Something About Sophie (16 page)

His cell phone rang. He answered it with a quick
what
and an
I'm on my way
and put it back in his pocket as he addressed her. “Like what?”

“I don't know—something about my birth mother maybe?”

“You still don't know who she was, I take it. The lawyer was no help?” She shook her head while he considered her. “Maybe. I can't see Lonny being in cahoots with the two of them in some way, for any reason, but . . . hell, who knows. We have a lot of territory to cover yet. Finding Maury is at the top of the list.” He turned and took the first step down off the porch.

“How is Mr. Campbell?” Sophie asked.

Fred Murphy's chuckle produced warmhearted amusement in his eyes. “Let's put it this way: he's fighting an overnight observation at the hospital while the Dumpster he hit his head on is still unconscious.” His shot at levity went wide of the mark. He went back to being sheriff. “He's fine. I got one of my guys babysittin' him. He's safe for now.”

“May I visit him? I— It's not me. I promise. I'd never hurt him. Anyone actually.”

His nod came easily as he got to his feet to leave them. “If you could wait till dinnertime, it'll save me having to send someone over to relieve my deputy so he can eat.”

“Sure.”

“I'll let him know.”

“Wait a minute,” Jesse said. “What was he looking for? Maury. In the garage?”

It took only a second for the sheriff to realize he was already in for a penny. . . .

“So far, it looks like it might have been one of
her
school annuals. It could still be there, under something else, but that's all that stands out at the moment. Fact is, it could be anything,” he said, slowly descending the steps as if reluctant to rejoin the rest of the world and his troubles therein. “Putting her garage back together isn't exactly where her heart is just now.” Automatically and without hope, he added, “Let me know if you hear anything.”

He hadn't pulled away from the curb before Jesse jumped up and pulled open the screen door, saying, “Leigh was my class secretary.” She gave them an I-just-discovered-gold-in-my-sugar-bowl look. They stared back and she rolled her eyes. “We have the same annuals! If there's a clue in one of them, I'll find it.”

Sophie barely noticed the soft bump of the screen door closing, the silence on the porch was so loud. Even Jesse's bossy scolding of the deputies inside to clean up this and put that back where they found it were muffled as she lost herself in the void between knowing for certain that she was somehow involved and the how and the why of it all.

Logically it had something to do with her, her birth mother, and Arthur Cubeck, but all the obvious connections of that triangle had been cleared up. Add Clearfield High School's scream team of bullies from twenty-seven years ago, and the waters muddied again with the dregs of something dark and disturbing. And yet, throwing Lonny into the mix pressed them back into a thick mysterious sludge worse than where they started.

She caught Drew's movement as he pushed away from the pillar and closed the four-step gap between them with his hands extended for her to take—which she did without hesitating. He pulled her to her feet, drawing her into his comforting arms.

“I need to take off,” he muttered, his chin near the back of her neck as she lowered her head to his shoulder. Her sigh was of release, of finally grabbing onto something solid and real. “Don't worry. It'll be okay. We'll figure it out. No one's going to hurt you.”

She didn't see it until she said it: “It's not me. If he wanted to hurt me he'd have come at me directly. First. I'd be Cliff Palmeroy.” She pulled back enough to watch him add it up in his head and concur. It made sense. Why shoot all the ducks in the sky if what you want is the goose swimming on the pond, alone, in the open—an easier target? Returning to the safety of his embrace her voice went soft. “I'm more afraid for you. And Jesse and Mike.”

She felt the short shake of his head. “It's not us, either. I don't know how Lonny Campbell fits into it, but everyone knows Cliff and Maury were friends since they were kids. Add their old pal Frank Lanyard and a pattern begins to appear.”

“Bullies.”

“Hmm?”

“You said Palmeroy was a bully. Jesse said there were four of them in high school. Cliff Palmeroy. Maury Weims. Frank Lanyard . . . and Jeremy somebody—he moved to California. So the connection between them isn't simply their friendship. They were cruel and intimidating together.”

“And that would point the finger of guilt at dozens of people in town who'd want to get back at them.”

“Sure, but why now?” Again she leaned away to see his face. “Why didn't they take their revenge ten or fifteen years ago or last year or even last month? Why wait until I come to town to get back at them?”

And there it was. . . . As his brow furrowed his eyes filled with the understanding and compassion she'd found so appealing when they first met. The silent empathy that told her he was aware of the ache in her heart, the turmoil in her soul—and he was there for her.

“I don't know, Sophie.” He braced the left side of her neck with his palm and caressed her cheek with his thumb. “I wish I did.” He kissed, first her forehead and then her lips—tender and caring. “I'll come back about six-thirty to take you over to see Lonny.”

“Don't be silly. It's seven blocks away.”

