I turned to Jolene just as she entered the kitchen. I raised my camera, flicked the switch to continuous exposure and pressed.
As the lens click-clicked, she stopped abruptly, frozen. I heard a quick intake of breath and saw a flash of tightening jaw through the viewfinder. Then she let out an unearthly shriek.
“Arnie!” She ran into the kitchen, out of my sight for a moment. “No! No! Arnie!”
The hairs on my arm rose at her tone, and I ran into the kitchen myself. I froze for an instant, too.
On the floor by the stove lay Arnie, staring upwards, blood puddling beneath and beside him on the yellow tiles. Jolene knelt in the blood, shaking him, calling him, trying to rouse him.
She would never succeed.
GAYLE ROPER
has always loved stories, and as a result she’s authored more than 40 books. Gayle has won a Romance Writers of America’s RITA® Award for Best Inspirational Romance and finaled repeatedly for both RITA® and Christy® awards. Several writers’ conferences have cited her for her contributions to writer training. She enjoys speaking at writers’ conferences and women’s events, reading and eating out. She adores her kids and grandkids, and loves her own personal patron of the arts, her husband, Chuck.
Caught in the Act
Gayle Roper
When I am afraid, I will trust in you.
—Psalms 56:3
For my brothers and sisters
at Calvary Fellowship Church
“I thank my God upon every remembrance of you.”
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
ONE
“Merry, could you drop me at my parents’ after work?” Jolene Meister asked as we left The News office for lunch. “My father brought me in this morning.”
I’d only have to go out of my way a couple of blocks, so I said, “Sure. No problem.”
And that easily and innocently I precipitated my involvement in murder.
Again.
Jolene and I walked to Ferretti’s, the best eating our small town had to offer. The winter wind on this dingy December Tuesday bit through my new red coat, and I suspected my nose was turning almost as rosy as my wool blend. The two scars on my nose that I’d gotten in a bike accident when I was eight years old would be turning a contrasting blue.
Ah, well, I thought. If I smile, I can have a patriotic face: red nose, white teeth and blue scars.
Gene Autry was serenading downtown Amhearst about Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer over a tinny public address system by Santa’s little house. How come a cowboy had made millions off a deer’s red nose and all I got from mine was a color scheme?
“Hey, Jolene.” Ferretti’s hostess, a brassy blonde named Astrid, seated us with a smile, then left.
It never ceased to amaze me how everyone in Amhearst knew everyone else. As a recent arrival I found it both cozy and unnerving. “How do you know Astrid?”
“I went to school with her younger sister, Elsa. She’s a real dingbat.”
“Who? Astrid or Elsa?”
“Both.”
Knowing Jolene as I did, that probably meant that the two women were very nice and rather intelligent.
“Does anyone ever move away from Amhearst?”
“Sure.” Jolene indicated our waitress whose name tag read Sally. “Sally’s daughter Caroline moved to California to be in the movies, right?” She looked at Sally.
“Yeah,” Sally said. “But she moved back home last month. Astrid’s sister, Elsa, got her a job as receptionist at Bushay’s. Elsa’s Mr. Bushay’s administrative assistant.”
Didn’t sound like dingbat territory to me, but it sure sounded like Amhearst.
I ordered a Caesar salad and Jolene ordered a huge plate of eggplant parmigiana.
When Sally disappeared with her order pad, I looked at Jolene.
“And how do you know Sally?”
“She and my mom were in the PTA together.”
“And you know Caroline, the would-be movie star?”
“Sure. She was three years ahead of me in school.”
“See? Weird.”
Jolene shrugged and pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Do I look flushed to you?”
“Like you’re getting sick, you mean?” Jolene was a hypochondriac.
I looked at her big brown hair and bangs, her bright brown eyes, her flawless skin. “You look great to me.” In an overblown sort of way.
Our lunches came, and I looked from my salad to Jolene’s spicy, cheesy dish. “How can you eat that and not gain weight? It’s swimming in oil. It’s not fair.”
“Fair?” She leveled a forkful of dripping eggplant at me. “Is it fair that you have two gorgeous men chasing you?” She snorted, a noise that sounded decidedly odd coming from her delicate nose. “Don’t give me fair, Merrileigh Kramer. I’m not listening.”
I
