When he saw me, he lost his polite, I-wish-I-were-somewhere-else expression and smiled broadly.
“We can do it, folks!” the white-haired man was saying, and I pulled my attention reluctantly from Curt. “I know we can do it. We can feed not only the needy of Amhearst but of the surrounding communities, too. Why, we’re almost past last year’s total, and we have another week to go. And the local grocers have yet to make their contributions. With the coverage The News is going to give us, the Amhearst Annual Christmas Food Project will make history!”
He was so good at pep talks that even I, weary as I was, felt a slight urge to cheer with the other wildly clapping people around the table. Instead I concentrated on dragging my camera out of my purse.
“And here, I presume, is our photographer now!” The white-haired man said and everyone turned.
I smiled weakly in apology for being so late.
“Come on, everyone,” the man said. “It’s free PR time. Let’s get ourselves set for our picture.” And he began telling everyone where to stand. He finished with, “Curt, stand right there in the middle. You’re our celebrity and honorary chairman, and we want to take advantage of that.”
I felt Curt’s eyes on me and became unexpectedly shy. I studied my camera intently, adjusting this and manipulating that. My problem was that I could never quite figure out how to react to him in public.
Back when I’d gone with Jack, he ignored me most of the time, sort of expecting I’d follow along, which like an idiot I did, so public response wasn’t an issue. Now I worried about Curt. I couldn’t rush to his side because we weren’t really going together or anything—though I suspected that was more my fault than his. I also couldn’t ignore him. Basic manners aside, I didn’t want to. I mean, maybe someday he and I would be going together. I hope, I hope. I think. Maybe.
So I stood there flat-footed and thought about how gorgeous he looked and how worn I must look and how shallow I was not to be thinking of the tragedy of Arnie.
Curt ignored his orders to stand in the middle and walked over to me. “Hi.”
Sudden tears sprang to my eyes. “Hi.” It came out as a whisper. I realized for the first time how close I was to losing control.
Curt took my arm, concern leaping to his face. “Are you all right?”
“Barely.”
He began to lead me to a chair. “Sit down.”
I pulled my arm free and shook my head. “If I sit, I’ll start to cry and ruin my professional image. If I have one left after my lateness.”
He started to protest, but I cut in. “I’ll tell you all about it later.” I saw over Curt’s shoulder that the white-haired man was bearing down on us. “And you’d better go stand in the middle before you’re dragged there.”
He went to stand where he’d been told as the white-haired man came up to me.
“Hello, there, darlin’,” he said, smiling with great charm. “I’m Harry Allen Bushay.”
I looked at him with interest. Was this the Bushay of Bushay Environmental where Jack was working on his audit?
“How do you do, Mr. Bushay.” I extended my hand, blood encrusted nails and all. He took it and held it a moment or two too long. He leaned close.
“Just call me Harry Allen, darlin’.”
“Thank you,” I said noncommittally.
With a cozy, just-between-you-and-me grin, Harry Allen turned and took his place next to Curt. I snapped several pictures, hoping that everyone looked decent in at least one of them. I had pulled out my spiral tablet to get everyone’s name when Harry Allen handed me a sheet of paper.
“Here are our names,” he said helpfully. “They are in order and all spelled correctly.”
“Thank you,” I said as I flipped my tablet closed. “How thoughtful of you.”
“I’m a thoughtful kind of guy, darlin’.”
I smiled weakly. The last thing I felt like dealing with tonight was a flirt with white hair, no matter how premature the white or how charming the manner.
I needn’t have worried. Harry Allen turned and with a clap of his hands called the AAC-FOP meeting back to order. “Only fifteen more minutes, people. Only fifteen more minutes.”
Everyone took their places at the table except Curt.
“I don’t have to stay,” he said as he helped me into my coat. “I’m only the honorary chairman.”
“It must be tough being a celebrity,” I teased. “Why, I even saw an original Carlyle hanging in a mansion tonight.”
He grinned. “I hope you were properly impressed.”
We walked out of the meeting room and into the front hall, shoulders rubbing companionably. I still had trouble comprehending that this man said he was falling in love with me. Me!
I was slim enough and not too tall, but I had this spiky hair that insisted on drooping, a striped nose, and a prickly side to my nature that had been asserting itself with a vengeance since I’d moved to Amhearst. I kept waiting for him to realize his mistake and fall for someone like, say, Airy. Someone beautiful and lovely and all those other wondrous, feminine things. Why, I bite my nails, for goodness sake!
Curt stopped in the hall and checked over his shoulder. When he was certain we were alone, he turned me to face him. “What’s wrong, Merry?”
“Oh, Curt,” I sobbed, burying my face in his chest. “We found him shot, and then she tried to move him and the police questioned us and her mom fainted and they ignored her and—”
“Whoa.” He patted me gently on the back. “Just cry and then tell me. Both at once don’t work too well.”
Of course, as soon as he told me I could cry, the tears dried up, sort of like a toothache disappearing as soon as you entered the dentist’s office. I huddled against him a few minutes longer, then stepped reluctantly back.
“Poor Arnie,” I said.
“Arnie?”
“Meister, Jolene’s ex or almost ex. Though now I guess he’ll never get to full ex status, will he?” Somehow that seemed very sad. Not that ex status was a good thing, but never to achieve it or anything else ever again, that was sad.
Curt took hold of my shoulders. “If I follow you correctly, you’re saying that Jolene’s husband has been shot?”
I lifted shaking hands and brushed my hair out of my eyes. “Killed. Murdered. We found him.”
He looked at me with such concern that the tears sprang to my eyes again. This man could do extraordinary things to me.
Suddenly the phone on the receptionist’s desk in the darkened office to our right began to ring. I jumped at the noise.
“Should we answer it? Maybe it’s for someone here.” I took a step toward the office.
He put a hand on my arm. “The answering machine will get it. That’s what it’s for.”
Sure enough, the machine kicked in after the second ring.
“If anyone can hear this,” a voice boomed loudly, “and Harry Allen Bushay is still there, please get him to the phone. This is the police.”
Curt and I looked at each other. Then I lunged for the phone, and he took off for the meeting room.
“We’re getting Mr. Bushay,” I told the person on the other end. “He’ll be right here.”
“Thank you,” said a familiar voice.
“William,