“I don't want you to be alone.”

“I told you—”

“I know what you told me. Humor me.”

“No. Thanks, but it isn't necessary. I'm tougher than I look, you know. And I'm not afraid.”
I'm flint.
She took a step back. “Tell you what: I won't walk. I'll drive. I'll lock all the doors and take Mike's baseball bat—if the cops didn't take it.” He wasn't falling for her stab at humor. She slipped easily into frustration. “I don't want to be driven! I want to drive! Alone, by myself. I want to be free to come and go. I want to be in control!” Her voice cracked and softened. “I
need
to be in control of something—even if it's just for seven blocks.”

He saw it, and smiled with a relenting nod. “Sorry. There might be more of my mother in me than I want to admit—she'll smother anyone who lets her.”

“No. You've been great this week.” Her hesitation was short. “Actually, you've been the best part—which might not sound all that special considering everything that's happened, but even if I'd come here under happier circumstances and every day was a picnic or a party—or anything but what it's really been—you'd still be the best part.”

She took a breath and he grinned. “So would you say we're in mutual crazy-aboutness?”

Laughing softly, she settled her forearms across the back of his shoulders. “I think I would. Yes.”

“And would you agree that we should set some time aside to be alone, just the two of us, to explore this condition?” He eased her body flat against his; hands at the small of her back, fingers spread wide.

“Didn't we try something like that before with, um, a shocking outcome?”

She felt his abdomen quaver with a silent laugh. “Yes, I believe we did—an unfortunate setback in my opinion.”

“Mm. Unfortunate.” She leaned in to touch his lips with hers. Soft, warm, and pliant.

“Whatdaya say we give it another whack?”

“Now?” she asked hopefully, only half kidding.

“Later tonight.” His voice came from deeper in his throat, like a growl. She liked it. “You haven't seen my place yet. I'll cook. We can take our time. Do it right this time.”

“I suggest we step over and ignore all the dead bodies on our way out the door, okay?”

“God, yes.” His delight slipped to desire when he lowered his mouth over hers—firm and hot. Urgent.

Chapter Eleven

I
n Marion she rarely locked her car doors. It never seemed necessary unless she had something of great value on the seat next to her—which was hardly ever—and it was more a matter of
leading them not into temptation
than believing someone might be actively looking for something to steal. And while she sort of automatically glanced more attentively into the shadows of the backseat before she drove at night, it was more for the presence of a boogeyman than a killer.

Though, she supposed a killer was actually a specific
type
of boogeyman for grown-ups—not unlike the kind that'll bite off the fingers of children who suck their thumbs. Rapists might be the adult version of the fiends who wander in the dark looking for little children to snatch up and carry off . . . and thieves and bullies could be the hobgoblins that crawl under the beds of children who don't go to sleep when they're told to.

But they weren't the imaginary goblins used to frighten children into being obedient. They were real, and they were her reasons for locking herself inside her Jeep as she drove to the hospital, parking close to the entrance, and locking it again as she scurried inside to visit Lonny.

While she didn't believe anyone was trying to harm her directly, there was no point in taking foolish chances. And okay, so her inner child still had a healthy fear of the boogeyman.
So what?
she asked herself, walking, eyes forward, passing the metal door to the vacant stairwell—equally as bad as any dark cellar—to the hospital's elevator bay. She was an adult. She could be as peculiar and as paranoid as she wanted to be and no one—

“Oh!” She startled when the elevator doors parted and a woman stepped into the opening. “Mrs. McCarren!”

“Sophie!”

They laughed, both relieved to know they weren't the only jumpy people in town.

“Hi. It's nice to see you again.”

“You too, dear. Ava and I were speaking of you this afternoon.” She was without a doubt the most put-together woman Sophie'd ever met. Even in simple slacks and a soft summer blouse, she looked like she'd just stepped out of Cate Blanchett's closet. “We were hoping we could persuade you and Jesse over to the house for a light summer lunch on Saturday.”

“I'd love that, thank you. I'll check with Jesse when I get back and let you know . . . tomorrow probably.”
Because I'm hoping to be out very, very, very late tonight
, she thought, smiling at her date's mother.

“Excellent.” They switched places—Sophie into the elevator, Elizabeth McCarren out. “My, you look lovely and bright this evening.” She sobered. “You're here to see Drew, if I'm not mistaken. Isn't it lovely that his work is close enough for drop-in visitors?”

“No, no.” She waved a small but obvious fistful of deep purple irises and white peonies from Jesse's garden. “I'm here to visit Mr. Campbell.”

“Lonny?”

The door started to close, Sophie held it open.

“You know he was attacked last night, right?”

“Yes, I heard.”

