“Hold on,” Preston interrupted after a couple of minutes. “You never told me they offered you money to keep quiet about Melissa’s illness.”
“I didn’t think it was a big deal. Johnson said it was a common practice.”
Preston suppressed a sordid laugh. He didn’t want Cynthia to think he was making fun of her. “I wonder if you talked to the school board if they would know anything about this bribe. You are right to call it that, you know.”
“Why are you wanting to know all this?” Cynthia asked, her tone suspicious. “You’re not going to try to find him on your own, are you?”
Preston said nothing.
“Your silence condemns you. Preston, this guy is dangerous. Please, don’t do this.”
“I only want to see if I can come up with any leads to pass onto the police.” His gut clenched at the lie, and he remembered his promise to her. “Okay, so I want to find the jerk and pound his head into the ground.”
“Preston, you can’t.” Cynthia sounded desperate.
“More kids might die if somebody doesn’t do something.”
“The police are doing something!”
The call ended soon after, with Cynthia pleading for him to be careful, and Preston promising not to get himself into a precarious situation. Now all he had to do was make sure that didn’t turn into a lie.
After he hung up, he snatched up his keys and walked to the entrance door. If he procrastinated the next conversation, he would never go through with it. Karen was the last person on earth he wanted to talk to right now.
He opened the door, walked out into the hallway, began to put his keys in the door. But then he saw a note taped to his door just above the doorknob. A note with his name on it. In decidedly feminine handwriting.
He ripped the note off and unfolded it.
“Preston,
I almost can’t believe you gave me that invitation. But in case it was you, I’m going to get to the park about fifteen minutes late. I have an appointment with my manicurist.
In case it wasn’t you, I’m taking a knife and please come and make sure I’m all right. I’ll be at Powers Park at 2:30.”
Preston stared at the paper with wide eyes. He most certainly had not extended any kind of invitation to Karen. Then he dug into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and turned it on. He’d begun leaving it off after Erin had told him how dangerous smart phone radiation was, especially to places like the brain and reproductive organs.
But now he chafed inwardly at having to wait even a few seconds to see the time.
Two-twenty-four. Powers Park. There were three parks around the neighborhood, and he didn’t know the names of any of them. He grabbed the keys out of his door and sprinted for the door that led to the stairwell. He didn’t have time to take the elevator.
Karen was in trouble, and he had a sinking feeling he knew with whom and why.
**********
As soon as Cynthia got off the phone with Preston, she headed out the door. Something was wrong, very wrong, and if she didn’t stop him, Preston was going to get hurt. She paused in her car after starting the engine only to leave a message on Erin’s cell phone, asking her to find Melissa after school and have her stay in her classroom until Cynthia could get there, by four-thirty, she hoped. Worst case scenario, Melissa would end up in the front office, worried that Cynthia hadn’t come to pick her up. By then, Erin would have probably checked her messages and gone to get her.
Under ordinary circumstances, Cynthia would have felt awkward, even guilty, for asking someone she barely knew to do such a big favor. But these circumstances were beyond ordinary, and she trusted Erin. So did Melissa.
Cynthia had to force herself to keep her speed slow as she backed out of the garage and into the street. At least it was a relatively quiet street, even during rush hour. The temperature had warmed up to the mid-thirties today, so Cynthia was comfortable in the car as long as she had her coat buttoned up to her neck.
The low-hanging, gray clouds portended more snow. Accumulation wouldn’t happen until the temperatures fell below freezing again, but Cynthia sent up a silent prayer for any flakes to stay in the clouds until she made sure Preston was safe and sound. She wanted nothing to make driving more difficult.
Almost every traffic light she encountered turned red as soon as she approached it, and ten minutes into the drive she wanted to scream. The longer she was in the car, the stronger the urge to find Preston became. Then she began to wonder if she shouldn’t call the police. But what would she say?
“Hello, I’m a crazy woman who thinks the lawyer responsible for turning the school lunches into poison is about to kill my boyfriend. No, I have no proof, just an awful feeling in my stomach.”
