Dead Over Heels

Chapter Eight

We had to get there early to meet and greet, but we found time to stop by the hospital. Shelby expected to be discharged the next day, and Martin promised to help, after he had a good look at Angel. She was obviously uncomfortable and exhausted after sleeping on the lumpy roll-away the hospital had provided. Shelby told us with more than a hint of exasperation that he’d urged her repeatedly to sleep at home.

Jimmy Henske had been by that day to question him again, but Shelby said he’d had to tell Jimmy that he still could not recall why he’d been roaming around the yard on a black rainy night, what he might have seen, who might have hit him.

Shelby’s room was pleasantly cluttered with offerings from the men he worked with; paperbacks, sports magazines, a basket of fruit, and some get-well cards jostled each other for space on the broad windowsill.

As Martin and I made our unnecessarily complicated way out of the hospital (I wondered if the architect had just read a book on English mazes before he began on the hospital plans) and into the overcrowded parking lot, I noticed I was again experiencing the unease I’d had earlier, the chill of loss, as though the Youngbloods, bound to us by employment and friendship, were moving away from us for good.

I was in no party mood when we pulled into the parking lot of the community center. Martin cut off the motor and we sat looking at the concrete-and-glass building, the fresh-painted parking lot with its rudimentary trees in the medians. We heaved simultaneous sighs.

“We’ll get through it,” Martin said bracingly.

“I know.” But I heard the complaint in my voice and said, “At least we get to look marvelous for the evening! And I’m looking forward to seeing so many of the people I only get to see at Pan-Am Agra things.”

Martin hated being part of a receiving line, so we just happened to be close to the entrance; anyone who felt like it could shake Martin’s hand or hug my neck, or give us both stiff bobs of the head. I resigned myself to being called “Mrs. Bartell” all evening, since the constant correction “Ms. Teagarden” would have been tedious.

For this annual occasion, Pan-Am Agra had rented the newly built community center, which boasted a huge room that could be adapted to many purposes. This evening it looked festive, with giant Easter eggs and streamers and balloons combating the general institutional atmosphere. A potted bare artificial tree stood in the middle of the room with large plastic eggs hanging from it, each containing a slip of paper describing a door prize. I’d already been informed I was the designated distributor, and I watched with resignation as the glass bowl by the entrance filled with more and more slips with names scrawled on them, as more and more Pan-Am Agra employees slapped on their hand-lettered name stickers and moved into the room.

This was supposed to be a dressy occasion; but as always, nowadays, there were people who came in blue jeans or stretch pants. My mother would have shuddered. I felt grateful I’d dressed down in a rather plain cocktail dress in cream and gold. I was wearing heels, which I hated with a passion, and every time my feet throbbed I told myself this was my sacrifice for Martin, a return for all the times he took it for granted I would go my own way and do whatever made me happiest.

I caught glimpses of my husband surrounded by men in suits who were laughing, holding glasses of nonalcoholic punch (Pan-Am Agra could not support drinking and driving), and from time to time glancing over to the tables where their wives were already seated. Martin was at ease, dealing with the conversation with good humor and a natural facility.

I wasn’t faring as well. I was getting a bit tired of so many women telling me in so many words that I was lucky to have such a handsome husband. If Martin and I had been the same age, they wouldn’t have commented; I couldn’t quite work out why the age difference apparently gave them license to speak frankly. I was willing to bet none of the men were complimenting Martin on my big boobs.

Every now and then, I’d get to talk to someone I really liked, like Martin’s secretary, Mrs. Sands, a tall, thin forty-five with luridly dyed black hair and a broad sense of humor. Tonight, I could only view Mrs. Sands with awe. She was decked out in a red-and-gold sequined sweater, red slacks, and gold sandals with three-inch heels that made her even loftier. My own modest heels looked sedate in comparison. Mrs. Sands, Marnie to her friends (but not to me), gave me the dignified greeting one potentate accorded another of slightly greater stature. Though I was the sultan’s wife, her manner implied, she was the Grand Vizier, the one who held true power.

Actually, she was right in many ways. I didn’t mind giving her credit; Martin said she was a great secretary, gauging perfectly when to allow plant personnel to have access to him, when to leave him undisturbed, and how to locate him at any moment.