Guessing from the tone of disapproval in her voice, Sophie assumed the mere mention of . . . what had she called him? . . . the ornery old curmudgeon, brought to mind the accursed pile of tires behind Lonny's shop—and probably any number of socially unacceptable faux pas he'd committed throughout his lifetime. And with hardly any guilt at all, she began to see the satisfaction Ava found in irking her mother.

“I, ah, he not only replaced my tires the other day but he cleaned off all the dust they used for the fingerprints, and I wanted to thank him. And to say hi, of course . . . well, actually
mostly
to say hi.” Apparently a good, deliberate irk required some practice.

“That's very kind of you, Sophie. I can see you have a very caring spirit.”

Well, crud
. Her caring spirit exhaled uncomfortably, embarrassed. “He was kind to me first. Visiting him is the least I can do.”

She smiled fondly at Sophie. “I believe in the corporal works of mercy, too,” she said, suddenly in the vein of a theological conversation. “I was brought up on the importance of feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting the sick. And I don't feel you need to be a particularly spiritual person to do what's simply humane.”

Sophie wasn't sure what to say to that, if anything, but the longer she said nothing, the more awkward the silence grew.

“No. I agree. People should care about one another.” And for bonus points, she added, “Seems like those things ought to be as basic as breathing, and yet we call them
works
of mercy.”

For a long somber moment, Drew's mother studied Sophie like she was someone she'd forgotten. She seemed to be taking in the waves in her hair and the arch of her brows, the shape of her mouth and the angle of her chin. A faraway look came into her eyes for as long as it took her to blink, and then it was gone.

“Yes. Yes, indeed. Doing the right thing should come naturally.” She tipped her head to one side sympathetically. “But life isn't ever as simple as that, is it?”

Sophie's smile was small. “No, ma'am. Life isn't simple at all.”

“And that's why forgiveness is divine, isn't it? Another virtue.”

Sophie assumed she was referring to the quote, ‘To err is human; to forgive, divine.' She recalled fondly her mother's views on forgiveness and said, “Yes, ma'am. My mom used to say that forgiveness is the choice we make so that our hearts can heal.”

Elizabeth gave a satisfied nod. “A wise woman. You've been taught well, dear.” Sophie agreed. “Good night, Sophie.”

“ 'Night, Mrs. McCarren.”

“Call me Elizabeth.” She turned to walk away. “Say hello to Lonny for me. And don't forget about Saturday.”

The elevator doors came together.

“Oookaaay,” she said slowly, wondering if Elizabeth's odd drift into the subject of charitable virtues was some sort of test she gave to all of Drew's girlfriends . . . or just the ones from Ohio. She chuckled. Either way, she felt like she'd done well enough to pass. Next . . . the sex test. She squirmed with anticipation.

The elevator opened on the second floor and she stepped out. Reading directions and following arrows, she was pretending she couldn't smell death underneath decades of boiled food and antiseptics when she spotted a khaki-colored deputy sheriff's uniform on a young man down the hall who was bent over the lower wall of the nurses' station deep in dialogue with the nurse on the other side—they laughed at something amusing and Sophie's blood pressure shot through the roof.

Who
was protecting Lonny?

Her steps quickened and her mind reeled with a scathing lecture for their lack of concentration on their respective jobs, but the only thing that made it to her tongue by the time she reached them was, “Lonny Campbell?”

“Yes, ma'am. Ms. Shepard, right?” The deputy had a thick drawl and a big friendly grin that she couldn't appreciate at the moment. He turned to face the patient room directly behind him. “Finally got him talked into spendin' the night. He's inside there watchin'
Ice Road Truckers
and eatin' rubber Jell-O.”

Her skin cooled as she conceded to his being only eight feet away and in full view of Lonny's door—plus he'd seen her coming, so he would have seen anyone else in the hallway.

“Thank you.”

“Appreciate you puttin' your visit off a bit so I kin supper with my wife.” He smiled warmly at the nurse. “We work odd shifts and sometimes we can go a couple days without seein' each other. She's done for the day and close to finishin' up on her notes there, then we'll be off. Downstairs to the cafeteria, is all. The other nurses know you're here. So you holler out if you have any problems and I'll be back in half'er three quarters of 'n hour. That good for you?”

“Yes, that's fine.” She glanced back at the nurse, whose expression was both curious and pleasant. A cute couple. “Enjoy your dinner.”

Before she could tap on Lonny's door, she heard the soft ding from her cell indicating she had a text.

Nearly caught up. Let me know when you're ready.

For my book—how do you like your steak cooked

and how many babies do you want? D

Her head came up quickly to see if anyone took note of her astounded gasp or the happy flush in her cheeks, then dropped the phone back in her big hobo-style purse. Her smile was double wide as she entered Lonny's room.

