Not a Sparrow Falls (16 page)

He would feed the children. They were probably getting hungry. He stood in the middle of the kitchen floor and felt his stomach roil and heave, but he finally managed to put together a meal for them. Afterward, he changed their diapers and put them down for their naps, then lay down himself.

The telephone woke him at three-fifteen. Oh no. He was late for picking up Samantha.

Sure enough, it was Lorna, calling from the school. “Alasdair, is Samantha sick, too?” Alasdair frowned and put a hand on the counter to steady himself. His head felt light, and he was dizzy.

“She’s feeling fine as far as I know. Why do you ask?” His pulse began to speed even faster.

There was a pause. “She wasn’t here today. I assumed she was ill.”

“Samantha wasn’t at school today?”

“No, she wasn’t.”

“I left her off this morning.” He sighed. “She must be cutting class.”

“Wouldn’t she have come back by three to be picked up if she were cutting class?” Lorna pointed out.

Alasdair’s skin grew cold, and his heart began to race even faster than it had from his fever. “I’ll give her another hour,” he said. “Then I’m calling the police.”

****

It was busy, then slow, busy, then slow, all afternoon. Bridie had cleaned all around her check-out stand, tidied up the photo and sound display, even got out the Windex and cleaned the doors. She waited on one lone customer, a little lady with four cans of cat food, then looked for something else to do.

Winslow solved her problem for her. “Go on back there and clean up the dairy case,” the manager told her. “Somebody spilled a gallon of milk.”

Bridie bristled. She thought about telling Winslow that was a job for one of the courtesy clerks, but even as the words formed in her mind, she could hear her grandmother’s voice.
“If the Lord of glory left heaven and came to earth, then you can surely pick the beans,”
or clean the toilet, or whatever it was Grandma had in mind for her to do. She smiled, closed her check-out stand, and headed for the dairy case.

****

It was the worst job of shoplifting Bridie had ever seen. For one thing, the culprit was dressed all wrong. Her outfit was too skimpy, and the bottle of whatever she had was clearly outlined under her shirt, no matter how she tried to shield it with her arms. Plus, she darted around like she was hiding from enemy fire. Right now, for instance, she was hovering behind the end-cap display, peering past the stack of pork and beans like she was waiting for the gunfire to slack off before she made a break for it.

Bridie came up behind her. “Go ahead. I’ll cover you,” she whispered.

The girl whipped around, dropping the bottle. Dark glass flew across the aisle, and burgundy liquid splashed everywhere. Cabernet Sauvignon, not MD 20/20 or Boone’s Farm like most kids took. Bridie looked up from her tennis shoes, now sporting pink polka dots. The stunned face looking back at her was growing increasingly familiar. She stared at the girl for a minute, then gave her head a little shake.

“I keep running into you.”

Samantha stared back, eyes huge, tears pooling.

“What’s going on here?” It was Winslow, skidding to a stop, nostrils flaring, cheeks a healthy flush. The manager could sniff out a shoplifter faster than a bloodhound and was vicious when he caught them. “I prosecute to the full extent of the law,” he was fond of saying, and then would go on and on about how he was really doing the kids a favor. “Well?” He was almost panting, he was so excited.

Bridie put on a smile. “Just a spill.”

Winslow wasn’t going to be put off that easily. “No, sir. I don’t believe so. A young girl like this wouldn’t be buying a bottle of wine, and what was she doing with it if she wasn’t going to buy it? No, sir. She spilled it because she was stealing it.”

Samantha’s tears spilled over and started rolling down her cheeks. A child’s cheeks, Bridie realized, looking at her. Just a child.

“Who said
she
spilled it?” She turned toward Winslow and looked him full in the face. His already flushed cheeks turned a darker shade of red.

“Are you telling me she didn’t?”

Bridie hesitated just a bare second. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you. I’m the one who had the wine. She came around the corner too fast, and it went flying.”

Samantha’s tears stopped flowing. She sniffed and waited to see what would happen. Her eye makeup was slowly following the course of the liquid, making tarry pools under her lower lashes. Bridie had to hold back a smile.

“I don’t believe it,” Winslow said. His voice was flat, and his eyes bored mean little holes into Bridie’s lie.

But instead of feeling ashamed, she felt angry. Why couldn’t Winslow, just for once, leave it alone? But no, he always had to push everyone to their very last inch of nerve and then jump up and down on it.