“Honey,” said Mrs. Sands, “I need to talk to you.” She glanced around; we were a little apart at the moment. I looked up at her, surprised and interested; usually we just exchanged compliments and small talk.

“Fire away,” I said.

“Now, I know Mr. Bartell is a man who can handle any situation, that’s one of the reasons I like working for him, but you’re his wife and there’s something building up out there I think you ought to know about.”

Mrs. Sands cocked her head and her teased black hair leaned a little, like a loose helmet. She was deeply tan and the wrinkles around her dark brown eyes looked as though they’d been incised with a chisel.

“Tell me,” I said invitingly.

“You know Bettina Anderson?”

“Yes. We had supper at Bettina and Bill’s house one time. Oh, and she left a couple of messages on my answering machine I haven’t had a chance to return,” I recalled guiltily. As a matter of fact, the dinner at the Andersons’ had been the first one Martin and I had attended as a married couple; and it had been the first evening I’d realized that the future held many such unwanted but obligatory invitations.

Bill Anderson, the plant safety manager, had been wished on Martin by his superiors. The Andersons had been in Lawrenceton about three years. Bettina, a stout copper-haired woman of about forty, was the most self-effacing wife I’d ever encountered. “I haven’t seen either of the Andersons in a few months, I guess,” I said lamely, aware that Mrs. Sands was waiting for me to say something more.

“Well, I think she’s going through some kind of thing about Mr. Bartell. I can’t believe she’s tried to call you!”

My mouth fell open.

“Bettina Anderson, who’s married to Bill, head of the Safety Division,” I said, just a little question in my voice, because I simply couldn’t believe my ears.

“That’s right, I can’t believe it either,” Mrs. Sands said, responding to my tone and my statement at the same time.

I looked down at my shoes, off-white leather with a gold cap over the toes. I bit my lip to keep from giggling.

“Mr. Bartell usually handles situations like this himself, he sure don’t need help with that,” Mrs. Sands continued, and I abruptly lost any tendency to laugh. I wondered how many other “situations” Martin had handled without my knowledge. I could see how it would be hard for him to say casually, “Fended off another admirer, honey.”

“But this time, this woman is acting so weird, and so’s her husband,” Mrs. Sands said, disgust in her stance. “Weird” was one of the worst epithets Mrs. Sands ever used, and she did not use it lightly.

“Weird in what way?” I asked, returning my gaze to my shoes. This conversation was embarrassing, but fascinating.

“Well, Bill shows up at times when he doesn’t really need to see Mr. Bartell.” My husband was the only “Mister” at the Pan-Am Agra plant, to Mrs. Sands. “He just hangs around until Mr. Bartell gets rid of him-you know how quick he can do that.”

I nodded. I did indeed.

“And Bettina?” I prompted.

“Honey, that woman calls on the phone, and she’s come to the office! Course, I told her he was out of town.”

“Oh, dear,” I said inadequately.

“Now that you know, I feel better,” Mrs. Sands told me. “I’ll be seeing you, Ms. Teagarden.” Mrs. Sands always gave me the correct name, but accompanied it by a sharp look. Keeping my name had cost me many points with Mrs. Sands, but she was trying to forgive me, since I seemed like a proper wife for Mr. Bartell. She gave my shoulder a squeeze and strode off to join a group of her cronies, who’d been glancing our way.

Before I had a chance to recover from this remarkable conversation, before I could even wiggle my eyebrows at Martin to indicate I wanted to talk to him, the Andersons came in the door. Bill was wearing a suit, of course, and Bettina was wearing a very pretty green dress. When she shyly eased in front of me, I was able to give her an honest compliment. Bettina smiled back uncertainly. I noticed her hands were twisting the strap of her purse.

I emitted some more social chitchat, which Bettina interrupted abruptly. “Could we talk tonight? It won’t take long. I’m sorry I have to talk to you here, but you didn’t return my calls. Of course,” and she held up a hand to ward off my speaking, “I understand, because you’ve had a lot of things to think about lately. But I have to talk to you tonight.” She had spoken in a low urgent voice, with a glance toward our husbands that certainly must have clued any onlooker that she was up to something surreptitious. Of course in such a throng some people were sure to be looking at us, and I tried to make my face as blank as possible.

