“Yes, please.” It didn't taste as dreadful as I'd expected. “How did all these people know about my accident?”
“Guess they saw it on the evening news last night.”
I groaned. You mean I was on the news?”
Ethelind smiled. “Tori, you were the news. They devoted the whole show, except for sports and weather, of course, to a video of you hanging from that bar.”
I choked as a bit of sticky bun went down the wrong tube. When I recovered, I said, “Video? But there wasn't time for a TV crew to come in.”
“That's the blessing, or maybe the curse, of affordable video recorders. Everybody and his uncle's got one. There must have been three or four there last night, videoing you from different angles.”
“Oh my God!”
“At least the TV station covered your bottom with a fuzzy spot whenever they showed a shot of you from below. So nobody could see your underwear.”
“Oh no!”
“Mayor Somping was interviewed, and he said if Woody wasn't waiting to go to trial, he'd give him a medal or something. He said the judge at Woody's sentencing would probably take it into consideration as evidence of Woody's good character.”
“So he's skipped right over the trial to the sentencing. Sounds as if everybody's mind is made up that Woody's going to be found guilty.”
“He's the perfect person to take the blame,” Ethelind said. “He's not a Lickin Creek native, and he's not associated with the college. And he doesn't have any money to hire a lawyer.”
“Poor guy.” I picked up my sticky bun and nibbled on it, savoring every bite. The thought of my ordeal being broadcast made me want to cry. “It's bad enough to be pushed over a railing,” I said. “But I think it's nearly as bad having pictures of me in that situation broadcast all over the Tri-State area.”
“Did you say you were pushed? Are you sure?” “Of course I'm sure. Somebody hit me so hard in the middle of my back that I lost my balance.” “Were you already leaning over the railing?” I nodded. “I thought I'd heard the girl downstairs call me. I was trying to answer without making a lot of noise and ruining the ghostly atmosphere.
“It could have been an accident. Maybe you just lost your balance, Tori.”
“Sure, Ethelind. Just like the fire the other night was an accident.” Her face hardened, and I realized it would have been better not to have reminded her of the damage done to her front parlor.
“That could have been an accident, too, Tori. You took a sleeping pill. Fell asleep sooner than you expected to. Dropped your cigarette. Happened to me that way a couple of times.”
“Ethelind, I don't smoke. You know that.” “Nonsense, everybody smokes.” She lit a cigarette to emphasize her statement, and I left the kitchen. She might be smoking, but I was the one who was fuming. The very idea-her insinuating I'd imagined myself in danger, that I'd caused my near-death twice in two days by carelessness. By the time I reached my bedroom, self-doubt had set in. Could she be right? Had I imagined the voice? Leaned over too far? Explained my clumsiness by inventing the story about a blow to my back? And the fire-maybe the tea hadn't been drugged. Maybe I just fell asleep. Maybe Ethelind had dropped a smoldering cigarette on the rug earlier, and it had taken all that time to start the fire.
What about being shot at? I asked myself. My inner voice reminded me I hadn't actually been shot, and I had no proof that someone had been aiming at me. Besides, what reason would anyone have for wanting me out of the way?
While I was musing over my situation, I showered and dressed. In slimming black slacks and a red sweater, I stood at the bathroom mirror and jerked a brush through my hair, noting I'd either have to get a haircut soon or let it grow long. Outside, the wind howled, and I knew I'd better throw a jacket on. I grabbed my purse from where it lay on the dresser, and as I walked around the double bed to leave I noticed the blue and white pile of nun's clothing on the floor. I'd take it with me and drop it off at the college. I bent over to pick up the costume, and as I stood, some items dropped to the rug. I gathered them, the key ring and the plastic Baggie full of Wonder Wads I'd found in Mack's desk last night, and put them in my pocket.
At the office, Cassie, as usual, was solicitous. But this time, she seemed to be holding back on her expressions of sympathy. I'd been through a lot lately. Certainly enough to wear anyone's patience thin.
I told her the whole story, starting with the ghostly voice calling my name, and ending with my dramatic rescue, which, of course, she had seen on the evening news.
“You really think someone's trying to kill you?” Cassie asked in an incredulous voice. “Don't you think you could be overreacting?”
“No, I don't.” But I knew I didn't sound convincing. Ethelind had already planted seeds of doubt in my mind.
“P. J. often received death threats, Tori.”
“She did? What for? Did a band of enraged gypsy moths threaten to get even with her for dissing them in the Farm News column?”
“Don't be silly. Anybody who writes for a newspaper is bound to make enemies. The point I'm trying to make here is that nobody ever followed through and actually tried to kill P. J.”
My fingers touched the plastic bag in my pocket, and I had an idea that I didn't want to say out loud, not yet anyway. I crossed over to my desk and opened the folder of stories I'd been working on for this week's paper. All were more or less finished. I then looked over the material submitted by our freelance writers and found it all to be well written. A third folder held reports of club meetings, submitted by a dozen Lickin Creek organizations, from Elks to Rotarians. I worked for about an hour cutting and reorganizing these articles.
While I was scratching out and moving words around, Cassie went through the week's photos and selected about six she thought would reproduce well.
I called a few advertisers and reminded them we needed copy immediately if they didn't want to advertise last week's sales. Then Cassie called some subscribers and pleaded with them to come back to the fold. She even offered them a special rate for renewing.
By noon we were both looking exhausted, but happy. I still had Letters to the Editor to go through, and we had twenty of our disgruntled subscribers back.
I dropped my pencils into the cup and turned off the computer. “Think I'll take a long lunch break,” I said. “Be back in a couple of hours.”
Cassie nodded. “Have a good one,” she said.
“I will,” I told her, and my fingers once again touched the plastic Baggie in my pocket.
First I drove to the college. The central lawn looked as if nothing awful had ever happened there. More than a dozen girls, in jeans and LCCFW sweatshirts, crossed it on their way to the gothic-style library. There was a new receptionist at the desk busily sorting mail, so I walked right past her as if I had every right to be in the building and went down the stairs to the basement.
Even I, a smidgeon taller than five feet, had to duck to avoid some of the overhead pipes. Last night's adventure had left me feeling extremely anxious about being alone, and I paused for a minute to listen for footsteps. But all I heard was the clanking of pipes.
The corridor was lit by only one hanging bulb, and the door to the storeroom at the end of the hall was in almost total darkness. My neck bristled, as if someone was watching me. How I wished I hadn't listened to the ghost stories about the hospital in the college basement. But even if there were such things as ghosts, these were nuns, I told myself. It stands to reason that good people would turn into good spirits.
I tried the key that hadn't unlocked Mack's door last night, and it turned easily. When the door swung open, I didn't go in. There was no need to. I relocked the door, pocketed the key ring, and skedaddled out of there faster than a ghost could say “boo.” I now knew how Mack Macmillan had died.