To Catch A Wife

The guy was a bundle of nerves.

“A case I’m working on.”

“Right, right. So...ah...what can I do you for you?”

Seriously? “Shave, haircut.”

“Right, of course. Here, sit.” He moved around to the back of the chair and held it while Jack shrugged out of his jacket. “Here, I’ll take that.”

After he sat down, Fred swung the chair to face the mirror, and Jack watched the man’s reflection as he scurried about, stuffing his hastily folded newspaper into a wall-mounted magazine rack. He hung Jack’s jacket on an old coat tree.

Jack didn’t know Fred well, admittedly, but he didn’t remember him being this jumpy, acting as though he had something to hide. Besides, what could he be hiding? Come to think of it, Fred was a longtime friend of Emily’s. Would she have told him about the night she and Jack had spent together?

Awkward. Not to mention unlikely. He was jumping to conclusions for which he had no evidence. He watched Fred take his cell phone out of his pants pocket, tap out a quick message and put it back.

“Okay. A shave and a haircut.” Fred, suddenly all business and apparently recovered from his case of nerves, shook out a black plastic cape and draped it over Jack’s chest and shoulders.

* * *

MABLE POTTER LIVED in a quaint one-and-a-half-story house on Cottonwood Street, in the middle of a block of identical dwellings. Over the years, the homes had been personalized with a picket fence here, a glassed-in veranda there, window boxes, skylights and paint colors that spanned the rainbow. The clapboard of Mrs. Potter’s house was salmon pink, the trim snowy white. In the back corner of the yard was a garden shed. Mable’s husband, who’d passed away more than a decade ago, had designed it to look like a miniature version of the main house, capturing every detail right down to the lace-curtained windows.

As a child, Emily had daydreamed about playing house in the Potters’ garden shed. Today, her current reality made her wonder how in the world she was going to manage a baby on her own in her cramped one-bedroom apartment over the newspaper office.

Emily followed the elderly woman through the gate and up the steps. Mrs. Potter opened the front door and stooped to unfasten the dog’s leash. Instead of going inside, though, the scruffy, wiry-haired dog of indeterminate breed let out a yip, raced back down the steps and disappeared around the corner of the house, a black-and-white blur in pursuit of a squirrel.

“I don’t know why he chases them,” the woman said. “He’s never caught one. And I think they come in the yard on purpose, simply to torment him.”

Emily laughed at the idea of a ragtag scurry of squirrels plotting to outwit a hapless predator. Possibly something she could work into a story for her blog. “Where would you like me to put the groceries?” she asked.

“Would you mind carrying them into the kitchen for me?”

“Of course not.” Emily noticed Mrs. Potter hadn’t used a key, which meant she hadn’t locked the door when she’d left the house to go shopping. Not usually a big concern in Riverton, especially during the daytime. Still, the woman did live alone, and things around town had mysteriously started to disappear. “Did you forget to lock the door when you went out?” she asked, deciding to play it low-key.

“Oh, I never bother. This is Riverton, after all, and Banjo’s a good watchdog.”

“I’m sure he is.” Except Banjo hadn’t been here, and Emily suspected his watchfulness extended only to keeping small rodents at bay. Still, everything in the house looked as it should, not a doily out of place.

Emily set the bag of groceries on the kitchen table and glanced through the window to the backyard where the dog ran in circles around the trunk of an oak tree, tormented by the squirrel chittering at him from an overhanging branch. Instinctively, she pulled her camera from her bag, zoomed in on the scene and snapped a series of photos.

“Are you going to put those pictures in the newspaper?” Mable asked.

“No, but I’d like to post them on my blog if that’s okay with you.”

“A blog? I don’t know what that is, but it’s fine with me.”

Emily watched with amusement and mild curiosity as the woman carried the kettle to the sink, filled it and then put it in the refrigerator.

“Would you like to stay for tea?”

