By Familiar Means (26 page)

28

Even though I was yawning my head off when I finally climbed into bed, I was still surprised at how quickly I fell asleep. There were so many thoughts and worries surfing the remains of all the coffee I'd drunk, I felt sure I was in for a good hour of staring at the ceiling and listening to Alistair purr.

Instead, it felt like I'd barely blinked before I woke up to a room full of morning sunshine and a pillow full of highly entitled cat nuzzling my ear. There was also a mouth full of that metallic taste that says you forgot to brush your teeth the night (or very early morning) before. The display on my ancient clock radio read 9:30, which for a morning person like me practically counted as sleeping the whole day away.

“Grandma B.B. up yet, big guy?” I asked or, rather, yawned as I scratched Alistair's ears.

“Merow!” Alistair answered. He sounded distinctly miffed, and worry bubbled up in the back of my brain.

I shrugged into my old pink terry-cloth bathrobe and padded downstairs. The kitchen was empty, except for the
smell of fresh coffee, and my phone, which was lying facedown next to a note on the breakfast table.

Dear Anna,

Valerie came by and we decided not to wake you. She's gone to see Miranda and says you should meet her there. I'm on our secret mission. Will update you soonest.

Grandma B.B.

“Secret mission,” I muttered as Alistair jumped up on the breakfast table and shoved his nose at the note. “Good grief, Alistair, what have I let loose on Portsmouth?”

“Merow,” he answered, which was no reassurance at all.

*   *   *

Jake and Miranda lived in a little bungalow over on Burkitt Street. The place was painted a bright orange and yellow with a big sunburst pattern right over the doorway where a fanlight might have gone on a bigger house. The small front yard was a tangle of wildflowers, or at least it would have been in summer; right now it was mostly stems, rosemary shrubs and purple asters. A maple tree shed scarlet leaves onto the front walk.

If I'd had any visions of Miranda sitting huddled on a couch with an empty coffee cup in her hand, they vanished the second I pulled my Jeep up in front of her bungalow. A half dozen kids played tag on the lawn and the sidewalk, and to my surprise, Val was sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch, crocheting the lavender baby blanket she'd been working on for the past three months. She waved when she saw me and pushed herself to her feet.

“You must have Roger on oxygen by now,” I said as I hugged her.

“We've had a little family meeting,” Val answered, and I saw the gleam in her eye. “He understands that even when
in the closest relationship we all need some individual space. I left him making cinnamon buns for the Library Association meeting.”

“Is Julia here?” I asked.

“She had to get over and open the shop. She'll be back later.”

I lowered my voice. “What about Chuck? Does Miranda know . . . ?”

Val glanced over my shoulder and then she nodded. “He came over last night, shortly after we all got here. He said he was going to turn himself in.”

I bit my lip. Why did that scare me? It was good news. It had to mean that Chuck really wasn't using Jake and Miranda as cover, right? “Did he do it?”

“No. We talked him out of it.”

“Who's ‘we'?”

Valerie frowned, but she did answer. “Miranda mostly. She said if he went to the police now, Blanchard would just make it look like Chuck was working for Jake and Jimmy'd found out and they killed Jimmy to keep him quiet.”

This was the exact reason I had come up with for not telling Pete and Kenisha. In the background I could hear the kids laughing. The sun was shining and everything was beautiful, but I was as cold as if it were the middle of December. Why did it unnerve me to hear Miranda and I had reached the same conclusion?

“Anna?” Val touched my hand.

I shook myself. “It's nothing.”

“Uh-huh,” said Val. “Well, you'd better come on inside, because that nothing has turned you white as a sheet.”

The living room of the bright yellow bungalow was full of men and women of all ages, most of them in jeans and homemade tie-dye. The people who weren't on their phones were busy assembling poster-board signs with hand-painted slogans like
FREE JAKE
and
COFFE
E IS NOT A CRIME
.

I don't know what that one was supposed to mean either, but I could appreciate the spirit.

Miranda was on her cell phone, but she beckoned for me
to come in. “No, no, Brad. Yes. No. I appreciate your efforts, but chaining yourself to the station door is not the best action at this time. The protest is at five, unless Jake's sprung before then . . .”

I guess people did still say “sprung.” I was going to have to apologize to Grandma B.B.

“No, I'm not expecting tear gas. Yes, bring an extra bandana just in case. Yes. Moonchild's organizing the petition drive. And, yes, definitely, spread the word. Thank you so much for the support. Peace.” She hung up and came over to me, stepping carefully around the signs and their painters. “Oh, Anna, thanks for coming.”

“I just wanted to make sure you weren't alone,” I said as I hugged her. “Guess I shouldn't have worried.”

“Everybody's been just so cool.” Tears glittered in the corners of Miranda's eyes. “I can't believe it.”

