechanical stuff. All in all, he was a very handy man to have around, and it turned me on watching him hang up my clothes. Okay, so I'm easy; it pretty much turned me on watching him do anything.
I finally said, "
Jenni's
found an arbor at a yard sale. Could you go pick it up, please?"
"Sure. What does she want with an arbor?" It struck me that, as much as I'd discussed my plans for the wedding with him, I'd done the discussing and he evidently hadn't even done the listening. "It's for our wedding," I said with remarkable patience, if I do say so myself. He was hanging up my clothes; I didn't want to piss him off before he was finished.
"Got it.
Jenni
doesn't want the arbor, we do."
Okay, so maybe he'd listened a little. More than likely, though, Dad had told him to just go along with whatever I planned for the wedding. Good advice.
"Here's the address." I handed over the slip of paper, plus fifty dollars. "She had to go ahead and pay for it to keep the lady from selling it, so here's fifty to pay her back."
He took the fifty bucks and stuck it in his pocket, giving me a sharply assessing look as he did so. "Will you be okay while I'm gone?"
"I'm not putting a toe outside. I'm not picking up anything. I'm not doing anything to jolt my head. I'll be fine." I was bored and frustrated, but accepted my limitations—for now. Tomorrow might be a different story.
He kissed my forehead, his hard, rough hand gentle as he cupped the back of my neck. "Try to be good, anyway," he said, as if I hadn't spoken at all. I don't know why he expects me to get into trouble—oh, wait, it could have something to do with being shot, in a car wreck, kidnapped, held at gunpoint, and now almost run down in a parking lot.
Come to think of it, since I'd been hanging out with him, my life had been almost nonstop turmoil, and… "Hey!
None
of what's happened to me has been my fault!" I said indignantly, catching on that he'd implied otherwise.
"Sure it has. You're a trouble magnet," he said as he strolled out the door.
I followed, of course. "My life was calm before you showed up! My life was
Lake Placid
! If anyone here is a trouble magnet, it's you."
"Nicole Goodwin got murdered in your parking lot before I showed up," he pointed out.
"
Which had nothing to do with me.
I didn't kill her." I felt really good about that, because there had been times when I could have, very cheerfully.
"You got in a fight with her, which was why she was hanging around your parking lot, which is why she was murdered there, which is what gave your asshole ex-husband's crazy wife the idea of killing you and blaming it on Nicole's killer."
Sometimes I just hate the way his mind works. He grinned at me as he got in his truck. I couldn't kick anything without making my head hurt—I couldn't do much of anything without making my head hurt, and he knew it—so I contented myself with closing the door on his grin and going in search of a pen and paper on which to start a list of his newest transgressions. I wrote "Baits and teases me when I'm injured" and left the list lying where he could see it. Then, on the principle that one item does not a list make, I went back and added, "Blames me for things that aren't my fault."
As lists went, this one was pretty anemic. I wasn't satisfied with it at all. I wadded up the paper and threw it away; it was better to have no list at all than to let the impact be watered down.
Frustrated, I went back upstairs and did some more
Internet
surfing, but it, too, was fruitless.
Almost an hour later, I logged off. I wasn't having any fun at all.
The phone rang and I snatched it up on the first ring, not waiting to check the Caller ID, mainly because I was bored and frustrated.
"
Too bad I missed"
came a malevolent whisper,
then
there was a click and the call disconnected.
I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. Had I heard what I thought I'd heard?
Too bad I missed
?
What the hell—? If I'd heard correctly, and I wasn't certain I had, the only way that made sense was if the Buick-driving bitch somehow knew who I was, and since my little incident hadn't been reported in the paper—probably because it was too unimportant, which sort of ticked me off—that meant she knew exactly who I was. That put the whole thing in a new light—one I didn't like. But that was the only time anyone had "missed" me in any way, at least since the last time my ex-husband's wife, Debra Carson, had shot at me. The first time, she'd hit me; the second time, she'd accidentally hit her husband.
But it couldn't be Debra, could it? She was out on bail, they both were, but the last time I'd seen her she'd been ecstatic that Jason loved her enough that he'd tried to kill me, too, and since her original motive was jealousy, that pretty well took care of that, didn't it?
I checked Caller ID, but I'd answered the call too fast and the information hadn't been processed. The last call that showed was the one from
Jenni
.
Alarmed, I called Wyatt. "Where are you?"
"I just unloaded the arbor at Mom's. What's up?"
"I just got a call. A woman said '
Too bad I missed'
and
hungup
."
"Wait a minute," he said, and I heard some fumbling noises, then he said, "Repeat that." His voice was a little clearer, a little louder, and I could almost see him cradling the phone between his head and shoulder while he reached for his pen and notebook, which went everywhere with him.
