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She reached up, wiped her eyes with the back of a hand. “I had to tell you even if it meant my job.”
“Your job’s okay.” His tone was abstracted. He turned away, paced along the table. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. There’s an opening in the security office at the college.”
Anita watched him with a stricken look. “I see.” He stood, staring down at the folders. “If you’re interested, I’ll give you a top recommendation. Then, if that works out, maybe some Saturday . . .” He swung to face her. “Maybe we could go up to Oklahoma City, have lunch at Bricktown, take a ride on the canal, maybe drop by Bass Pro.” His gaze was hopeful.
Her eyes lighted. “That sounds wonderful.” The words came on a ragged breath. “I’ll apply Monday.” I smiled. My presence hadn’t been necessary. Everything looked positive for the widowed chief and the young woman he had inspired.
I was glad to see the beginnings of happiness. Moreover, I now had the last piece of information I needed. Unless I was very much mistaken, the woman who had desperately wanted Daryl Murdoch to call her lived at 623 Olive Street.
It was time for Officer M. Loy to begin her investigation.
Olive Street was four blocks north of Main. Most of the small frame houses were in various stages of disrepair, window screens missing, front porches sagging, paint peeling. Weeds choked the abandoned train tracks that intersected Olive near number 623.
The middle front step to 623 had buckled in the center. The window shades were down. No light glimmered in front. I circled the house. Light shone from a high kitchen window. I looked inside, drew my breath in sharply.
A young woman with a mass of dark curls and a round face sat at a battered kitchen table. Slowly she raised a gun to her temple. Tears 169
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streamed down a face blotched from crying. She gulped and sniffed, her eyes dull with misery.
There was no time to knock, no time to arrive in customary fashion. I was at her side at once. Reaching out, I gripped her arm, forced the gun to one side. I willed myself present, saw my image, unfamiliar in the blue uniform, in a cracked mirror over the sink.
“No.” I spoke sternly.
Her hand sagged. The gun clattered to the floor.
Now I knew that my detour through Chief Cobb’s office had not been on behalf of Anita Leland. I relinquished my grip, reached down to pick up the gun. I broke it open, spilled out the shells in my hand. Bobby Mac taught me how to handle a gun a long time ago.
She stared at me. “How did you get in?” She brushed back dark curls. “You’re the police?”
I pulled out a chair, sat opposite her. “That doesn’t matter. I’m here to help you.” I smiled. “Tell me, Cynthia.”
“No one can help me.”
“God will help.”
She stared at me uncertainly. “You sound as if you know.” She shook her head almost angrily. “What can you know? You aren’t any older than I am.”
I wished suddenly I could shout it aloud: Don’t judge anyone by age, not the young and not the old. It’s who they are and what they’ve done and what they know in their hearts that matters, always and forever.
No one would listen. The world would go on its merry way, adoring youth for the wrong reason, ignoring those in the winter season.
Instead, I looked deep into her eyes.
She looked into mine.
Slowly her face changed.
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pain. That was part of me and that was what I offered to Cynthia.
“Your eyes . . . They’re like my mother’s eyes. Oh, if only she hadn’t died. She would have kept him from hurting me. He’ll hurt me so bad I’d wish I was dead, so I might as well do it myself.” I took her hand, felt its clammy coldness. “Who will hurt you?”
“My dad. He’s hurt me a lot and if he finds out I’m pregnant—” She clapped her hand to her mouth.
“Daryl Murdoch?”
The emptiness of her face told its own story. “I told him about the baby and he didn’t care. He said I should have been more careful.”
“When did you tell him?”
She massaged her head as if it hurt. “I called him and he didn’t call back. I went to his office yesterday. I told him when he came out to his car. He pushed me away and left. Now he’s dead. I saw it on the morning news. He’s dead and there’s no one to help me, no one at all.”
“Yes, there will be help. Go to Father Bill at St. Mildred’s Church.
Do you know where that is?”
She nodded, her hand clinging to mine.
“Tell him you need help to go away to a safe place to have your baby. You can go and stay. They’ll help you find a job, and when the baby comes, they’ll find a home. Will you do that?”
“Yes.” The word was a sigh.
But I had to ask. “Did you follow Daryl when he left his office last night?”
“No.” Her eyes flared in alarm. “I didn’t shoot him.” I felt cold. “How did you know he was shot?”
“It was on TV this morning. I didn’t do it. I swear.” I picked up the gun. “Where did you get this?” It was a .22
pistol.
“I stole it from my dad’s house. He has lots of guns.”
“I’ll take it with me.” I kept the shells in my hand, tucked the gun in my waistband.
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She shivered. “I don’t want it.” Her look was young and earnest.
“I won’t do that again. I’ll go to the church in the morning.” I looked around the cold kitchen, spotted a gas stove, found matches, lit the flame. “When did you last eat?” I moved to the refrigerator.
“I don’t know.” Her voice was dull.
I fried bacon and scrambled eggs with milk, seasoning salt, a half teaspoon of Worcestershire sauce, and a dash of brown sugar. I fixed toast and poured a glass of milk.
I placed the plate in front of her. She pushed the eggs with her fork, finally took a bite, then with a look of surprise and gratitude eagerly ate. “These eggs are good. I didn’t know I was so hungry.” I debated what to do, then made up my mind. “This won’t be the only visit you’ll have from the police.” Chief Cobb would be sure to explore what he’d learned from Anita.
Cynthia put down her fork, her young face once again frightened and vulnerable.
I chose my words carefully. “Don’t mention my visit here. We’ll pretend it didn’t happen. Tell them you wanted to see Daryl, so you went to his office last night, but he’d already left. Don’t say anything about the baby.”
Her eyes crinkled in puzzlement. “Why are you helping me?” Honest truth is sometimes best. “Because you are alone.” And lost. And frightened.
“All right.” Her eyes were luminous. “Thank you. I hope”—she looked anxious—“you don’t get in trouble.” I was already in trouble. Wiggins was likely despairing of me at this very moment. “Everything will work out.” That was surely the most positive of thinking. I had no reason to think anything would work out and I seemed to go from bad to worse when it came to meddling with Chief Cobb’s investigation. “There’s nothing you can do to help the police.” Officer Leland had stopped Daryl as he turned 172
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out of the lot, leaving Cynthia behind. Certainly he was alive and well then. “So it’s better not to say anything more than you have to.” She drank a gulp of milk. “All right.” I left her finishing her light supper, looking worn but at peace. I hoped I’d done the right thing to encourage her to refrain from telling the chief that she’d seen Daryl Thursday evening, but I couldn’t help wondering. She’d said her father’s house had many guns. Had I carried one of those guns to the Pritchard mausoleum for the police to find?