“Taking his picture.”
“What?”
“For the paper. He chairs the Amhearst Annual Christmas Food Project, and my assignment is to take a committee picture. I’m just fortunate they were still here because I was very late.” I minded my manners; I didn’t say it was his fault.
“Interesting that you have been with two people closely associated with Mr. Meister this evening, isn’t it, Merry?”
Harry Allen was associated with Arnie? “Coincidence, Sergeant.”
“So you say,” he answered, but I could hear a smile in his voice.
Before I had time to respond, Harry Allen came hurrying down the hall, worry and apprehension written all over his face. He grabbed the phone from me.
“Yes?” he barked. “What is it?”
Whatever William Poole said, it seemed to alleviate Harry Allen’s fear. His shoulders eased and his brow cleared. Then, abruptly, he jerked upright.
“What? You can’t be serious!”
As Harry Allen listened some more, I looked at Curt. Should we leave or should we wait and see if he needed assistance of any kind—though the idea of Harry Allen Bushay needing assistance seemed ludicrous to me.
“Yes,” he finally said. “I’ll come right away. No, I do not wish to wait until tomorrow. I want to get it over with. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
He hung up the phone and stood still a minute, lost in thought, appearing almost disoriented.
“Can we do anything for you, Harry Allen?” Curt asked. “Help in any way?”
He looked up. “Yes,” he said. “You can tell the committee that the meeting’s over for tonight.”
Curt nodded.
“Oh, never mind,” Harry Allen said in disgust. “I’ll do it. I have to go back in anyway to get my coat. I have to go to the police station.”
I looked at him with great interest. “Arnie Meister?”
He focused all his intensity on me. “How did you know that call was about Arnie Meister?”
“I talked to Sergeant Poole tonight at Arnie’s house. I was with Arnie’s wife when she found his body.”
One bushy eyebrow rose. “Bad?” he asked.
I nodded, tearing up yet again. Curt put his arm around me and pulled me close.
Harry Allen snorted, half in distress, half in disbelief. “Arnie Meister’s dead. Murdered. Absolutely unbelievable. Wait till they find out that he and I had a big fight yesterday. I mean a big fight. And wait until they try to get me to tell them what it was about.” He looked at us, his lips clamped together. “I’m not talking to anyone.”
FIVE
Curt and I sat in a booth at McDonald’s where I stared unenthusiastically at my cheeseburger.
“Come on, Merry,” Curt urged. “You’ll feel better if you get some food in you.”
I pulled a French fry out of the red cardboard holder and nibbled. “It feels like everything’s sticking in my throat.”
“Take a drink.”
I obediently sipped, and the moisture helped the dryness. Maybe the Coke’s bubbles would settle my stomach.
“There was so much blood, Curt. It’s hard not to keep seeing it.” I shivered as I looked at the little cup of catsup he had placed next to his fries.
He took my hand in his. “Merry, you’ll be okay. Just give yourself time. But for now, eat.” He put my cheeseburger in my other hand. “Bite. Chew.” I did. Satisfied, he took a huge bite of his Big Mac.
The door behind me flew open, and I glanced over my shoulder. Anything to stop staring at the cheeseburger. Airy Bennett and a strange man entered, followed by my old Pittsburgh flame and current Amhearst pursuer, Jack Hamilton.
Ack! Just the perfect ending to a perfect day. Jack and Curt and me, a jolly threesome at McDonald’s. Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub. I could feel an ulcer developing as I sat there. I shrank as low in my seat as I could.
But Jack didn’t see us. He was too busy talking to his companions. He paused in his story only long enough to order his meal and follow Airy and the man to a table across the room where he sat with his back toward me. Risk diminished.
But not alleviated. He might glance around at some point and see me. Surely even self-absorbed Jack got curious about the people around him, didn’t he?
All unaware of potential disaster, Curt continued eating. When his eyes slued from his food to someone approaching our table, I knew the worst was about to happen.
“It is you, isn’t it?”
That wasn’t Jack’s voice. Giddy with relief, I smiled at Airy Bennet.
She looked anxiously at me. “You’re the woman who was with Jolene Meister earlier today, aren’t you? I recognize the red coat.”
I nodded.
“Well,” she said, “I’ve got to apologize. I am very embarrassed by the way I acted.”
I waved my hand in a dismissive gesture. “Don’t worry. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not, though it’s kind of you to say so.” She smiled, and I thought she was probably a nice person when away from Jolene. At least she didn’t deny her complicity in the fight.
She continued. “Jolene has brought out the worst in me for years. I’m always dumb enough to get sucked in, no matter how many times I promise myself I won’t let her push my buttons. I see her again and boom! I explode.” She sighed. “Maybe someday I’ll grow up.” She said it without much hope.
“Don’t worry,” I repeated. “As far as the traumas of the day go, it’s at the bottom of the list, believe me.”
Since she didn’t know about the traumas at the top of the list, Airy thought I was just being polite. “Believe it or not,” she said, “it’s not like me to be so nasty.”
I nodded. Standing here with her coffee in her hand, she looked like a regular person, reasonably polite and intelligent. Besides, I knew Jolene.
“When I told Sean how I made a fool of myself, he couldn’t believe it.” She glanced back toward Jack and the other man. “That’s Sean,” she said. “The blond guy.”
Sean looked up at that moment and smiled widely at Airy. I noticed the mustache Jolene had referred to. It wasn’t very obvious at this distance, his being blond and all, but it looked nice as far as I could tell. He saw me looking at him and dipped his head in acknowledgment. Jack started to turn to see who Sean was looking at, and I spun around so fast I made myself dizzy.
“By the way, I’m Airy Bennett,” she said, holding out her hand. “We never did get introduced earlier.” She grinned ruefully.
“Merrileigh Kramer,” I said. “And this is Curt Carlyle.”
Airy looked again at Curt. “Of course,” she said, and I grinned proudly at him. Big-time artist. Name recognition. “Mr. Carlyle. I thought you looked familiar. You teach phys ed and coach—what? Soccer or something?”
So much for being a famous artist. I was disappointed, though he didn’t seem to mind.
“I coach soccer and tennis,” he said, “but I don’t teach anymore.”
“I was a senior the first year you taught.” Airy grinned. “We girls were all so impressed to have a single male teacher who was good-looking and all. I bet they miss you now.”
“I