That wouldn’t fly. Besides, now she was going through a school zone and cell phone use was not allowed. She slowed down, gritting her teeth in frustration. She put so much pressure on her jaw that it hurt by the time she had driven past the school zone a few hundred yards later.
After what seemed like several hours, she came close to the high-rise that Preston called home. To get there, she had to go around a park that had a small lake, two playgrounds, and a paved trail winding around the lake and through areas that were part meadow, part greenbelt. When Cynthia saw it last night, she’d thought it would make a great place for a romantic picnic once the weather warmed up.
Now, she could only hope her romantic interest would still be alive by then.
She had gotten to the eastern edge of the park and was about to take a left to head the two blocks north to the high-rise when a movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. She twisted her neck and saw a woman trying to wrench herself free of a man’s grip. The figure of the woman seemed vaguely familiar.
The man twisted the woman’s arm and pulled her tightly to himself. Now Cynthia, her stomach turning over, stopped the car completely. She rolled down the window.
The woman started to scream, but the man cut the noise off by slapping his hand over her mouth.
Taking a quick look in all her mirrors, Cynthia backed her car up to park it against the curb. No way was she going to be the average person who shuts her eyes to an attack going on right under her nose.
She yanked the keys out of the ignition, fished her phone out of her purse, and got out of the car, closing the door as quietly as she could. She moved toward the scene, ducking behind the evergreen trees and bushes that dotted her way there, while fumbling to turn on the phone. When she was a few yards away, relatively safe in a small grove of trees, she yelled out, “Hey!”
The man whirled around, dropping the woman, and when he saw Cynthia he took off running. She knew there was no use going after him, so she dialed 9-1-1 as she jogged toward the woman, who sat on her knees in the mushy, gray snow, panting.
Then Cynthia recognized the woman and stopped short.
Karen Lewis. Preston’s neighbor. The one Melissa had called…a not nice name.
It didn’t matter. Cynthia had to help her, if she needed help. The emergency operator answered just as Cynthia reached her.
“Yes. I’m at…” She glanced down at Karen, who was staring up at her with unbelieving eyes. “I called 9-1-1. What’s the address here?”
“Powers Park,” she gasped. “At the corner of Hebron and Fifty-first.”
Cynthia relayed the information to the operator, then added, “I just witnessed a man attacking a woman. He ran away as I approached.”
At the operator’s next question, Cynthia looked back at Karen, who was slowly easing herself up to a standing position. “Do you need an ambulance?”
Karen shook her head. “No. But tell them – oh, my God.” She panted some more, her face twisted in fright. Suddenly, the expression eased as she shifted her gaze to a point behind Cynthia. “Preston!”
Cynthia turned. Yes, Preston was running toward them.
“Ma’am? Are you still there?” the voice on the other end of the line said.
“I’m sorry.” Cynthia turned back to Karen, starting to feel numb. Wishing she hadn’t stopped to help her. Wishing she hadn’t showed up at all. “I’m trying to get the…victim to tell me what happened.”
By now, Karen was standing, and in the next moment Cynthia felt a slight pressure on the small of her back.
Preston.
How did he know Karen was here? Or had he just been passing by and happened to see them?
Either way, she wasn’t sure whether to be comforted or confused by his presence. Glaring at Karen, she demanded, “What were you going to tell me? Do you know who that man was?”
Karen nodded, cutting her eyes back to Cynthia. “That lawyer who’d paid off Munger to poison the food. I knew him from the photo they showed on the news.” Her gaze went back to Preston, and she pointed with a frantic gesture. “He went that way.”
With her free hand, Cynthia grabbed onto Preston’s arm when he tried to run in the direction Karen was pointing. “No! He might have a gun.”
“Ma’am? Who might have a gun?” the 9-1-1 operator asked.