“Sure, Bettina,” I said, as soothingly as I could without sounding patronizing. “What about right now?”

“Oh no, people are looking, and it’s just about time to sit down.” So she was having that watched feeling, too.

“This is awfully crowded,” I said. “Why don’t we have lunch Monday?” If I could get through this evening, I could surely endure a public lunch with Bettina Anderson.

“That’s too late, I can’t wait that long,” Bettina told me. There was an edge of desperation in her voice that I couldn’t ignore.

“All right. When the dinner is breaking up, come to our table and we’ll find a quiet place.”

And then I had to put on my social smile, because here came (to my dismay) Deena Somebody-who-worked-in-the-shipping-department. Deena had deemed skin-tight jeans appropriate for this occasion, and I had to admit she filled them beautifully, but I had doubts that she would be able to bend at her knee and hip joints to sit in one of the folding chairs. I would have been interested in a video of the process of Deena getting into those jeans. Deena shrieked, “Hello, Roe!” as if she were a close friend of mine, and hauled her date out to show me she had one. To my amazement, the man she had in tow was quiet Paul Allison.

“Hi, Roe,” said Paul in his calm way. “I’m sure you know Deena Cotton.” I must have been fascinated by Deena’s bottom half for too long-she was eyeing me nervously.

“Deena, how’s shipping these days?” I murmured, proving I recognized her and knew where she worked.

“Just fine, always busy. Thank goodness!” And Deena gave a high-pitched giggle that made me wonder just how far Paul was willing to go in reaction to Sally, who would never in her life have made a sound like that. He was willing to go pretty far, as it turned out, for he put his hand firmly on her butt while we talked, and she seemed pleased rather than annoyed. I tried to imagine getting out of clothes that tight in the heat of passion; just as I had decided Paul would have to stand at the end of the bed and pull on the legs as she held on to the headboard, I became aware that Deena had turned red and Paul was staring at me fixedly, waiting for me to speak.

“Hope you enjoy yourselves tonight,” I said briskly.

I looked down rather than show my irritation, pushed my wire-rims up with one finger to give myself an excuse for glancing away. “Perry,” I said over Paul’s shoulder, “Good to see you.” To my surprise, Paul’s former stepson had come in right behind him with a woman who must be the remarkable Jenny Tankersley. Paul and Deena were moving away, and I tried not to even glance at the rear view.

“Jenny’s airstrip is where the Pan-Am Agra plane lands when the president flies down,” Perry was explaining. “This is the second year Jenny’s been invited to the banquet.”

I didn’t remember her from the year before, but perhaps she just hadn’t come up to meet me. I was sure I would have had no trouble recognizing her if I’d been introduced. Jenny, who was the same height as Perry, had gleaming beautiful white teeth, which she frequently bared in a predatory smile. Her hair was cut very short, with bangs, and it was a glossy brown that contrasted well with her heavy gold jewelry and orange dress. I had heard many stories about this woman, and I was interested in talking to her, but now was not the time to get to know her better.

I said a few polite words, to which Jenny responded instead of Perry, and then the younger couple drifted off to sit with Paul and Deena Cotton. I noted that Deena had somehow managed to sit, but she was bolt upright.

I assessed the incomings-down to a trickle-and the seated employees-a great majority-and knew it was time for the banquet to officially begin. Martin met my eye, with his usual good timing, and together we glanced around for seats, which would be simply the first two side-by-side we saw. At the annual banquet, Martin and I were supposed to be just part of the gang, with the result that some plant workers were in for a very tense evening sitting with the boss.

I spotted a table about fifteen yards away, and as Martin and I made our way there we passed a head of pale curly hair I thought I recognized. When I glanced back in amazement, I confirmed my suspicion; Arthur Smith was there with another woman, this one a very young twenty-something with her hair actually in a ponytail.

I looked straight into his eyes, which were focused on me, gave him some anger in the look, and turned my face to my husband.

