Caught In A Bind. Gayle Roper

nicely escapist.

      I followed Edie to the outskirts of town where she pulled into the driveway of a white and brick split-level with maroon shutters and lots of uninspiring yew bushes. Clumps of daffodils nodded their heads among the yews, warm splashes of sunshine in the glow from the light beside the slightly buckling walk.

      Edie unlocked the front door, painted maroon to match the shutters, and we stepped into an entry hall. The first thing I saw was a beautiful cherry pedestal occasional table with a delftware bowl and a pair of matching candlesticks on it. Above it hung what could only be an original Curtis Carlyle.

      “Hey, great painting.” I shrugged out of my coat. “Great artist.”

      Edie actually smiled. “You’re prejudiced.”

      I looked at Curt’s lovely portrayal of a creek running beside a stone farmhouse. The roses and golds of early morning turned the water into a shimmering mirror reflecting the lush greens of the towering evergreens beside the house. I felt restful and serene just looking at the scene. I reached out and ran my fingers over the signature.

      “You’re smiling,” Edie observed.

      I smiled more broadly. “I’m not surprised.”

      “You love him.”

      “Very much.”

      Edie studied the picture. “I prize this painting. Tom gave it to me for our fifth anniversary last October.” She blinked rapidly, turned and led the way into the living room. She indicated a couch with a wave of her hand and kept on walking. “I’ll just be a minute. I want to check the answering machine.”

      “Of course you do. Go right ahead.”

      I turned and looked at the living room, really looked at it, and I felt my mouth drop open.

      The living room was full of the softest robin’s egg-blue leather furniture I’d ever felt. It sat on the plushest of pastel floral carpets and was lit by Stiffel lamps in glowing brass. The end tables were cherry with a satin sheen, and the coffee table was a great glass and cherry rectangle that took up half the room. The drapes—no, they weren’t drapes; they were window treatments—repeated the blue of the furniture and all the pastels of the rug. The walls were covered with more original watercolors including a Scullthorpe, a Gordinier, a Bollinger and another Carlyle, this one with a dark and stormy sky of deepest purples and blues. As I looked at it, I could feel the heaviness of the storm, hear the crackle of lightning, smell the ozone.

      Edie came into the room. “Nothing. Not a single message, let alone one from Tom.”

      I turned to tell Edie how sorry I was and my eyes fell on the adjoining dining room. Again the furniture was magnificent. Too overwhelming for the size of the room, but magnificent. Cherry sideboard, table and breakfront gleamed above an oriental rug of luminous crimsons and blues laced with cream. The drapes echoed the colors of the rug, as did the matching seats on the heavy chairs crowded about the table.

      I thought of my apartment with its well-used furnishings, most taken from either my bedroom or my parents’ attic when I left Pittsburgh and moved to Amhearst. I had started to slowly buy better pieces, but it’d be years if not forever before I could afford the quality Edie had. Tom must really be doing well at the dealership.

      When we slouched on the blue leather sofa to watch the videos, I felt I’d slide right off the cushy piece onto the floor. I pushed myself upright time after time, only to feel myself slip south, a victim of the smooth grain, featherbed softness and gravity.

      It was almost eleven when we finished watching both films, and Tom wasn’t yet home.

      “Would you like me to stay the night?” I asked. I hated to leave her alone.

      She looked momentarily tempted, then shook her head. “No, thanks. Tom’ll be home soon.”

      Neither of us added, “I hope, I hope, I hope.”

      No sooner had we fought our way out of the sofa’s warm embrace—no easy feat, let me tell you—than the doorbell rang.

      Edie looked frightened, and I didn’t blame her. Who rang your doorbell at eleven at night? Only people bringing bad news. The question was: Was the bad news about Tom or Randy?

      She straightened her shoulders and walked into the entry. I trailed behind and watched as she looked through the little peephole in the door.

      “It’s the police.” Her voice shook. “William.”

      Somehow that made me feel better. We both knew Sergeant William Poole fairly well from our work at the paper. We were always in contact with the police about one story or another, and William was frequently our contact man, but as soon as I saw his face, I knew he wasn’t here for PR now. Officer Natalie Schumann was with him.

      William looked distinctly unhappy as we all stood in the entry, his deeply furrowed face pulled into a great frown. William was the human equivalent of a shar-pei, those Chinese dogs that are all wrinkles. Tonight he appeared to have acquired a few more.

      “Is it Randy?” Edie’s voice was tight with fear.

      William shook his head. “I’m not here about Randy.”

      Edie exhaled in momentary relief. One fear defanged. One to go. She closed her eyes as if gathering herself. “If it’s not Randy, then it’s Tom?”

      William nodded. “I need to speak with him.”

      “What about?”

      William shook his head. “I need to speak with him, Edie.”

      Edie’s shoulders sagged. “I need to talk with him too.”

      “I know you spoke to dispatch about him last night.” William’s brow creased more deeply. “He’s still not here?”

      “No.” It was obvious that confessing to his absence pained her deeply.

      William reached into a shirt pocket and pulled out a tablet and pen. “When did you last see him?”

      “Yesterday morning about 7 a.m. when I left for work.”

      I watched William scribble Th 7 a.m. “Did he act in any unusual way? Say anything that in retrospect seems significant?”

      “No. It was a morning like every other. He leaves for work later than I do, so he walks me to the car and sees me off. He—” She broke off and looked embarrassed.

      “What?” William asked. “Tell me, Edie.”

      “It’s just a little ritual we have. He presses me against the car and gives me a big hug and kiss. We started it when we were first married because Randy didn’t like to see me kiss Tom. The garage is private.”

      I thought of having to go to the garage to kiss your husband. Another blot against good old Randy.

      “Randy told me you were here earlier looking for Tom,” Edie said. “Now you’re back. Something serious is going on here.”

      William returned Edie’s direct look. “Charges have been filed against him, and I need to question him.”

      Edie paled. “Charges? What do you mean, charges?”

      William watched Edie carefully. Watching for a guilty reaction? “Eighteen thousand, five hundred dollars is missing at Hamblin Motors.”

      Edie stared at William. “And they think Tom took it?”

      “It’s missing, and so is he.”

      Edie looked wild. “But William, that’s circumstantial! No one saw him take it, did they? Of course they didn’t. This is Tom we’re talking about. He’d never take anything!”

      “Then where is he, Edie?”

      “Believe me, I wish I knew.” Edie ran a shaking hand through her hair. “Then you’d know.” She turned desperate eyes on me. “Tell him, Merry. Tell him Tom