"She said, Too
bad I missed
,'" I repeated obediently.
"Did you recognize the name on Caller ID?"
That
would
be the first thing he asked. "I answered too fast for it to register," I replied.
There was a short silence. He probably always waits to see
who's
calling. Normally, so did
I
. He must have decided not to make an issue of it, though, because he merely said, "Okay. Are you certain that's what she said?"
I thought about it, replaying the words in my head, and honesty made me admit, "Not completely certain, no. She was whispering. But that's what it sounded like. If you want percentages, I'm eighty percent certain that's what she said."
"If it was a whisper, are you certain it was a woman, and not a crank call from a teenage boy?"
Asking questions like this was his job, and I'd learned that cops almost never take things at face value, but I was getting annoyed. I stuffed the annoyance down—time for that later—and once again mentally reviewed what I'd heard. "I'm more certain of that, maybe ninety-five percent." The only reason I wasn't a hundred percent certain was that for a short time between childhood and adolescence, a boy's voice could sound like a woman's, and also because some women have deep voices and some men have light voices. You just can't be a hundred percent certain on something like that.
He didn't ask any more questions, didn't comment on the call, just said, "I'll be there in about fifteen minutes. If any more calls come in, don't answer unless you know
who's
calling. Let the machine pick up."
No more calls came in, thank goodness, and he was there in twelve minutes, not that I was clock-watching or anything. Twelve minutes was long enough for me to begin wondering if I'd overreacted, if maybe I was on edge from the parking-lot incident, added to the stress from the wedding deadline. The truth was
,
I was beginning to feel paranoid. I'd had crank calls before, and they hadn't made me wonder if someone was after me.
I met Wyatt at the door and went into his arms. "I've been thinking about it," I said into his shoulder, "and I think maybe the stress from your deadline is making me crack up."
He didn't even pause, just gently maneuvered me backwards. "I'm not even in the door yet and already it's my fault."
"No, it was your fault before that, but you're just now hearing about it."
He shut the front door and locked it. "Are you saying you think you overreacted?"
I didn't like the way he phrased that, even though I'd thought the same thing to myself. Overreacting sounds so… immature. "On edge," I corrected. "Not just from almost being hit by a car, but from being shot, being in a car wreck, then abducted at gunpoint by Jason the nitwit and almost shot
again
by his nitwit wife… It's as if I've started
expecting
stuff like this to happen."
"So now you don't think she said 'too bad I missed'?" He still had his arms around me, but his eyes were narrow as he studied my face, as if he wanted to read every little change of expression.
I couldn't say that, because I
did
think that was what she'd said. "I think it could have been a wrong number, or a crank call—either that or Jason's nitwit wife has gone off the deep end again and is working
herself
up for another shot at me."
Okay, so it isn't that easy to get over paranoia.
"If you think you can get a deadline extension out of this, forget about it," he said, his eyes going even
more narrow
.
I scowled up at him, ticked off. I'd been genuinely alarmed, and even though I could now see the probability that there was nothing to the call, not once had I thought about using any of this to get a deadline extension. He'd issued a
challenge
with his damned deadline; no way would I wimp out now. I'd make that wedding happen if I had to be pushed to the altar in a wheelchair, trailing bandages like some mummy out of a horror movie.
"Have I
asked
for an extension?" I snapped, pulling out of his arms a little too forcefully, which made my head throb.
"You've complained about the deadline plenty."
"
Which is not the same thing!
This wedding will happen even if it nearly kills me." And all the trouble and bad stuff would be held over his head for the foreseeable future. See how this works? Why would I give up an advantage like that, just because of a concussion and some scrapes? Not that he'd care about all the bad stuff being held over his head, because he's contrary that way, but he'd still have to deal with it whenever we had an argument.
I poked him in the chest. "The only way we won't get married in four weeks—"
"Three weeks and six days."
I glared at him. Damn him, he was right. "Four weeks" sounded much longer than "three weeks and six days" even though there was only one day's difference between the two. Time was ticking away from me.
"Is if you don't get
your
stuff accomplished."
"My
stu
—" he started to ask, then memory surfaced.
The flowers.
"Shit."
"You forgot? You
forgot
the flowers for our
wedding
?" My voice started to rise. Can I play a situation, or what? If he stopped to think for a minute he'd realize no way would I leave something that important to any man who wasn't gay, but so far he hadn't had that minute. A little payback is a good thing.
"Calm down," he said testily, walking past me into the kitchen to get a drink of water. I suppose loading and unloading an arbor can be thirsty work, even though the cool snap had persisted. "It'll get done."
I followed him. "I'm calm. I'm pissed, but I'm calm.
Calmly pissed.
How's that?"
I was getting a little testy, too. The last couple of days had been stressful. The proof of that was that we seemed to be getting into an argument, a real argument.