“Ah...” Emily did her best not to laugh out loud. “I’d love to stay, Mrs. Potter, but not today, thanks. I have to get back to the office and catch up on a few things.” Now that she had talked to Fred, she needed to set her sisters straight and then plan an unwelcome trip to Chicago. “But I’ll be happy to drop by early next week,” she was quick to add, noting the woman’s disappointment. The weekly edition of the Gazette came out every Wednesday morning and she always had a little breathing room after that.

“That’ll be nice, dear. I’ll save you a slice of my red velvet cake.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” She left Mable to put away her groceries, wondering how long it would take the poor woman to figure out why it was taking so long for the kettle to boil. Outside, the standoff between dog and squirrel continued to play out in the yard. Not able to resist, she followed the stepping-stones that meandered from the back porch to the garden shed and walked up onto the narrow veranda. The lace curtains were drawn in the shed’s windows, and the interior was dark. Emily wasn’t sure why, but she reached for the doorknob. It was locked. Interesting. Well, no one would be able to steal the old woman’s wheelbarrow and watering can.

Her cell phone buzzed as she was making her way around the side of the house to the front gate. It was a text message from Fred.

The jig is up. Get over here. Now.

What? How? Had one of her sisters gone into the shop to talk to Fred, even though they had both promised not to utter a word about this to anyone? Or had one of them told their father? If anyone had blabbed about this, it would be CJ. Ugh. The little busybody. Emily was going to wring her neck. As for her father, was he at the barbershop now? Annie had said he’d be driving Isaac into town for a birthday party that afternoon. Emily shoved the phone into the side pocket of her bag and set out for a brisk walk back to Morris’s. Time to face the music, again.

* * *

SOME OF THE tension that had knotted in Jack’s neck and shoulders during the drive from Chicago loosened a little.

“How long are you in town for?” Fred asked.

“A couple of days.”

“Nice. You’ll see your family, I guess.”

“Plan to.”

“Your dad was in for a trim last week.” Fred tucked a towel around the neckline of the cape. “Haven’t seen your mother in a while, though. How’s she doing?”

“Oh, you know, she’s the same as always.”

Jack didn’t actually know that, although it’s what he assumed. Norma Evans would always do the things she’d always done. Keeping the house where he and his sister had been raised, which was far too big for her and his father, as neat as a pin. Reminding his father that salads were good for him and pipe smoking was not. Volunteering at church bazaars and literacy book drives, organizing care packages for troops in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Walter Evans was retired from his lifelong career as maintenance supervisor for the Town of Riverton. It used to be his job to keep the fire trucks, police cars and snowplows running and on the road. Now he spent most of his time in his workshop at the back of the garage next to the house, tinkering with his twenty-year-old Ford F-250, fixing bicycles and repairing broken appliances and old lawn mowers for everyone in the neighborhood. The shop was the only place where Walt could listen to NPR uninterrupted and puff on his pipe without censure.

Jack stared up at the tin-tiled ceiling as Fred applied pre-shave cream to his face. The question about his parents was a harsh reminder that Jack had been doing a lousy job of staying in touch with them. He needed to figure a way around the tunnel vision he developed every time he worked a major case.

“And now for the towel,” Fred said.

Jack heard the steamer open, then gave an inward sigh as Fred placed the hot towel on his face. The heat seeped along his jaw, up his cheeks and across his brows.

“There we go. Give that a few minutes, and then we’ll get started.”

Jack’s thoughts drifted from his family to the interview he needed to do this afternoon and then to Emily, to seeing her again, to holding her, to...

The clang of the bell on the barbershop door cut into his thoughts.

* * *

EMILY WAS BREATHLESS by the time she returned to the barbershop. Fred met her at the door and shushed her with a quick finger to the lips as he escorted her across the floor and sat her in an empty chair. The other chair, she noted, was occupied. Fred unceremoniously returned his customer to an upright position, peeled back the towel and swung him to face Emily.

“Jack?”