Of course, Martin hadn’t missed it. “What the hell is he doing here?” he murmured through a genial smile. Martin and Arthur had always had a profound dislike of each other.

“He and Lynn have separated.”

“So he’s out with a woman half his age?”

I wisely said nothing. I didn’t think the woman was that young, but she was maybe fifteen years younger than Arthur, who was about thirty-four. I didn’t think it was the right time to remind Martin he was fifteen years older than I.

“Are Lynn and Arthur going to get divorced?” Martin asked, sliding my chair out for me while nodding at the others seated at the table, who were displaying an interesting variety of reactions to the presence of the boss and his wife.

“I hope not, for the sake of the little girl,” I said. “And it would be his second divorce.”

Then we had to drop our own conversation and tend to our social duties. Martin knew the name of every worker at our table, and met their spouses with great aplomb. I didn’t have that gift, but I worked hard, and I hoped not obviously, at matching Martin’s geniality and his easy conversation.

Every time I had to go to an affair like this one, my earnest prayer was that I would think at least once before I spoke, twice if possible. I didn’t want to provide fodder for any amusing anecdotes.

I discussed school-system problems with a mother of three, sewing one’s own clothes with another woman, and planting roses with another. I plowed steadily through the evening, eating little of the barbecued chicken and slaw, but doing my corporate duty. When the Employee Services man, who had to act as M.C. on these occasions, stood up to tell a few jokes and introduce Martin, I sighed a silent breath of relief.

Martin rose to the occasion with a few well-chosen words about the increased productivity at the plant, his goals for the year, and the pride he took in working with such a fine group of people. He went on about how he’d taken Georgia to his heart, turning this into a reference to his marriage to a true Georgia peach; and then he concluded neatly, pleasing those who had come with any tendency to be pleased.

I kept my face turned toward Martin and an indulgent smile pasted on my lips, but I was more interested in scanning the faces I knew in the crowd. Paul was looking at Martin, but as if he weren’t really seeing him. It was obvious that his thoughts were far away. Perry was not paying any attention at all; if I was right, he and Jenny were up to something under the tablecloth. And Arthur was neglecting his young date to glare at Martin as though my husband were saying derogatory things about Arthur’s ancestry. Marnie Sands was listening to make sure her boss did her proud, and the Andersons were whispering anxiously to each other.

Martin gave me my cue as name-drawer for the door prizes, all donated from local businesses that Pan-Am Agra patronized heavily. There were ten prizes to distribute this year, and I had to reach in the bowl, draw out a slip with a name scrawled on it, and search the crowd for whoever looked happy when I called the name. Then I unhooked the string attaching one of the giant eggs to the tree and handed it to the winner, who was supposed to open the egg on the spot so everyone could admire the donated largesse. It was kind of nice to be able to give people things that made them happy, especially at no expense to myself, and I enjoyed this part of the evening, though deciphering the scribbled signatures on the slips of paper could sometimes be a problem.

One of the recipients happened to be seated at Arthur’s table, and as I called the man’s name I noticed that Arthur was staring at me as if he hadn’t eaten his dinner and I was a barbecued chicken breast.

I had the strongest yearning for a water gun.

At last, the evening dragged to an official end. The couples we’d been sitting with said ceremonious good-byes, Martin excused himself to congratulate the Employee Services man on his organization of the event, and I was alone for the first time in what felt like years. I surreptitiously opened my compact below the table level to check my face for wear and tear, discovered a crumb of roll on my cheek that must have been there for an hour, and took care of that little problem. I spotted a clean napkin and polished my glasses, wondering how long the E.S. man would keep Martin talking, and if there were actually blisters on my feet. And then I was no longer alone.

True to her word, here was Bettina Anderson, who had fared even worse than I in terms of visible wear- she had a prominent grease stain on the skirt of her green dress. She was just as tense, just as wired up, as she had been earlier in the evening.

I felt sorry for her, and very wary.

“You have to help me, Aurora,” she said earnestly. Her heavy mouth had lost its lipstick and her nose needed powder. She clutched my arm, and I gritted my teeth to endure the contact.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” I said evenly.

“Jack Burns died in your yard. Did he say anything before he died?”