Cynthia stumbled over her words, trying to explain who had attacked Karen while silently pleading with her eyes for Preston to relax. She did not release him until he nodded and unclenched his jaw, then moved toward Karen. To Cynthia’s chagrin, the girl fell against him, threw her arms around him, and burst into tears.
Preston, looking at Cynthia sideways, rolled his eyes. At that point, the operator told her she was sending police and an emergency response vehicle, and to stay near her phone. Cynthia hung up, and watched with amusement as Preston peeled Karen’s arms off him.
“Did he hurt you?” he asked her.
“No,” Karen responded, pouting now. Then she glanced at Cynthia. “Did you send…her instead?”
Cynthia frowned at Preston. “What is she talking about, sending me?”
Preston told her about the note that Karen had left on his door. Cynthia didn’t know whether to be angry or feel sorry for her.
Then Karen filled in the blanks, telling them that Jeb Johnson had left a note signed in Preston’s name in her mailbox, asking for a rendezvous with her, and Cynthia decided to feel sorry for her. The girl must have serious issues to fall for something like that.
Sirens began wailing in the distance, and Preston stepped back to Cynthia’s side and put his arm around her. “I told you, Karen,” he cut his eyes toward Cynthia, “I told both of you, I’m not that kind of guy.”
Cynthia believed him. By the scarlet flush on Karen’s face and her sheepish manner, she gathered that the girl finally did, too.
But they had no time to discuss anything relationship-wise for a while after. At that moment, piercing sirens made conversation impossible, and a few seconds later they were talking to the police.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The past few days had brought more excitement than Lucy had seen in the last several years. Of course, on her part it was more vicarious living than anything else. Since she had never directly been involved with Barry Munger, neither the media nor the police requested an interview with her.
But Erin, Preston, and Cynthia had all had their fifteen minutes of fame. And the women had eagerly and liberally shared their experiences with Lucy. Both tried to make it sound like they felt harassed, but Lucy could tell they were pleased to have been able to have their say in public about the dangers of consuming processed food.
She could have been envious by the attention they’d received, but trying to decide whether to stay with Delico any longer was causing her enough emotional turmoil. Although she loved working under Kelly Jackson, and enjoyed the other employees she encountered on a regular basis, the reason she’d gotten herself hired on there had shriveled up like a raisin.
Mario had told her that he would be fine with whatever decision she made, but to please get hired somewhere else first before quitting her job at Delico. They had, just the past couple of weeks, both been given a huge incentive to begin to keep careful track of their finances.
So as Lucy pushed her cart down the aisle of the health food store, she clung to a list that substituted chicken thighs and free-range eggs for grass-fed beef, and eliminated a few unnecessary items she used to toss in the cart without thought, like the three-dollar-a-piece organic red bell peppers. Turning toward the dairy case, she thought she saw a familiar face down the adjacent aisle.
She looked again, the corners of her mouth curving upward, and turned her cart. “Cynthia!”
Cynthia, who seemed to be comparing two different brands of ketchup, straightened up, glanced at Lucy, and smiled. “Hey.” When Lucy got closer, she asked, “Which is healthier, agave nectar or evaporated cane juice?”
Lucy shook her head. “Like so many things in the nutrition world, depends on who you ask. I think the cane juice is more natural, myself.”
Cynthia put one bottle back on the shelf and the other in her cart. “That makes sense.” Then she sighed. “I can’t wait ‘til this all blows over.”
Lucy frowned. “Are you still getting calls from reporters?” As she spoke, Preston appeared at the end of the aisle. He smiled and lifted a hand in greeting as he approached.
Lucy lowered her voice. “Grocery shopping together? You must be getting serious.” She was teasing, but not really.
“Melissa’s staying with a friend until 8:30.” Cynthia, though beaming, flushed slightly as she said it.
That gave them a good four hours as of now, three and a half by the time they left the store and got to either of their homes. “Do tell,” Lucy said as Preston came up to Cynthia and picked up her hand with his. Lucy winked at him. “I hear you have a hot date tonight.”
