Moving closer, she asked anxiously, “What is it?”
Shaking his head, he leaned even further across the desk, so she could feel his breath on her face. “Every time I start reading these reports, a mental image of you in silk stockings and a black dress
pops
into my head and I’m useless.”
She bit her lower lip to contain the laughter. ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” she lied.
He reached up, slid his hand around her neck and pulled her even closer. “Yeah, well, I’m not,” he said, reaching up and kissing her.
A discreet knock on the door had them pulling apart like guilty teenagers. Mary jumped off the desk and was already standing next to the window when Dorothy came through the door with a handful of files.
“Thank you, Dorothy,” Bradley said, clearing his throat. “Is there anything else?”
Dorothy seemed to be having a difficult time schooling her features into the professional reserve she usually maintained. “Well, sir,” she said. “I think it might be beneficial if you move the mobile intercom from where you have it on your desk.”
“I’m sorry?” Bradley asked, looking at the metal box sitting below him on the desk.
“Well, sir, when you lean forward on your desk, you inadvertently press the button,” she said.
Bradley looked down at the button, over at Mary and his face began to slowly turn red. “When I lean forward I accidentally press the intercom button,” he repeated. “And perhaps that recently happened?”
Dorothy nodded. “And I must say that most of the officers online agree that Miss O’Reilly dressed in silk stockings and a black dress would be distracting to them too.”
Mary clapped her hand over her mouth and turned to the window.
Bradley loosened his shirt collar. “Thank you, Dorothy, I appreciate your advice,” he said, picking up the intercom and moving it to the other side of his desk. “And I appreciate your quick intervention.”
Then he smiled at Mary. “And, for the record, even without silk stockings she is quite distracting.”
Once the door closed Mary dissolved into a fit of laughter. “Oh, Bradley, I am so sorry,” she chortled. “But you should have seen your face.”
He didn’t say a word, just met her eyes, slowly stood up and walked away from his desk. Their eyes locked, he moved next to her, reached past her and systematically closed all of the blinds. Then reaching backwards, he pressed the button on the intercom. “Dorothy, I’m going to kiss Miss O’Reilly now, do I have an all clear?”
He heard his assistant giggle. “Yes, sir, you do.”
“Go Chief!” one of his officers called, followed by a chorus of whistles and encouragement.
He lifted his finger from the button and slipped his hands up Mary’s arms, finally cradling her face in his hands. “Do I have the all clear, Miss O’Reilly?” he whispered.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, you do.”
He angled his face and brushed his lips against hers. She moaned softly and he captured it in his mouth. “Mary,” he sighed and crushed his lips against hers.
Ian looked up from his computer when the front door opened and Mary and Bradley entered carrying several large boxes. “Well, welcome,” he said. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“Bradley thought working from here would be less distracting,” Mary said, with a grin. “Besides, I want to see how brilliant you really are.”
They placed the boxes on the kitchen table and Ian followed them.
“And what do we have here?” he asked.
“A legacy of friendship,” Mary replied, taking the top off the first box. “These are samples, photos and notes about the explosion from Ross Gormley.”
“What?” Ian asked, pulling the top off the next box.
“Ross didn’t think it was an accident, so he did his own investigation,” Mary explained, “when the authorities wouldn’t listen to him, he carefully catalogued it all, hoping one day someone would ask the right questions.”
Ian picked up a glass slide and looked at it. “Great, but how are we supposed to study these…”
Mary opened a third box and pulled out a microscope. “It’s not fancy,” she said. “But I hope it will do the trick.”
“Aye, it’ll be fine,” Ian said, glancing through the notes. “It looks like he put this information together so it was thorough enough to hold up in a court of law. The man’s brilliant.”
Two hours later, Ian looked up from his stack of papers and shook his head. “He even has pieces of wire that were taped to the floor that ran back to the detonator.”
“So, someone was watching to see when the last student got out and then ignited the bomb,” Mary said.
“So, who is our prime suspect?” Bradley asked. “We’ve got a lot of evidence, but do we have a name?”
“Well, chemicals and cover ups come from our good friends at B&R,” Ian said.
“Yeah, but why?” Mary asked. “What would they have against Coach Thorne?”
The door opened and Rosie and Stanley came in. “I took the long away around,” Stanley said. “I don’t think anyone followed me.”
“Since I couldn’t go to my place, we stopped by the Historical Society and borrowed a yearbook from the year Coach Thorne died,” Rosie said. “I thought it would be helpful.”
She opened the book up on the table and turned to the photo of her class.
“Wow, Walter is a different person,” Bradley said.
“Really, what’s different?” Mary asked.
“He’s about four times that size now,” Rosie said. “He doesn’t look healthy at all.”
Mary told them about the conversation she had with Walter’s father.
“I wonder if Walter realized just how much Coach Thorne did for his father,” Rosie mused.
“Probably not,” Stanley said. “
Ain’t
something a dad would want to share with his teenaged
son.
”
“Oh, there’s your friend, Stevo,” Mary said, scanning the photo. “But I don’t see his wife, Lo.”
“Oh, she wasn’t in our class,” Rosie said. “She was in the class below ours.”
“She wasn’t in the Chemistry class when the fire occurred?” Mary asked.
Rosie shook her head. “No, she didn’t have it until the following year.”
“I’d like to visit with Lo Morris,” Mary said. “She said something that’s been bothering me. I don’t think I’ll be very long, Rosie would you stay here and wait for the children?”
“Oh, I’d love too,” she said. “I’ll make more cookies.”
“Oh, Rosie,” Ian said, “Bless you.”
“If it’s alright with you,” Bradley said. “I’d like to bring this evidence to the lab and get it tested.
Ian would you mind giving me a hand?”
