again. Visions of Mr. Sam falling ill on the way home from the store crowded into her worried mind, tumbling on top of images of Jeremy getting in trouble or hurt in town somewhere.
“Lord, protect them both,” she said out loud. “At least, until I can find them and fuss at them if they’re all right.”
She knew it wasn’t the world’s sanest prayer. But it was one that she knew mothers had been saying for hundreds of years.
She was going to have to call Gina when she got home, or e-mail her, to share this latest news with a sympathetic soul. Laurel headed for the car so she could find Jeremy and his grandfather before her imagination ran away with her.
Chapter Four
An hour later, Laurel was still talking to God. This time it was under her breath, asking for patience, as she argued with Mr. Sam aloud. That eventual phone call to Gina was getting longer by the minute as she had more reason to vent. “I know you’re used to living alone and not being accountable for your time. And honestly, Sam, I’m not trying to rein you in.”
“Then what’s this business of being sure I had heat stroke just because I was ten minutes late?” The older man’s tufts of white hair stood up at right angles to his scalp.
“You were more than ten minutes late. And I was worried about you.” Laurel didn’t add, just like I’d be worried about Jeremy, although she wanted to. For that matter, she was still a little concerned about Jeremy. He should have been home by now as well. But pointing that out wouldn’t sit well with Mr. Sam. If she told him how much she kept tabs on Jeremy, he would be sure she was equating his behavior with that of her child. And they were already arguing over who was responsible for whom, and how much.
Laurel took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I guess it boils down to the fact that we both need to get used to having another adult around, Sam. You aren’t used to letting anybody know what’s going on in your life. And I’m only used to keeping track of a forgetful teenager.”
“Speaking of my grandson, where is he?” Sam peered around the kitchen. “At least I left you a note about where I was going to be.”
“That you did. And I appreciate that part.” What she didn’t appreciate was his obvious attempt to shift the attention to Jeremy. Besides, it was aggravating when Mr. Sam was right about something. Laurel was beginning to think she’d been on her own too long to live under the same roof with anybody but Jeremy.
Sam lifted his glass. “Maybe once we finish this cold lemonade, we ought to go out scouting for him. I’d even let you drive. You seemed to do a good job before.”
Laurel felt a pang of guilt at that one. It was on the tip of her tongue to confess her afternoon’s problems to Mr. Sam and get it off her chest. Instead, she got up from the table and put her nearly empty glass next to the sink. From that position, she could see Sam’s old answering machine. He’d grudgingly accepted the thing as a gift from them years ago. Even then, he’d only taken the machine when they assured him it was their own used model, that they were upgrading. Mr. Sam had never been into modern conveniences, as evidenced by the car he drove and the house he’d never renovated or moved out of. This archaic model seemed to suit Mr. Sam just fine. And right now, the message light was blinking.
“We may not need to go out after him. Maybe Jer got smart enough to call home and tell me what’s going on.” She punched the button on the machine, listening for the message.
It wasn’t Jeremy’s uncertain tenor that greeted her. Instead, it was a confident baritone, one that she’d already become too familiar with.
“This is Sheriff Jordan calling for Mrs. Smithee. We have your son Allen down here at the police department visiting us for a short time and would like you to call or come and retrieve him as soon as possible. Thank you.”
Allen Smithee? Jeremy had told Jordan that his name was Allen Smithee? Jeremy was going to be grounded for life once she bailed him out.
“Now you know that sheriff isn’t going to understand Jeremy’s joke,” Sam said behind her with a chuckle. “Bet that Tripp is going to be pretty put-out when you tell him what’s going on.”
“Not as put-out as my son is going to be when I get through with him. Mind if I take the keys back?”
Sam waved at the kitchen table where his key ring still sat. “Go right ahead. I’m not getting involved in this one for love or money. That’s one of the wonders of grandparenting.”
“Right. Somebody else handles the mess.” Laurel tried not to sound too sour. One phone call to her friend Gina was never going to be enough to explain all of this.
Sam put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on the boy, Laurel. It’s the kind of thing his father would have done, and that’s a source of entertainment for me.”
“I’m glad somebody’s enjoying this. I don’t think it’s very cute.” She tried not to clench her jaw. Her first thought was absolute aggravation at her smart-aleck son. Her second thought dismayed her even more, because she wanted to go look in the front hall mirror.
Before she faced Tripp Jordan again today, she wanted to make sure her hair was combed and that she had fresh lipstick on. And her own little flash of vanity was even more upsetting than the prospect of dealing with a smirking fourteen-year-old.
Tripp looked confused when she came into his office. “Didn’t expect to see you here again today.”
“That’s because you didn’t understand Jeremy’s practical joke. If you knew anything about Hollywood, script writing and the movie business, you would have, but no one expects you to.”
This time he didn’t look quite as dense with his brow furrowed. Laurel gave thanks that he didn’t immediately look angry, either.
“Who is Jeremy, and what are we talking about?” Tripp stood up, making his chair squeal as the unoiled wheels rolled across the tile floor.
“Jeremy is my son. He’s fourteen, about six feet tall, and is usually seen on or near a skateboard. And right now I suspect he’s answering to the name Allen Smithee instead of Jeremy Harrison.”
So far Tripp wasn’t looking as if he understood any of this. “Why would he do that? He gave me the right phone number, obviously, or you wouldn’t be here.”
“Calling himself Allen Smithee was probably his first thought when you asked him what his name was. A Southern California police officer would probably have told him, ‘Nice try kid, give me your real name,’ and the joke would have been over.”
Tripp shook his head as if to clear out cobwebs. He looked as if he were seconds from running a hand through his dark hair in exasperation. “I still don’t get it. You want to explain this whole thing in terms that even a Missourian can understand?”
Laurel took a deep breath. “It’s a private joke for anybody involved in movies. Since about the 1930s, anybody who produced a picture, or directed it, or wrote the script and later decided they didn’t want their name in the credits because the movie turned out too awful for words used the same fake name.”
Realization dawned on Tripp’s handsome face. “And I’ll bet that name is Allen Smithee, right?”
“Correct.