“As if we'd leave Miranda on her own,” said a statuesque woman whose T-shirt read
FRE
E TIBET
. There was a chorus of agreements, including from Val, and a thumbs-up from Chuck, who was back in the corner painting a sign. I swallowed and looked away.

“I brought bagels,” I said, holding up the bulging paper bag I'd brought from Market Basket. Yes, this was a distraction for myself, and Val, who was looking at me a little too closely.

“Thank you,” said Miranda. “That's so sweet. You can put them in the dining room.”

I could if I could find room. The table was already covered with dishes. There were quinoa salads, homemade granola bars, tofu wraps, deviled eggs, muffins, cookies, fruit salads, and cartons of yogurt, all with their ingredients handwritten on index cards taped to each dish, with the common allergens underlined in different colors.

“How's Jake holding up?” I asked as I retrieved a (one hundred percent recycled materials) paper plate from the stack on the end of the table so Val and I could start piling bagels on it.

“I'm just waiting on the call now,” Miranda said softly.
“Don't tell anybody else this, but our lawyer says Jake should be out by noon. Everybody wanted to help, though, so this is kind of keeping us all busy until . . . well, until it's finished.” She smiled weakly.

“Miranda . . .” I began. She looked at me expectantly. I opened my mouth. I closed it again. How in the heck do you ask a friend where she was at the time of her husband's arrest?

Before I could get the words together, the doorbell rang.

“Miranda?” called a man's voice. “Okay if I come in?”

Miranda's eyes widened, and she brushed past me and Val to head into the foyer. Val arched her brows at me and we both abandoned the bagels and headed for the foyer.

A stocky man was just closing the front door. He looked to be about Miranda's age, but otherwise he bore absolutely no relation to the rest of the tie-dyed, bandana-wearing gathering. This man was tanned, clean-shaven and dressed in an immaculate black sports coat over a forest green button-down shirt. He had the look of an athlete combined with a bit of an aging Matt Damon around the cheekbones.

I recognized him. I'd seen him in my drawings, in a shouting match with Gretchen and Christine.

“Rich.” Miranda took both the man's hands in hers. “I didn't expect to see you here.”

“Hello, Miranda.” The man kissed her cheek.

I looked at Valerie, and she mouthed, “Rich Hilde.” I widened my eyes to show I was surprised.

Which I was.

Very.

Because what the heck was a Hilde doing here and now? And why was Miranda glad to see him?

“I hope I'm not intruding,” Rich Hilde said. “I just wanted to stop by and make sure you're doing all right.”

“Oh, yes.” Miranda smiled, but the expression was tired. “Everything's fine.”

A bearded man in a Harley-Davidson jacket thudded down the stairs. “Hey, Miranda, is this guy hassling you?”

“No, no, Kenny.” Miranda said quickly. “It's cool.”

“If you say so.” The bungalow's foyer was small enough that Kenny had to turn sideways to edge past us all, but that didn't stop him from giving Rich an openly suspicious once-over as he did.

“Maybe I should go,” said Rich to Miranda. “Don't want anybody to think you're fraternizing with the enemy. Ha-ha.” He eyed us all to make sure we appreciated the joke. Val frowned and folded her arms over her belly.

“So, Rich,” Val said. “Does your mother know you're here?”

Rich sighed and shrugged. “My mother and I agreed to treat each other like adults thirty years ago, Mrs. McDermott. I don't ask her where she goes and she extends the same courtesy to me.”

“Really? You can't tell by looking.”

Okay, clearly there was some background here, and whatever it was, the exchange between Rich Hilde and my normally sweet neighbor had Miranda looking more than a little desperate. I decided it was time for an intervention.

“Hi. Anna Britton.” I held out my hand to Rich. I may also have gently kicked Val's ankle as I reached past her. She did not so much as flinch. “I guess you must be Dale and Christine's brother?”

“That's me. Good to meet you.” Rich flashed me a big, toothy smile, the kind you learn in management courses and includes looking the other person right in the eye so you can put that person at ease and demonstrate that you are actively listening.

I do not like people who look like they want me to be sure I know I'm being listened to. But I smiled, because right then I had no reason not to, and the management course might not have been Richard's idea.

Rich held out his left hand to take mine and we did that awkward hand-switch thing, complete with the polite little laugh. “Sorry.” He held up his right hand to display the bandages across the knuckles on four fingers. “I was working on the house, planing down some doors, and slipped. It was a mess. Three stitches on each finger and a tetanus shot.”

“Ouch.” I winced.

“That pretty much sums it up, yes. Now, am I right—you're the Anna Britton whose grandmother was friends with my mom back in the day?”

“That's me.”

“Back in the family homestead.” Rich beamed. “That's just great. And you're an artist, I think I heard?”

I wondered if one of the Hildes had been talking about me, or if he'd been actively asking around. I mean, he had the McNallys right there in the hotel. I found I did not like this idea, especially with Val still giving Rich that distinctly knife-edged glare.