Gayle Roper - Caught In The Act

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, is that you?”

“Who’s this?” he countered suspiciously.

“Merrileigh Kramer.”

There was a short pause. Then William asked, “What are you doing at the Community Center with Mr. Bushay?”

“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.”

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.