The Wedding Caper (11 page)

“Can’t
say as I blame her much,” Sheila piped up. “I always say the quickest way to
double your money is to fold it over in your pocket. Just doesn’t work the same
with a check.”

“Still,”
I argued, “It’s no way to run a business, insisting on cash.”

“Funny
thing is,” Mrs. Lapp threw in, “she stayed on after the conference ended Sunday
night. On Monday morning, first thing, she went down to our local bank to try
to cash that check. My brother-in-law was in there making a deposit at the same
time. He said she pitched a fit. Told ‘
em
she wanted
her cash and wanted it now. They usually put a hold on such large amounts, you
know.” Mrs. L. leaned back in her chair, satisfied that I would understand.

“What
happened?”

“She
somehow talked them into making an exception and headed out of town with
twenty-seven thousand dollars cash in her pocket that same afternoon.”

Twenty-seven
thousand, not twenty-five?
And why in the world didn’t
Janetta
wait to deposit
the check into her account back in
Clarksborough
? Why
the rush?

On the
other hand, it was really none of my business, was it?

Mrs. Lapp
continued on, oblivious to my thoughts. “And then, just a day or so later, when
we heard the news about the arrest of that young man in
Clarksborough
,
well—”

Well,
what?

“The
whole thing was just too suspicious. We put two and two together and realized the
missing cash deposit was probably the money we’d paid her.” She sighed. “I
can’t explain why this hit me as strange, but it did. And I’ll tell you
this—if you’re using that woman’s company for your daughter’s wedding,
just be sure to get everything on paper. And don’t be surprised if she won’t
take your check.”

I
suddenly felt sick inside. I’d passed off three thousand dollars cash to
Janetta
Mullins as a
down-payment
for Brandi’s reception. Cash. What if she’d skipped town, taken off with my
money? What if . . .

A
thousand what if’s floated through my head before reality hit.

Looks
like I needed to update my crime notebook.

Whether I
wanted to admit it or not, I had just acquired one more suspect to add to my
ever-growing list.

Chapter Eleven

“I take it
Sasha missed me while I was gone?”

I stared
down at the mounds of shredded toilet paper on the master bath floor, then back
up into Warren’s eyes. He looked like a whipped man. Puppy-whipped, to be
precise.

“I guess.”
He let out a woeful sigh. “She was a handful. And if you think this is bad, you
should’ve seen what she did with the trash can in the kitchen. I don’t think
she was happy with your leaving.”

“Clearly.”
I shook my head in disbelief. If the little monster could do this much damage
in a 48-hour period, I hated to think of what she might accomplish in a week
without me. Looked like I’d be spending a lot of time at home from now on.

Warren
raked his fingers through his hair, lifting the salt and pepper waves into a
mess almost as big as the one on the floor. “Seriously, Annie,” he said. “She’s
a pain in the neck. And she’s not getting better with time.”

“Time for
a little doggy obedience training?” I gave her my toughest stare and she
responded by shifting to a “begging” position. How cute was that?

Warren
groaned. “They’d kick her out of class. Wouldn’t be worth the money.”

Still . .
.

I looked
down at my little crime-fighting cohort as she settled to all fours. Her tail
wagged a mile a minute and she leapt up, hoping I’d catch her for a little
“cuddle time.”

Aw. How
could I resist?

Once
safely in my arms, she settled down, as always. I scratched her behind the ears
as I explained my addiction: “I know she’s awful, and I don’t know why I love
her so much. Maybe—” Tears rose to my eyes right away and, I had to
confess, I did know. “Maybe it’s because the kids are growing up and
leaving—” The tears tipped over the edge of my lashes and Warren stared
at me as if I’d gone mad.

“So,
you’re saying that keeping the dog around is therapeutic?”

 Sasha
nuzzled her face against my cheek and I whispered, “Uh huh.”

Warren
made a face and headed into the bedroom, muttering all the way. Seemed like
he’d been doing a lot of that lately. With a sigh, I scooped up the heaps of
toilet paper. All the while, Sasha stood at my side, tail beating against the
toilet seat. She might be a little on the disobedient side, but I loved her.

Within
minutes, Warren reappeared at the bathroom doorway dressed in his boxers and a
t-shirt. “I’m worn out. Are you nearly ready for bed?”

I nodded
and he came into the bathroom to help me finish up. In typical Warren style, he
reached down to rub Sasha behind the ears. I’m pretty sure I even heard him
whisper, “Are you helping Mommy?”