Bridie crossed her arms and glared right back.

“Let’s just see,” he said.

Bridie frowned; then realization hit her like a cold wind in the face. What had she been thinking? The security cameras would have it all on tape.

“Let’s just go push Rewind and see what we’ve got.”

Her gut twisted as if somebody had tightened a noose around it, but she nodded. “Fine,” she said. “Let’s go see.” Bluffing again as she had with Jonah that night long ago when he’d shined the light in her eyes. But Winslow was not strung out on meth. Whatever brain cells he had were clicking along right on track, maybe one well-worn, narrow track, but they were making good time. She glanced at Samantha, who was back to flood stage.

“Let’s just go see,” he said, ordering more than inviting, and gestured for them to lead the way. Bridie held her head up high and swept through produce, past the line of check-out stands. Her co-workers watched them pass, some curious, some with knowing expressions on their faces. They’d seen
this drama play out many times before. Carmen’s mouth was open, and before Bridie’s eyes, her face transformed from surprised to outraged.

“What’s going on here?” she called out.

“I got me some shoplifters, that’s what’s going on,” Winslow shot back.

Carmen’s eyes narrowed and her lips tightened. She drew her cell phone from its holster and began firing numbers. Winslow led the march into the office and began fiddling with the security camera. Bridie’s thoughts were racing. If he called the police, everything would come unstrung. Her identification would probably not stand a close inspection, and then what would happen? She knew Jonah better than to think he had flipped and given her up. As long as he thought she had his money, he wouldn’t be telling any tales on her, but there was no telling what Dwayne had said. If they found her real identity, they might also find a warrant for her arrest. Dread overtook her. The life she’d so carefully constructed turned dark around her and began to close over her head. The opening above her that let in light and air was growing smaller and smaller. She found herself breathing in little gasps as if she really couldn’t catch her breath.

Samantha looked at her, obviously worried. Bridie was afraid she might be sick. Winslow was oblivious. He had the tape cued to where he wanted it.

“Let’s just see,” he said and pushed Play.

There they were in grainy black and white. Bridie could see the tip of her leg in the far right-hand corner of the screen, just finishing up her cleaning of the dairy case. In the foreground was Samantha, teetering on those high heels, looking behind her, guilty face turning this way and that, looking for witnesses before she reached up, took a bottle of wine from the shelf, then thrust it up under her shirt. Bridie watched, hypnotized, as she saw herself straighten up, dust off her hands, turn, and spot Samantha. Now she was coming toward her. Oops. There went the bottle. Now she and
Samantha were talking. Here came Winslow. It was surreal. Now the three of them were talking, replaying the moments before. Winslow gestured toward the office, and then one by one they disappeared from view. The last scenes were of the wine and beer aisle, empty now except for the spattered mess of glass and dark liquid. Winslow turned, triumphant.

“I’ve got the proof,” he said. “Right here. The two of y’all on tape. You been in cahoots for a while? What? Bridie looks out and gives you the high sign, and then you come in and rob me blind?”

Bridie said nothing. She was going down. Down. And no one could help her.

“You’ve got proof I was stealing. And that’s true. I was.”

Shock opened Bridie’s eyes. Samantha spoke, her voice bold and clear. Her cheeks were pale and her eyes still ringed, but she didn’t look frightened anymore.

“You’ve got me on tape, but that’s all you’ve got. She wasn’t my lookout. She was busting me.”

Bridie blinked. Samantha stared back at her. Winslow narrowed his little beady black marbles and twisted his mouth into a satisfied smile. “Is that why she lied for you when I caught you red-handed?”

There didn’t seem to be an answer for that. Bridie heard her grandmother’s voice, cautioning her that lying never solved a problem, only took a bad situation and made it worse. She closed her eyes again.

“Is there a problem here?” A new voice entered the mix. Bridie felt light-headed. She reached for the chair and sat down before her knees buckled.

“Carmen called and said you were having some difficulty. I was close by and thought I’d see if I could be of service.” Bridie shaded her eyes from Newlee’s gaze, but when she peered through her fingers she could see his face was kind, not accusing. Samantha, apparently seeing she might be staying awhile, pulled out a chair as well.