“No, I’d love to hear what the fellows at the lab think of it,” he said, slipping into his coat.
“Well,
iffen
you all think
it’s
fine, I’d like to stop by and talk with Caleb Brandlocker,” Stanley said. “He suffered a stroke a while
back,
he’s over in the nursing home.”
“Rosie, what do you think?” Mary asked. “I can stay.”
Rosie shook her head.
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Who would know I was here?”
Stanley leaned forward and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You lock that door once we all leave, hear?”
She giggled.
“Yes, dear.”
Caleb Brandlocker was in the private care wing of the nursing home. He had a small room that was a cross between a hospital room and a residence. On his good days he could get himself up and around, but those days seemed to get farther and farther apart.
Stanley knocked on his door.
“Caleb, you taking visitors?
It’s me, Stanley Wagner.”
“Stanley, come in, come in,” Caleb said hoarsely, his voice barely a whisper. “How are you?”
Stanley walked across the room and shook Caleb’s hand which was thin and frail, very different from the robust businessman who would visit the stationary store when Stanley was running things.
“I can’t complain, Caleb,” Stanley said. “I got my kids running the store, time on my hands and I’m getting myself a pretty new wife in about a month.”
Caleb smiled. “You old dog, you,” he said.
“A new wife.
Ain’t
you too old for that?”
“Never too old to fall in love, Caleb,” Stanley said. “And I
seen
some pretty cute little nurses out there, you ought to trying dating ‘
em
.”
Caleb’s wheezing laughter filled the room for a few minutes and Stanley was happy to see some of the worry lines relax on his face. Finally, after a bout or two of coughing, Caleb was able to speak. “You’re a good man, Stanley,” he said. “And you got a fine family. I envy you.”
“Well, hell, Caleb,” Stanley said. “I just saw your boy the other day, looks like he could run in the Olympics. He seems to be doing a fine job running your business.”
Caleb shook his head. “I made mistakes raising that boy,” he admitted.
“Thought too highly of him.
Made him think he was better, more important than anyone else. Made him think he could have anything he wanted.”
“Nothing wrong with ambition,” Stanley said.
Caleb’s hand snaked over to Stanley’s and he held it. “Not ambition,” he said.
“Cruelty.
The boy’s got bad blood.”
Stanley’s blood ran cold. “Caleb, I don’t want to disrespect you, but I got to ask you a question. My
fiance
, Rosie, she’s got someone trying to hurt her because she was looking into the death of Coach Thorne. Did your boy have anything to do with that?”
Bradley and Ian were the last ones to leave and Rosie locked the door firmly behind them. She turned on the television and headed to the kitchen to pull out the baking supplies. A cooking show was demonstrating a new way to bake oatmeal cookies.
“Well, oatmeal cookies,” she said, “that’s just the thing.”
Opening the pantry door, she looked up and saw that Stanley had stored the flour canister back up on the top shelf. She glanced up and decided it really wasn’t all that high. Standing on her tiptoes, she reached up for the canister. She could just barely touch it with her fingertips. Sliding her fingers alongside it, she slowly moved it forward. Placing three fingertips on the bottom to hold it upright, she stretched and pushed it forward with the other hand. The canister teetered on the edge of the shelf and fell forward.
POOF!
Rosie couldn’t believe it. She was covered in flour, the floor was covered in flour and the shelves were covered in flour. She stamped her foot, causing another cloud of flour. “Well, well, well,” she sputtered, then looked around to be sure no one could hear her and let loose. “Damn!”
Picking up the whisk brush, she figured she ought to get herself cleaned off first. Carefully, trying to avoid getting flour on anything else, she made her way across the kitchen floor and opened the backdoor. She stepped out on the porch.
“Hello Rosie.”
Rosie screamed. She tried to run back into the house, but Walter grabbed her arm and she couldn’t move. He placed a strip of duct tape over her mouth and pulled her to him. “I’m sorry Rosie, I really didn’t want to do this, but I don’t want to go to jail.”
He pulled her arms around her and wrapped duct tape around them. Then he led her down the porch stairs and through the yard to his van, waiting behind the house. “Quite frankly, I never thought it would be this easy. Thank you, Rosie,” he said.
Mary parked in front of the Morris’ house and hurried up the sidewalk. She had a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach and wanted to talk to Lo and get back to Rosie.
She waited for only a moment after ringing the bell and Lo answered the door. “Hi, I’m Rosie’s friend, Mary,” she said.
“Of course, I remember you,” she replied. “Won’t you come in?”
Mary followed Lo into a comfortably appointed home furnished in the colors of autumn; warm and bright. They walked into the living room and Mary sat on a large wheat-colored couch across from Lo. “I was thinking about something you said regarding Coach Thorne,” Mary said. “And I want to ask you about it.”
Lo nodded.
“You said he saved many lives and he didn’t care if you were rich and powerful or just one of the little guys,” she said. “I got the feeling there was more to what you were saying than just that. I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important, but I need you to tell me what happened.”
Lo shook her head. “He’s been dead for forty years,” she said. “Why even bother? Who is it going to help?”
“Last night someone shot at me,” Mary explained. “But they thought I was Rosie.”
“Oh, no,” Lo gasped. “Is everyone fine?”
Mary nodded. “For now,” she said. “But now that we started investigating we can’t stop until we find out what happened.
For Rosie’s sake.”
Lo nodded slowly and clasped her hands together. “Brandlocker,” she whispered. “Ephraim Brandlocker. He was a senior and I was a sophomore. His parents were wealthy beyond my imagination and my parents, well, we were not wealthy. He picked me up in his car and took me to nice restaurants. He was nice to me; at least I thought he was being nice to me.”