Sherryl Woods - About That Man

Once he’d turned off the engine, he sat perfectly still, unsure whether he could go through with this. It wasn’t just the thought of having Beth’s death confirmed in black and white in the form of a death certificate. It was all the rest–his nephew, the expectations, and the regrets that he hadn’t found his sister before any of this had happened.

Because of all that, Walker had taken his own sweet time leaving home this morning. He’d stopped by the station, had a chat with Andy, looked through some paperwork, then, finally, when he could delay no longer, he’d hit the road. He’d managed to delay his arrival till midafternoon–much later, no doubt, than the imperious Mrs. Jackson had been expecting him. He braced himself for her displeasure along with everything else, took a deep breath and headed for the door.

Inside, he discovered that Frances Jackson was nothing at all like some of the social workers he’d come across in D.C., dedicated, but wearied by their caseloads. Nor did she fit the image he’d conjured up on the phone–a starchy woman, mid-fifties with a perpetually down-turned mouth. No, indeed, Frances Jackson was nothing like that.

Sixty if she was a day, she had unrepentantly white hair, round cheeks and rounder hips, and eyes that twinkled behind rimless glasses. She reminded him of picture book illustrations of Mrs. Claus. He smiled despite himself, felt himself finally beginning to relax. He could get around a woman like this. He’d be out of here and back to D.C. in no time. Alone.

“You’re late,” she said briskly, but without censure. “Let’s go.” She grabbed her purse and headed for the door.

Once again, Walker was forced to reassess the woman. He’d allowed himself to forget for just an instant that appearances could be deceiving. Right now he had a panicky feeling that she intended to take him straight to wherever this nephew of his was, introduce them, then abandon them to fend for themselves, her duty done. He was nowhere near ready for that. He would never be ready for that.

“Whoa,” he said, standing stock-still in the middle of the corridor. “Where’s the fire?”

“It’s almost dinnertime in these parts and I’m starved, Detective. I missed lunch waiting for you. We can talk over food.” She gave him a thorough once-over. “Besides, next to music, I hear it’s the best thing for soothing a savage beast.”

He chuckled, caught off-guard by the display of humor. “And that would be me?”

“You do pride yourself on it, don’t you? I could tell that when we talked on the phone.”

“In my line of work, it’s helpful,” he said, feeling defensive about his initial display of rudeness when she’d called.

“I’m sure it is,” she agreed. “But down here we like to think we’re more civilized.”

Outside, she gestured toward her car, a brand-new Mustang convertible that surprised him yet again. “I’ll drive,” she said.

He regarded the car with envy. “I’ll be even more agreeable if you’ll let me.”

“Because you don’t trust a woman behind the wheel?”

He heard the unmistakable challenge in her voice, but he didn’t need to lie. “Because I’ve been dying to test-drive one of these babies and haven’t had the chance,” he countered with absolute honesty.

She tossed him the keys. “In that case, it’s all yours, Detective.”

She directed him back onto the highway and into town, then down a side street past the stately old courthouse with its square of grass in front to the Inn at Montross. Walker regarded the historic facade and little flower-lined brick patio doubtfully. Places like this gave him hives.

“Isn’t there someplace we can get a basic burger and some fries?”

“I’ll refrain from commenting on your deplorable eating habits,” Mrs. Jackson said. “I’m relatively certain you’ll find something on the menu here that will do. And they’ve done me a favor by keeping the kitchen open past their usual lunch hour.”

Walker remained skeptical as they climbed the brick steps into the white building that dated back to the 1600s, according to a sign by the front door. He stepped into the wide foyer, glanced around at the antiques and the open, airy rooms and began to revise his opinion. The place had big-city class, he’d give it that.

Without waiting for a hostess, Mrs. Jackson led the way onto a closed-in front porch and settled at a table by an open window. “Sit down, Detective. I promise you the chef can offer more than tea sandwiches.”

Duly chastised, Walker sat. The social worker regarded him with amusement.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t offer you a fast-food place. The nearest one is miles away, and I got the distinct impression that you’re in a hurry.”

“Always am.”

“Well, then, as soon as we order, we’ll get right to it.”

Ten minutes later, Walker had a beer in front of him and the promise of a blackened chicken wrap sandwich that would bring tears to his eyes. When it came, Mrs. Jackson watched with amusement as it did just that.

“Too spicy for you, Detective?”

“No,” he insisted, gulping half his beer to tame the taste. “Best sandwich I ever had.” He nodded toward the piping hot potatoes accompanying it. “Best fries, too.”

“Better than a fast-food restaurant?” she inquired, eyes twinkling.

“Are you teasing me, Mrs. Jackson?”

“Just trying to make a point.”

“Which is?”

“The big city doesn’t have all the advantages over us country folks.”

“No,” he agreed. “I can see that.”

She paused in eating her own sea bass bisque. “You know, Detective Ames, it hasn’t escaped my notice that we’ve been together for a half hour or more now and you still haven’t asked about Tommy.”

Walker sighed and put his sandwich down. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what to ask. Until you called, I didn’t even know he existed.”

“You and your sister weren’t close?”

Walker recalled a time when they had been. Beth had trailed him around adoringly, pleading to be allowed to play with him and his friends. He had tolerated his younger sister because no one knew better than he that they received little or no attention at home.

“She was a beautiful little girl,” he said, recalling her huge blue eyes and halo of strawberry blond curls that had later darkened to a golden hue. “She was always laughing. Then she got involved with Ryan Flanagan, and the laughter died.”

The social worker regarded him sympathetically. “How old was she?”

“Sixteen, still a girl, really, but we couldn’t stop her. My parents tried in a halfhearted way. I tried, but I was away at college and Beth was starved for attention. When Ryan asked her to run away with him, it was too much for her to resist, I guess. When our parents died, I couldn’t even locate her. I had to tell her about their deaths the next time she checked in, which was three or four months later, around the time she and Flanagan got married. She called to give me the big news.”

The anger and dismay he’d felt back then was still alive in him today. “I wanted to grab her and shake some sense into her, but it was too late.”

“Was that the last time you heard from her?”

“No, she called again after he’d abandoned her. She was all alone, scared and pregnant. I wired her some money and begged her to come home. I was married by then. I told her she could stay with us until she had her baby.” He shrugged. “She said she might not even have the baby, and she never did show up. And that was the last time I heard from her. She was somewhere outside of Las Vegas.”

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Jackson said. “That must have been very difficult for you.”

“It drove me nuts,” he said honestly. “Here I was, this big city cop with all sorts of investigative skills and a lot of high-tech resources at my disposal, and I couldn’t even find my own sister. Turned out she was a couple of hours away and I didn’t even know it.”