“Why don’t we all sit down?” Newlee suggested, smiling.
He pulled out a chair, too, and sat down with the creak of leather. Winslow looked as if he might have apoplexy. He remained standing and began punching at the security camera, rewinding the tape. “The problem is this young lady stole from me with the help of my employee,” Winslow said. “I was just fixing to call you.”

“How old are you, miss?” Newlee addressed the question to Samantha. She blanched. Apparently just being spoken to by an officer of the law was enough to shake her composure.

“Thirteen.” Her voice quivered. She looked more like a child than ever, no matter how much makeup she clumped around her eyes.

Newlee nodded and pulled a notebook from his pocket. “What’s your name?”

Samantha cleared her throat. “Samantha MacPherson.”

Newlee wrote. “Address?”

“Nine-twenty Fairfax Street.”

Newlee wrote more.

“Telephone?”

Samantha answered. Newlee wrote.

“Parents home?”

“My dad—” Samantha cleared her throat and her eyes spilled again. The tarry puddles moved south, led by a dark trickle. “My dad’s probably home.” She made a sound that was halfway between a hiccup and a sob.

Newlee nodded and looked up. Winslow was ready with the tape.

“Right here. You just watch, officer. Here we go.” He pushed Play and the tawdry little scene enacted itself again, and suddenly it seemed as if Bridie’s entire life was like that. The same scene played out over and over again. Never a break, never a variation. Doing all right for a while, then a fork in the road presented itself, and without fail, without a doubt, without variation, she chose the wrong one. She covered her eyes again.

“I see,” Newlee said, voice calm. “Looks like somebody got caught in the act.”

“Darned right,” Winslow crowed.

Bridie shut her eyes even tighter. Samantha’s noises were definitely leaning toward sobs.

“And one of my own employees lied to cover it up,” Winslow continued. “I think the two of them’s in cahoots.”

“We are not.” Samantha spoke again, her voice adamant in spite of her distress. “She didn’t know anything about it.”

Winslow started to argue back, but Newlee held up his hand to stop him. “I think you’d have a hard time making that accusation stick,” Newlee said. “From what I see on the tape there’s no reason to think your employee was involved in any way. I suggest you let her go back to work. I’ll take a report and escort this young lady back home.”

Bridie held her breath. Maybe, maybe, maybe things would work out after all.

“No, no, no.” Winslow was shaking his head. Samantha’s sobs got a little louder. She was probably having visions of herself, prison pale in an orange jumpsuit and leg shackles. “You go on and take
her,
” Winslow said, nodding toward Samantha. “I was fixing to call you anyway. But I’ll deal with Miss Collins here.”

Bridie dropped her hand from her eyes and sat up. There was no hiding from reality any longer. “I’ll spare you the trouble,” she said, rising.

“Oh no you don’t.” Winslow barred the door with his body. “You’re not going to quit before I can fire you.”

“Am I under arrest?” Bridie looked toward Newlee for an answer. He shook his head, his eyes looking troubled.

“Then I’ll get my things,” she said to Winslow. “You can write whatever you want on my paperwork.”

“You bet I will. Nobody else will hire you after I finish.”

“I’ll give you a ride home,” Newlee said.

“That’s all right,” Bridie protested. The last thing she wanted was an intimate conversation with Newlee.

“I insist.”

She looked at him. He looked back at her. Samantha’s sobs slowed. Her head bobbed between the two of them like she was watching a tennis match.

“Sure,” Bridie agreed, making her voice easy. “Let me get the stuff from my locker. I’ll be down in a second.”

Winslow gave Newlee a malicious look and moved reluctantly away from the door.

“Take your time,” Newlee said and creaked back down into his chair.

****

Lorna arrived just as the police were pulling up in front of the parsonage. She came through the doorway first, her eyes already red from crying.

“Oh, Alasdair.” She clung to his arm. “Maybe she’s just playing hooky.”

“Maybe,” he said, gripping her hand. “Calling the police is probably an overreaction.” The twins were wailing from their cribs upstairs. He’d been sick once while he was waiting for the police and felt as if he might be again. The room swayed slightly, and when he closed his eyes it spun. A dark little figure huddled in the basement of his psyche, whispering evil. He’d failed his daughter in some elemental way. He’d known that for months, years, perhaps, and now she was alone in the world, long before she was able to negotiate it safely. He had failed her. The realization hit him like a vicious stab through the diaphragm.