“Mr. Campbell? Hi.” She inched farther into the room. He looked well enough despite the clear-tape dressing on his right temple. “You might not remember me but—”

“Course, I do.” His tone was gruff, his voice raspy, as she'd caught him off guard and he was clearly uncomfortable. “Bumped my head—didn't lose my mind.”

She grinned. “So I see. Did you get stitches?”

“A few.” She watched as he tried to reposition his big body into a more respectable and courteous position for receiving company. But as anyone who knew anything about hospital beds would tell him, comfort—be it physical or psychological—is not what they were designed for. He cleared his throat and said, “Five, they say, and I'm guessing they charge by the stitch 'cause the gash isn't but an inch long and I coulda laced it up myself with just two. Three at most.”

“Yes, but that would have left a scar and no one would think you were pretty anymore.”

He looked up, taken aback, and coughed out a laugh he hadn't expected. “Pretty. Ho, that's fresh. Never once worried about anyone calling me that one before.”

“Really? I find that very hard to believe.” Seeing that he was immensely more relaxed, she settled half a thigh on the end of his bed. “What do they call you instead? Handsome? Good-looking? Cute?”

He snorted a chuckle. “Mean and ornery's what they call me most days. Rest of the time they don't bother callin'.” His gaze lowered to the flowers. “Those for me?”

“Yes. Jesse sent them.”

He took the flowers with a grumbled utterance, looked at them in bewilderment, glanced around awkwardly, and then plunged the stems into a carafe. “Tell her thanks.” He settled his hands in his lap and looked back at her.

There might be a thick layer of snow covering the peak of this mountainous man, and the lines in his face deep as rivers, but the life and humor in his clear green eyes was as vivid and warm as his astute intelligence was keen . . . and clear.

“Is it hurting much? Should you be resting? They said visitors were okay, but I can come back another time.”

“No. You're good. My bookkeeper and Tom Johns, who found me, came by early on when they all thought I was dyin' but it only took 'em ten seconds to figure out I was stayin' on, so they left. And it's boring as hell in here.” And so as not to appear too eager for companionship, he added, “Got some shows I like on the TV, though. And the nursin' gals are nice.” He curled his upper lip. “But someone in the kitchen's got somethin' 'bout boilin' all the food—it's disgustin'.”

“I know! What's that about?” She perked up, preheated on the subject.

“Ain't a kernel of salt in the place, neither.”

“And it's all the same color. How do they manage that?”

“Same way they make it all taste the same, I'm guessin'.” He hesitated. “Cake's good.”

“That's true. I like the little frosted brownie sort of cake . . . and the coconut-layered cake.”

He nodded. “Ain't had that one yet, but the bacon was good and crisp this mornin' when they finally fed me.”

“Yeah, they're pretty good with bacon. Crunchy. I'm not hot on half-cooked bacon.”

“Nor them fake eggs and mashed patotas. But can you see crackin' and peelin' and cookin' all them for everbody?”

“No, I can't imagine it's an easy job. And since it's basically the same in every hospital I've ever been in, they probably have some sort of rules or specific ways they have to follow to make special diets.” Her expression was empathetic. “And they do serve better food to the staff and visitors in the cafeterias.”

He considered her a moment. “You know a bit about hospitals. Are you sickly?”

“No. Perfectly healthy. I don't even catch colds very often.” Remembering was still an awful surprise followed by an aching pain. “My mom passed away last year. Cancer. My dad and I got to be hospital food experts.”

“Sad. My condolences.”

“Thank you.” Sophie learned quickly that there was a unique bond between people who'd experienced the loss of loved ones. “The other day . . . You've lost people, too.”

His nod was slow, thoughtful. “A long time ago.”

“Your wife and daughter.” Another nod, but nothing warning her off the subject. “At the same time? In an accident?”

“No.” There was an odd tone in his voice—a need to speak laced with defiance. “My wife slipped away from us when our girl was but seven—bad heart.” He leaned his head back against his clumsily placed pillow—his scraggly white beard jutting straight out in the air—and closed his eyes briefly as he toppled into his memories. The deep lifelines in his face softened. “Course, we didn't know about that in the beginning. Ha. In the beginning it was more me with the heart problems than her.” He raised his head. If his smile was a bit stiff, it was from disuse, not the lack of enjoyment. “I was her cousin's date to a big family reunion picnic after the harvest that year. I didn't know her too well, the cousin, but she seemed like a nice enough gal. I was twenty-two, fresh out of the navy—that was the Korean War, ya see. Course, I didn't have much of nothin' yet, so the family had a wary eye on me; figured I was up to no good with the cousin, so they missed my jaw droppin' down to my belt and me near fallin' off my feet the first time I saw my Cora. She was a sailor's delight with eyes the color of a noon sky in midsummer.”