Edie and I stayed in the living room where she slept restlessly on the sofa, muttering occasionally in her sleep, at other times sighing as though in despair. I took catnaps in my cushy leather chair.
I pulled myself awake at seven and took my burning eyes and sour mouth into the guest bath where I did my best to transform myself. It was about as hopeless as turning coffee dregs into fresh brew. Still, when I pulled up to the window at McDonald’s and ordered an Egg McMuffin, the sleepy teen who took my order and money understood what I said.
I wrote the story on Edie’s mysterious body, still a John Doe when we went to press. He had carried no wallet, no driver’s license, no credit cards. His clothes were from Penney’s, his jeans were Levis, available countless places, and his sneakers Reeboks, same thing.
With Mac’s approval I had chosen not to mention the missing money in my story. There was, after all, no definitive connection between the murder and the money. As soon as I finished writing, I turned the article in to Mac and left the News before he thought of anything else I should do. I made it to bell choir practice with one minute to spare.
The good thing about bell choir is that it takes every ounce of my concentration not to mess things up, so every other worry gets put aside for the duration. It’s the only real benefit I have found to being a marginal musician. Smiling to myself, I lined my bells up, C-sharp, C, B and B-flat, glad to put Edie, Tom, Randy and the corpse aside for a while.
When we played the first piece for the third time and I actually got it right, I was euphoric.
“Maddie, did you hear that?” I turned to my best church friend who stood next to me and played the D and E bells. “I got it right!”
“You’re wonderful,” she said. “Talented and beautiful and…” She peered at me. “And you’ve got dark circles under your eyes that rival mine. I know it wasn’t a late night with Curt because he’s on the retreat with my Doug and the rest of the men. And you can’t blame it on a baby like I can. What gives?”
“Covering a story,” I said. “Read about it in the News.” I didn’t want to shatter the respite of bell choir by reviewing the crime. To divert her, I asked, “How’s Holly?”
Maddie’s face lit up. “Even after a sleepless night like last night, I wouldn’t trade her for anything.” She turned toward her pocketbook resting on the floor behind her. “I’ve got pictures of her getting her bath.”
In the few months of Holly’s life, her every move had been recorded and lovingly shared with anyone breathing. I was tempted to ask how this week’s pictures of Holly bathing differed from last week’s pictures of Holly in the tub, but I was afraid Maddie would tell me. “See? She’s got a bigger smile. And that’s a boat floating there, not the rubber ducky. And her hair is a sixteenth of an inch longer!”
“All right, people,” said Ned, our director, arresting Maddie mid-search.
“Later,” she whispered.
“Later,” I agreed.
“You may remember,” Ned said, “that we will be accompanying the youth choir on Easter morning. We won’t actually practice with all the kids until next weekend, but today we’re going to practice with the soloist, Sherrie Bauer.”
As he spoke, a familiar raven-haired beauty walked in. She had music in one hand and dangled a backpack from the other. I half expected to see Randy trailing after her, tongue lolling.
Sherrie Bauer had a wonderful voice, very full and controlled for someone as young as she. For her solo, we traded our bells for chimes which made a much softer sound and didn’t drown out her voice. They also didn’t amplify my mistakes as clearly as the bells.
As I listened to Sherrie and concentrated on my notes, I thought that Ned might have inadvertently given me the perfect combination of things to get Edie and Randy and hopefully Tom (fully restored to his family from wherever he was) to church. Easter and Sherrie sounded like an unbeatable combination to me.
When rehearsal finally ended, I managed to escape before Maddie remembered Holly’s pix. I felt like a lousy friend, but I was just too exhausted to wax enthusiastic over chubby little knees and shampoo Mohawks. All I wanted to do was collapse and sleep for hours, but I couldn’t. I had an interview ahead with just enough time for lunch and a shower first.
Whiskers met me at the apartment door with several gruff meows. For a time he stalked around the living room, tail held high, mad at me for being away so long. Then he forgave me and butted my shins until I picked him up. He purred like a formula car awaiting the green flag at Indy.
I fed him, and while he ate I listened to my answering machine.
Jolene: “So what happened when you went home with Edie last night? Terminal boring, I’ll bet. Sort of like my night without Reilly.”
Wait until she read the paper. That’d teach her to shirk doing good deeds.
Curt: “Where are you, darlin’? Out carousing with the girls, I bet. Sigh. I miss your sweet voice, Merry. I remember when a weekend with the boys was at the top of my fun-things list. Not anymore. I’ll see you tomorrow evening at 7:30—if I last that long.”
I smiled, delighted that I had replaced the boys in his life. He’d certainly replaced everyone else in mine.
I glanced at the clock. 1 p.m. An hour before I had to meet Stephanie Bauer at Freedom House. Six and a half before I saw Curt. I smothered a yawn and hoped a shower would do something to stimulate my brain cells.
Forty-five minutes later I drove to Freedom House. I loved interviewing people, learning about them, looking for what made them tick, finding out what mattered to them. I parked in front of a large Victorian in what used to be the elite section of Amhearst. In fact the whole street was full of once-great homes that were now medical and dental suites, photography studios and offices for financial planners, psychologists and ministries. Some of the homes still had their pride intact with their well-tended lawns, fresh paint and gilt signs. Some were showing their age, all wrinkles and creaky joints, peeling paint and sagging shutters.
Freedom House was in the latter category, a dull gray with white-and-rose trim. It desperately needed painting before the rose became grayer than the gray. The wooden steps were soft underfoot, and the wraparound porch rippled like a lake under a strong breeze. Two spindles were missing from the porch railing, and the shutters looked like they had a bad case of psoriasis.
No financial resources to speak of, I guessed. The perennial problem of ministries.
Stephanie Bauer met me in the front hall. “Welcome!”
Her smile was so warm I smiled back automatically. “Hi. I think I saw you last night at Ferretti’s.”
Stephanie nodded. “I was there with my son and daughter.”
“I was there with the mother of the tall kid who crashed your family party.”
“Randy.” Stephanie laughed. “What a delightful, funny guy.” Randy? Delightful? Funny? Wow! Wouldn’t Edie love to hear that.
“I’m also in the bell choir, and I heard Sherrie sing this morning. She’s wonderful.”
Stephanie beamed, a proud mama. “She is, but I’m proudest of her for her commitment to the Lord.”
What a refreshing thing to hear a mother say about her child. “It’s probably from watching you and Freedom House.”
Stephanie grimaced. “I haven’t always been the best example of a healthy Christian woman.” She turned toward the back of the house. “My office is in