Back to Jack Burns again. I tried not to see him falling. His funeral was tomorrow, and I dreaded the thought of it. “No,” I said wearily. “Bettina, I’m sure he was dead when he fell. He couldn’t have said anything.” She looked unconvinced. Stung clean out of courtesy, I said, “And besides, what business is it of yours?”

“I’m so scared,” she said. Now that I believed; I could feel her fear.

“He knew about us,” she said. For one horrifying moment I thought she meant Jack Burns had knowledge of an affair between Bettina and my husband.

Then I was back in my right mind and I put a couple of things together.

“Is your husband the one in the Federal Witness-?”

“Hush! Hush!”

I looked around. There was no one within ten feet.

“How’d you find out about that?”

“That was just the rumor…”

“Someone’s talking, oh, God!”

“So John is the one?”

“Not John! Me!”

“What-?”

“I was the bookkeeper for one of the shell businesses run by Johnny Marconi.”

“Wow.” I gaped at this ordinary woman who had helped bring down a vicious man involved in peddling every kind of vice, a man who was a murderer many times over.

“So did they find out from Jack before he died who we were, where we were?” She stared at me as if she could will me to know the answer.

“I don’t know,” I said, wishing I had a better reply to give her.

“Dryden can’t find out, no one can find out, and we sit every night and wait for them to come.”

“Mr. Dryden must have seen the autopsy reports,” I said. “Did they show Jack was tortured before he fell?”

“No. But some things would have been obliterated by the fall,” she said. “And they might have threatened him with a knife or something, without actually using it, before they killed him.”

I cast around to think of something comforting to tell this woman.

“They would have come by now if Jack had told them,” was the best I could come up with. I tried to picture Mafia hit men from Chicago traveling to Lawrence-ton, Georgia-asking questions at the Shop-So-Kwik. My mind boggled.

“Did your husband work for Pan-Am Agra in Chicago?” I asked.

She stared at me for a moment. “No, but he had a similar job at a similar company, and he was familiar with Pan-Am Agra’s benefits, and he knew they had a plant down here and another in Arkansas. Either would have done, but it happened they needed a safety director here, so it was arranged. No one locally knew who we really were, except Jack Burns. Or so we thought.”

This was all as interesting as could be, but I became aware that her husband and my husband were waiting for us, making weary conversation. If Bill Anderson had wanted to have the same conversation with Martin that his wife was having with me, he showed no signs of it now. Martin saw me look at him, and wiggled his watch arm, his signal that he really wanted to leave.

“I wish I could tell you something either way,” I said honestly.

“Dryden doesn’t think we’ve been compromised. But we’re going on vacation, starting tomorrow, and the watch will be kept for anyone asking questions. We’ll be back. I would hate to move, but we just may have to. You know,” she added as she rose to her feet, “if you tell anyone about this, we may end up getting killed. I tried to talk to your husband, but I think he could tell we had secrets, because he wouldn’t meet with me privately, and Bill couldn’t make up his mind whether or not it was a good idea to talk to Martin. He figured that anything you knew, you would have told your husband, and he knows Martin better; and I’d just met you that one time, at our house. Now you know about us, and our lives are your property. But I had to ask if you knew anything, had seen anything. We have to know. We just have to.”

And without further ado she walked slowly away, a stout red-haired woman in fear for her life, whom I’d always known as the boring and self-effacing Bettina Anderson. She put her hand on her husband’s arm, said something to him quietly, and Bill shook hands with Martin in leave-taking.

I wondered what her christened name was. I wondered how her husband felt about hiding with his wife. I wondered if they had grown children in Chicago, what those children had been told.

“What was that all about?” Martin asked. I’d been so preoccupied I hadn’t noticed him approaching, and I jumped. “They’ve been asking me weird questions for a week,” he continued, “and wanting to meet with me privately without either one of them telling me why. After Bill was foisted on me by the Chicago guys, I smelled something strange about the Andersons, and I just don’t want to be involved in whatever trouble they’re in… after all my own problems with our government.” We exchanged a look; that was a time we didn’t talk about anymore.

“I thought maybe she had a thing for you,” I confessed.

“I was worried about that, too,” he admitted. “Though it didn’t have that feel… but all the secrecy. So, are you going to tell me?”