The man
was smitten, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

That
night, I slept like a stone. My weekend in the country, amazing as it was,
still couldn’t compare to the beauty of sleeping in my own bed with my husband
at my side and my puppy at my feet. I dreamed the strangest
dream—something about
Janetta
Mullins dressed
in Amish garb, serving food in a small-town restaurant. Dollar bills tumbled
from her pockets in every conceivable direction.

Crazy,
the things we dream when we’re troubled.

I awoke
to a brilliant fall morning. I threw back the covers and sprang from the bed,
ready to start the day.
But, first things first.
I
nudged Warren, who groaned, then eventually crawled from under the sheets in
slow motion. I couldn’t blame him. He had tossed and turned all night. Mental
note: Why is he suddenly having trouble sleeping? Is he hiding something?

He
showered, dressed for work, gave me a gentle kiss on the lips and reached down
to pet Sasha before leaving. Yep. He’s puppy-whipped.

With my
son at school and my husband on his way to work, the heavenly sound of morning
silence fell over the house. I loved this time of day. After a quick shower I
headed off to the computer to check my daily Internet devotional. Sasha hopped
into my lap as I sat down. You know, I’ve discovered that typing with a
dachshund in your arms is possible, though somewhat debilitating.

This
morning’s scripture from the second chapter of Proverbs answered some of my
weekend ponderings. The very things I’d asked for all along now seemed possible
after reading these verses: “If you call out for insight and cry aloud for
understanding, and if you look for it as for silver and search for it as for
hidden treasure, then you will understand the fear of the Lord and find the
knowledge of God.”

True,
true.

I needed—and
wanted—His knowledge, not my own. And according to this verse, I could
have what I asked for.

So I
asked. With Sasha now dozing, I took advantage of the stillness to ask God to give
me something I’d neglected to request in weeks prior: Understanding. Knowledge.
If the Lord truly desired my participation in this investigation, then I had to
be willing to accept wisdom from on high. This wasn’t the kind of knowledge
acquired in school; I needed something that far superseded that.

I could
almost hear Sheila’s voice now: “It’s what you learn after you know it all that
counts.”

Perhaps
I’d come at this thing from a know-it-all approach, but that ought to change.
Today, in fact.

In this
new, dedicated frame of mind, I opened Lesson Five, which had been waiting in
my e-mail box for days. I read the title with great anticipation.  A GOOD
INVESTIGATOR IS “STREET SMART.”

Wow.
Looked like this was the day to smarten up. I couldn’t help but grin at God’s
apparent sense of humor in coordinating all of this. Perhaps I’d better take a
closer look . . .

Street
smart, eh?

In our
little town of
Clarksborough
, we occasionally saw a
little street action. There was the Fourth of July parade hosted by the
political league and the Children’s Festival, held on the corner lot of Main
and Wabash each May Day. And, of course, we had the annual Get Out to Vote
barbecue and the ever-famous lighting of the Christmas tree on the day after
Thanksgiving.

Then
again, that probably wasn’t the kind of “street-smart” they had in mind, now
that I thought about it. To be street smart meant . . .

To be
honest, I didn’t have a clue what it meant. Perhaps I’d have to do a little
investigating to figure this one out, particularly if I wanted to understand
the mentality of a young man like Jake Mullins, who had apparently lived much
of his life out on the streets.

Street
smart, street smart . . .

I did a
search on the Internet to find out about life on the streets. Several Web pages
later, I realized I had plenty to learn. And I recognized right away that folks
on the street were apparently quite savvy, in their own right. Most had
probably already learned far more than I ever would about things
like.
. .basic survival skills, for example. How else could
they cope with drastic weather conditions, constant hunger pangs and the
ever-present threat of violence from so-called friends?

I
shuddered as I thought about that. How awful, to live alongside people who had
no hope. And how much more awful still, to lose hope, yourself.

Over the
next hour or so, I scoured Web sites, looking at specific stories of those on
the fringes of society: the homeless man, the downtrodden veteran, the
prostitute, the
drifter.
. . .

My mind
stopped right there as I contemplated Jake Mullins. He’d spent a lot of time on
the streets, no doubt.
Probably in nearby Philadelphia.
Any one of these stories could have been written about him. And surely, during
his time “out there,” he had acquired plenty of “street smarts.” Perhaps he
knew what it was like to beg for a bite to eat or to fight over a bridge to
sleep under. Perhaps he knew what it meant to celebrate over a hot shower at a
local shelter or cry over a holiday spent alone next to an open fire in the parking
lot of an abandoned tenement building.