He put the first three fingers of his free hand in the air. “We’ll behave ourselves. Scouts’ honor.” He let Cynthia’s hand drop as she prepared to push the cart.
“To answer your question, no, it’s not the reporters.” Cynthia leaned into the handle. “It’s everybody on Twitter and Facebook. Oh. My. Gosh.”
Preston squeezed her elbow while looking at Lucy. “I’ve told her she doesn’t need to respond to every single message she gets. So, what’s new on your side of the globe, Lucy? Decided whether or not to stay with Delico?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
She paused, wondering if she should tell them what she and Mario – with Emma’s blessing – had decided to do. She did not want to take any more time away from their date, nor did she want to push her newly hatched ideas about personal finance onto other people.
Cynthia narrowed her eyes. “You’re holding back, Lucy. Spill it.” She gave a “come hither” gesture with her fingers.
Nothing like an open invitation. Lucy felt her smile broaden, and her heart beat a little faster at the excitement of what she was about to tell them. “Mario and I discovered this book, Your Money Or Your Life. We’ve decided we’re going to do it.”
Cynthia and Preston exchanged a glance. “Do…what?” Cynthia asked.
Lucy suddenly felt awkward. How could she say exactly what was on her mind without sounding like a nutcase? “We’re going to do what the book says. Well, you have to read it to believe it. I’ll let you guys go. I don’t want to take up your date time.” She grabbed her cart and wheeled it back toward the dairy before either of them could say a word.
**********
Forty minutes later, Preston and Cynthia were back at her house, assembling a simple meal consisting of a large salad with grated cheese and walnuts, with blueberries for dessert. The date had been Melissa’s idea.
“It’s time for you guys to go out on a date by yourself,” she had said a couple of days ago in response to Cynthia’s announcement that Preston would be coming over for dinner tonight.
Cynthia had been surprised, but pleased and relieved. Pleased because, of course, she was yearning for some time alone with Preston. Relieved, because Melissa seemed to have accepted – embraced, really – the idea that Preston may one day
become her stepfather.
“Should I toss these in whole, or chop them up a bit?” Preston picked up the half cup of walnuts.
“I prefer them chopped.” Like it mattered. She was so excited to have Preston by herself that she wasn’t sure she’d be able to eat.
When he took the chef’s knife that she held out to him, their fingers brushed and she felt a jolt go up her arm. Preston must have felt something, too, because he paused and met her gaze with a heated one of his own.
For a moment, she was sure he was going to drop everything and kiss her. Then he smiled, cleared his throat, and began chopping the walnuts.
“I have a confession to make,” he said, eyes focused on the knife.
Maybe his guilt was making him keep his distance. “Okay.” Cynthia set down the cheese she was grating and watched him chop.
“When I was in my late teens, I was totally turned on to natural health.”
She arched her brow. “Really?”
Preston said nothing more during the ten seconds or so it took him to finish chopping the walnuts. Then, he set down the knife and turned to her. “When I was seventeen, my father was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. I went and talked to the old lady who owned the neighborhood health food store, and she told me about Gerson Therapy.” He leaned against the counter. “Ever heard of it?”
Cynthia shook her head.
“It was a method a doctor named Max Gerson successfully used to heal cancer patients. It consisted of consuming a lot of fresh green juice and doing daily enemas.”
Cynthia grimaced, and Preston chuckled. “Yeah, that was my initial reaction. And Dad’s. But he was willing to try anything at that point.” His face grew serious again, and he sighed. “He tried it for three days. And felt so miserable, so weak and sick, that he refused to go on with it. Said that the doctors knew best, and that Gerson Therapy was quackery and would kill him.”
Preston turned slightly away from Cynthia, staring at the cabinet in front of him. “My dad and I had always been tight. If I had pushed him, just a little…I’ve always blamed myself for his death.”
Cynthia took a step in his direction. “Oh, Preston.”
He turned back to her with a sad smile. “I know, it wasn’t my fault. And maybe he was so bad off that by then, nothing would have worked.”