“I don’t know,” I said, dismay showing in my voice. “I don’t know if I can.” I couldn’t think of anything I’d ever withheld from Martin in our two years together, but I couldn’t dismiss Bettina’s plea for secrecy either.

“Can I think about it?” I asked Martin.

“Sure. I often feel I know more about my employees’ private lives than I want to know, anyway.” But I could tell by the set of his shoulders that he was piqued with me.

As we neared the exit (Martin good-byeing right and left to people who’d lingered to talk) we came face-to-face with Arthur Smith and his ponytailed date. Martin’s hand gripped mine more tightly. “Hello, Sue,” Martin said to the girl. “How are you?”

“Fine, Mr. Bartell,” she said self-consciously. “Have you met Arthur Smith?”

The silence held on too long for even young Sue to ignore. “So you guys have met,” she said nervously, finally aware there was something going on.

Martin and I gave Arthur identical stiff nods, and Martin said, “Night, Sue. See you in Ag Products tomorrow.” Martin held open one of the glass doors for me, and I stepped out into the cool evening air. Martin appeared beside me again, and took my hand. I heard the door swoosh shut, and then open again for young Sue and Arthur.

We stepped into a knot of people who had been tempted by the beautiful evening to linger to chat on the sidewalk; Perry and Jenny Tankersley, Paul and Deena Cotton, Marnie Sands (who seemed to be groping for something in her purse). Bill and Bettina Anderson had been waylaid by one of Martin’s division heads, a balding paunchy man named Jesse Prentiss, who was introducing his wife Verna.

Just at that moment all hell broke loose, all hell in the form of a swift and terrified gray cat which streaked across the circles of light and dark dappling the parking lot, a cat hotly pursued by a large and shaggy dog with a length of frayed rope flying from its collar.

There was a hoot of laughter here and there, an exclamation of alarm from those who couldn’t immediately see what was causing the hoopla, and a few halfhearted attempts to call the dog or grab the length of rope. The scene drew the stragglers in the parking lot together in a loose knot. After a moment the animals were gone, continuing their chase into the modest residential area on the next street. The yelping of the dog was still clear.

My eyes, like everyone else’s, had followed the cat, who’d bounded onto and then over a car parked in the shadows at the very far reaches of the community center lot. I listened with half my attention to the comments and jokes the incident had sparked in the little crowd, while trying to figure out if I had indeed seen a blond head in the car that the cat had cleared in her escape.

Sure enough, I caught a glimpse of blond again, and one of the sodium lights caught a gleam of glasses.

Well, well. To cap off a jarring evening, who did I spy lurking in the parking lot but Mr. Dryden. Agent Dry-den? Marshal Dryden? Even his protectee had only called him “Dryden.”

Was he waiting to see if anyone followed the Andersons? Or was he watching us?

I was so engrossed in my thoughts in the seconds following the animals’ exit from the parking lot that I was taken utterly by surprise by the sudden pressure on my back.

I heard a woman scream. My hand was ripped from its loose grip with Martin’s.

To my bewilderment I found myself being pressed down to the ground by a warm weight that I could not support, though my feet shuffled for balance and my knees braced to push back. I heard another shriek, and thought That wasn’t me, and a deep groan followed by a curse, all in the second that this inexorable, inexplicable weight drove me to the pavement. I threw my hands out in front of me to break my fall, but even my braced arms couldn’t stop my cheek from hitting the sidewalk.

In the long, long minute before the weight was lifted, as I lay prone under the terrifying burden, I felt something wet on my face and opened my eyes to see blood dripping to the gleaming new sidewalk a half-inch from my nose.

After a frantic little inventory of pains, I was pretty sure it wasn’t my blood.

Out of a cacophony of voices I discerned Paul Allison bellowing for calm, and I could hear one woman set up a steady howl for help-Bettina Anderson, I thought. “Ready on three,” I heard Martin say, and the shuffle of feet all around me. “One, two, three!” Martin said, and the weight on top of me was eased off. I had had the breath knocked out of me, and was frantically trying to take in air, with the usual result that I was foiling my own attempt.

