Man With A Miracle. Muriel Jensen

held the paper cup out to her. “Here you go.”

      She’d never wanted anything more in her life, but she didn’t trust him. Apparently aware of that, he put it on the edge of the desk nearest her and took several steps back.

      She put the maple bar down, reached for the cup and took a careful swallow. The coffee was hot, rich and absolutely delicious.

      “I’m driving a Jeep on loan from the garage that’s fixing my van,” he said, sitting on the desk and drinking from his pottery cup. “Not an SUV.”

      As she lowered her own cup, she felt an instant’s uncertainty.

      “Where did this murder take place?” he asked.

      She sidled toward the window near his desk, so that she could see the parking area. “In Boston,” she replied.

      “Well, I haven’t been to Boston in almost a year. In fact, I’ve hardly left Maple Hill. So you have me confused with someone else.”

      Rising up on tiptoe, she spotted the top of the red car, but couldn’t see enough to be sure it was the SUV. She’d watched him pull in, she reminded herself, and she’d been sure then. Of course, she’d been dealing with those spots.

      He took a cordless phone from the top of the desk and tried to hand it to her. “Call the police,” he said. “They can tell you who I am.”

      “You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” she said with new resolve, polishing off the last of the coffee. “Gordon told me no police. Did you buy them off?”

      He put a hand to his face and took a deep breath. “Why don’t we call you a doctor?” he asked finally, preparing to stab out a telephone number. “You look as though you’re on the verge of collapse. Sit down and I’ll—”

      She made a desperate grab for the phone, thinking that he’d probably just get a doctor to sedate her or something, then they’d throw her in that beautiful lake behind the…

      She couldn’t quite round out the thought.

      Everything went red. Not black, but a sort of rosy red. She felt hot suddenly, as though a prickly woollen blanket were inching up her body. With a strange sort of detachment, she watched as the coffee cup fell out of her hands and the bat dangled from her fingers.

      The man sprang off the desk to take the bat from her, and as she sank into a warm, fuzzy stupor, she expected him to hit her with it.

      But he put it aside and reached out for her as her knees buckled. She expected a collision with the floor, but the last thing she knew was the cradle of a strong pair of arms.

      CHAPTER TWO

      EVAN CARRIED THE YOUNG WOMAN to the love seat, put two fingertips to her throat, and felt great relief when he sensed the tap of a steady pulse. He retrieved a ratty but clean blanket he kept in the closet. Her skin was icy to the touch. It certainly lent credence to her story that she’d been on the run all night.

      Then he reached for the phone to dial 911. But remembering her fear, and her odd remark about the police being in collusion with the killer, he changed his mind.

      He couldn’t imagine what had happened to her, but she seemed more genuinely fearful than crazy. Something or someone had driven her to this state. Someone with a red SUV.

      He called Randy Sanford, who was an EMT and worked on Whitcomb’s Wonders’ janitorial crew in his spare time. Evan explained briefly about not wanting to call an ambulance.

      “My bag’s at Medics Rescue,” Randy said. “You should call—”

      “Just come!” Evan demanded. He’d pressed the speaker button so that he had his hands free to make a pot of coffee for the woman. “I don’t think it’s life or death, but please. Just get over here.”

      “On my way,” Randy promised.

      Once the coffee was dripping, Evan went to see what else he could do to make the woman comfortable. He noticed that her head rested at an odd angle on the pillow he’d propped under her, and tried to readjust it. Then he realized that the problem was a dirty, tattered piece of elasticized fabric wrapped around her hair. He worked gently to remove it, and combed his fingers through the dark burnished mass.

      As he wrapped the blanket more tightly around her, he wondered once again what had happened to her. She had a pretty oval face, though even in her unconscious state, she frowned. Her nose was small, her chin slightly pointed, and her long eyelashes were a shade darker than her hair. If she wore makeup, it had worn off in her ordeal, and a spray of freckles stood out on the bridge of her nose and across her cheekbones.

      When she stirred fitfully, he put a hand to her shoulder, telling her it was all right, she was safe.

      She moaned in response, but her eyes remained closed.

      BEAZIE WAS LEANING OVER Gordon in horrified disbelief as his life drained away.

      She heard the door of the SUV open. The driver, a young man in a fleece-lined jacket, was about to step out, but the elevator doors parted and a throng of laughing, talking commuters spilled out. As soon as they noticed her sheltering Gordon’s supine body, they hurried toward her, one of them already on his cell phone. A young woman pushed Beazie aside, telling her she was a nurse.

      The door closed on the red SUV and it sped away.

      The ambulance arrived first, and the paramedics covered Gordon with a sheet. As soon as Beazie saw the police car pull up, she panicked and slipped away unnoticed in the crowd of onlookers that had gathered. Gordon had pleaded “No police!” She couldn’t risk them finding the tape on her.

      Once she was out on the main street, she hailed a cab and headed straight for her apartment. Everything there was just as she’d left it that morning, and she experienced a strange feeling of unreality. She had to have imagined the murder of her boss. That kind of thing didn’t happen to a nice, middle-class girl from Buffalo.

      Then she found the tape, still clutched so tightly in her hand it left marks. She walked to the window to examine it more closely and see if it was labeled.

      Instead, her attention was caught by the bright red SUV parking in front of her building. Three men got out. One stayed with the car while the other two hurried inside.

      Her flight-or-fight response kicked in and adrenaline raged through her body as she raced out of her apartment and scrambled down the fire escape. Once on the ground, she fled down an alley to the next block, and kept running as darkness fell.

      She was cold, she was hungry. In her panic, she hadn’t thought to grab her purse. How was she going to get to Maple Hill without cash or credit cards? Then she came upon the gaping rear doors of a moving van and heard the driver and his assistant talking about their next stop in Springfield. She remembered from visiting a friend there and antiquing through the area that it was just a short distance from Maple Hill, a quaint little town at the foot of the Berkshires. Without a second’s thought, she climbed into the truck.

      For several hours she huddled in the cold darkness of the moving van, wedged between a mattress and an easy chair. When at last they stopped, the assistant opened the doors, and she got ready to do some fast explaining. But the driver shouted a question and the assistant headed back to the cab.

      Her body stiff with cold, Beazie struggled down from the van and headed toward the well-lit main street, wondering how on earth she would get to Maple Hill. Down a little side lane she noticed the shipping and receiving doors of a bakery wide-open, so she slipped inside, drawn by the warmth and the light. Beyond a wall of windows, big ovens were being filled with racks of something she couldn’t quite identify.

      The aroma was torturous. She’d skipped breakfast, had been too busy for lunch and was now feeling weak and dizzy. Unfortunately, all of the bakery’s product seemed to be on the other side of the window.

      She shrank back into the shadows as a tall boy in a white uniform and headphones came out another door carrying