Jake
Mullins.

I pushed
the emotions back. As a mother, I simply couldn’t imagine my child on such a
frightening learning curve.

Sasha
wriggled a bit, coming awake.

“Need to
go out, sweet girl?”

As she
stood in my lap and gave a little shake, the tags on her collar jingled. She
leaped to the floor, her tail wagging in anticipation. I simultaneously reached
for her leash and grabbed my jacket, sensing this walk would take a bit longer
than the norm. For whatever reason, I needed to get out of the house for a
while.

Out onto
the streets.

I tagged
along behind the little darling, past the morning paper at the end of the
driveway and beyond the piles of leaves spread across my neighbor’s yard.

All along
the way, I looked over my street with new eyes. Lovely middle-class homes lined
each side and cars, bright and shiny, sat in each driveway. Landscaped yards
spoke of people who cared about their environment, and fall decorations
displayed a feeling of warmth for the season. Someone must be burning leaves
nearby. Smoke lifted in a spiral, of sorts, and the heavenly scent of blazing
embers filled my senses.

I loved
that smell.

In fact,
I loved everything about small-town life.

How much
had I taken for granted, dwelling in such safe, comfortable surroundings? A
little shiver needled its way down my spine as I contemplated the truth. I
lived a good life.
A safe life.
A
life with ice cream socials and Sunday school parties, Fourth of July picnics
and weekends at the lake.
I didn’t have to deal with the kinds of things
I’d read about on those Web pages, and I was grateful for it. So, how in the
world could I go about acquiring street smarts? Where would this knowledge come
from?

This
morning’s verse raced back through my head again. “Look for it as for silver
and search for it as for hidden
treasure.…”
I had the
strangest sense the Lord wanted to teach me a few things today. Specific
things. But I’d have to dig deep to find them.

Sasha and
I walked a good, long ways—into town and beyond. I let her lead the way,
up to a point. When we got to Clark County School Road, I turned off to the
left. The sound of children’s voices drew me, and I made the journey, as much
from memory as anything.

I came
upon the familiar schoolyard at the elementary. As the boys and girls played
kickball, their squeals rang out against the quiet of the late morning. One of
the little girls from the church gave a jubilant wave.

“Hi, Mrs.
Peterson!”

This started
a round of shouts and waves from children who knew me. Before long, their
teacher, a young woman named Jodie who had graduated with my girls, ushered
them back into order again. “Come on, boys and girls! Back to the game.”

I offered
a shrug in the way of an apology and called out, “Sorry.”

She gave
me a thumbs-up then shifted her attentions back to her young charges.

I watched
for a moment as they returned to their game. How many times had I stood at this
fence, watching my own children play ball? And how many times had my heart
swelled, as it did now?

Reminiscence
eventually took over and emotions kicked in. Instinctively, I reached down to
grab Sasha, and cradled her into my arms. I pondered the passing of time. I ran
my fingers across the puppy’s floppy ear, and she responded to my attentions by
nuzzling up against my cheek.

Yes,
Warren. She is therapeutic.

I needed
her more than I’d acknowledged. And perhaps I needed to grieve a little, too. I
hadn’t really done that yet, to be quite honest. Sure, I’d helped my girls
settle into their own place, and yes, I’d felt an unusual
heart-twisting
on the night they announced their respective engagements.
But
. . . grieving?
Was this to be part of the learning process for me?

I stood,
deep in thought, until the ache passed. At some point along the way, Sasha got
antsy, and I put her down.
So much for therapy.

At that
point, I made a conscious choice to step away from my sadness. With so much to
be grateful for, I should probably be looking toward the future, not the past.
And standing here, in front of these jubilant children, provided me an
opportunity to do just that.

I looked
out into their smiling faces once again and reflected on my gratitude—and
my hopes for the future and safety of our little town. My own daughters had
grown into wonderful, knowledgeable adults, and my son soon would, as well.
These children would grow into intelligent young men and women, too. Most would
probably attend college. Some would even acquire degrees—and spend the
rest of their lives passing on the things they knew to future
Clarksborough
generations, just as Jodie did now.

My mind
drifted back to Jake Mullins and troubling thoughts set in. How did he slip
through the cracks? What went wrong? Hadn’t he attended this same school? What
had happened to send him off on a journey of destruction? Why had he opted to
leave home at seventeen, to pursue life on the streets?