I saw some knees hit the pavement beside me.

“Don’t move,” Martin said tensely. “Baby, is anything broken? Are you hurt?” Struggling for breath, I couldn’t answer.

“Call 911!” exclaimed a male voice, Jesse Prentiss’s, I thought. “You! Perry Allison! There’s a phone in the manager’s office to the left of those glass doors!” Running feet, light; Perry pounding obediently into the community center.

Running feet, heavy. “Who got hurt?” Dryden, breathing raggedly. So I’d been right; he’d been parked at the far reaches of the lot.

“Move back, people, police are on the way,” Paul Allison said loudly in his police official voice. “I’ve already radioed from my car. Step back, everyone, unless you’re an EMT.”

“I am,” Jenny Tankersley was saying as I felt Martin’s hands running over my body.

“Then get over here,” Martin snapped, and Paul Allison said in a shocked voice, “Has Roe been hurt?”

“She took a fall, she’s okay,” Dryden said-rather cavalierly, I thought. “But this man here is really bleeding.”

“There’s blood on Roe,” Paul pointed out tensely.

And then I could breathe. Nothing had felt as good in weeks as that deep intake of air.

“I’m okay,” I croaked. “Just help me up, Martin, I don’t think it’s my blood.”

I managed to push up with my arms to achieve a kneeling position, and then Martin lifted me up the rest of the way, frantically touching my head and neck to see where I’d been hurt.

We were a little apart from the activity now, which was centered on someone lying on the ground. The girl with the ponytail, Sue, was sobbing hysterically by one of the lampposts. “He just fell down,” she said over and over, “he just let go of my arm and fell down.”

“Not my blood,” I reassured Martin. This time he listened.

“Tell me how you’re feeling,” he said.

“I bumped my cheek on the pavement,” I gasped. I took another deep breath and started again. “I’m going to have sore hands and arms from trying to stop my fall, and my knees are scraped. Other than that, I’m fine. How’d I get knocked down?”

“Something happened to Arthur Smith,” Martin said slowly, his eyes never leaving my face. “He was right behind you. Without any warning, he began to fall, and fell on you and took you down with him.”

“Did he have a heart attack?” No, the blood. “Was he shot? How could he have been hurt?”

“Here comes the ambulance,” Martin said. “Maybe we’ll find out.”

Jenny Tankersley had been working on Arthur, ripping off his shirt to find the source of the bleeding, checking his pulse. The EMTs pelted out of the ambulance.

“He’s been hurt on his shoulder somehow,” she told them, moving aside. No one was talking to Arthur himself, though I could see his eyes were open and he was taking in what was going on around him. He looked as dazed as I felt. But when his eyes focused on the first man out of the ambulance, Arthur seemed to collect himself. He said clearly, “Murray, I was stabbed in the shoulder.”

A hush fell over the little crowd. Martin put his arm around me and I leaned on his chest. I had a moment of thankfulness that Martin had been holding my hand when the attack on Arthur occurred, so it was out of the question that Martin could have been involved. Not that he would do anything like that, but other people, knowing of the dislike between them, might make something of Martin’s proximity.

Then I realized what must have already occurred to everyone there. If Arthur had been stabbed instead of shot, it had to have been by one of the people in the small cluster on the sidewalk.

As the ambulance rolled off with Arthur in the back, the Prentisses offered Sue a ride home.

“I’m afraid we’re all going to have to stay here for a while,” Paul said in his calm way, and to reinforce his words, two police cars flew into the parking lot, shortly to be followed by two more.

A police detective was down, and this made the second officer in a week who’d been attacked. Before the evening was over, I’d seen every member of the force come and go at the community center.

We were all searched, even me, which made no sense at all, as Martin pointed out several times.

“Martin, I don’t mind,” I told him wearily, as I got up to go to the women’s room with a female officer- thankfully, not Lynn Liggett Smith. “I just want to get this over with and go home.”

So off I trudged, my little evening bag tucked under my arm, to submit my bag and my body to an examination.

No knife or any other pointed object was found on any person in the group.

It was as if a knife had fallen from the sky, stabbed Arthur in the shoulder, and been pulled back up by an invisible cord.