Asking For Trouble. Millie Criswell
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him.
Okay, so maybe I’m overreacting.
Surely there had to be a simple explanation for everything that had happened. She was too young to be an accessory to murder. And with her coloring, she would look awful wearing one of those hideous orange prison jumpsuits.
“I DON’T SEE WHY I had to leave school before Thanksgiving break. It’s only a week away, and Missy Stuart’s invited me to her slumber party. Now I’ll miss out. And everyone’s going to be there.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Brad Donovan studied the sullen face of his twelve-going-on-thirty-year-old daughter while still managing to keep his eyes fixed on the traffic ahead. Congestion on Interstate 95 was always a nightmare at this time of morning.
He’d wanted to leave late last night, but had been faced with one medical emergency after another. First, Bobby Bartley had fractured his clavicle playing baseball, then he’d had to perform an emergency tracheotomy on a fifteen-month-old infant, who’d swallowed a piece of Lego toy that had lodged in his windpipe. So now he was doomed to sit in traffic and listen to Stacy whine for the next several hours.
“I’ve already explained, Stace, about Grandpa’s disappearance. It’s not like him not to call or let us know where he is.”
“He sent you a postcard.”
The postcard from the Two Sisters Ordinary was the only clue he had to his father’s last known whereabouts. When he didn’t receive a call back from the innkeeper after leaving several messages, he’d decided to drive to Mediocrity and see for himself if the inn’s proprietor could shed light on his father’s disappearance.
It wasn’t like his dad to cut off all contact with his family. Robert Donovan was organized, punctual and thoughtful. The old man had lived with him and Stacy since Brad’s mom passed away eight years ago. And though he seemed to have adjusted to life as a widower, to giving up his independence somewhat, Brad sensed that all was not well. His father had been morose lately. Brad had done his best to compensate, to offer companionship and support, but it hadn’t been enough.
Six weeks ago, his dad had packed up his ancient Chevy Impala and announced quite unexpectedly that he intended to visit the Pennsylvania countryside, along with a few Civil War battlefields. Brad had offered to go with him, to make a family vacation out of the trip, but his father had been adamant in his refusal—almost rude, come to think of it. It was obvious the old man wanted to be alone. But why?
“Gramps probably just found some other stupid battlefield to see,” Stacy pointed out, before opening her purse and taking out a tube of bright red lipstick. She applied it meticulously, blotting the excess, while viewing herself in the vanity mirror, her head tilting from side to side.
Stacy was growing up too fast. Since her mother’s death four years ago to ovarian cancer, the young girl had turned from a downy chick into a fledgling swan, and Brad was often at a loss trying to figure out how to handle the difficulties of puberty and adolescence. The first bra and menstrual period had been traumatic enough, but now it was makeup, loud music and boys. Eight years of medical school and a pediatric residency hadn’t prepared him for being the father of a pre-teen girl.
He and Stacy hadn’t been communicating very well lately, and he wasn’t quite sure how to remedy that. If he objected to the clothing she wore or the TV programs she watched, she called him old-fashioned. If he suggested that she spend more time on her homework, Stacy accused him of being overly critical—“in her face,” as she put it.
It was extremely frustrating for a man who had chosen as his vocation the care and nurturing of children not to be able to figure out what was ailing his own daughter.
“Do you think I’m pretty, Dad?”
The question came out of nowhere, as they often did, and Brad downshifted the BMW into third gear before answering, ignoring the honking horn of the minivan behind him. “You’re beautiful, Stace, just like your mom. I’ve told you that many times.”
“Then how come Billy Carson said I was flat-chested and needed breast implants and that my front teeth were spaced too far apart?”
Billy Carson of the spiked green hair had little room to talk, but that had never stopped the loud-mouthed delinquent from giving his opinion. He was one of Brad’s patients, but that didn’t mean he had to like the kid, especially now that he knew he’d been staring at his daughter’s chest. Little pervert!
“I doubt very much if Billy even knows what breast implants are. And you’re not flat-chested, just slower to develop than some girls your age.” He could tell she wasn’t happy or convinced by his explanation, so he added, “In case you haven’t noticed, all the top fashion models are pretty sparse on top. It’s the look these days.”
“Yeah, it may be the look, but boys still like girls with big boobs.”
So did men, but Brad wasn’t about to point that out to his impressionable young daughter. “I think you’re going to like the inn where we’ll be staying. It looks very quaint from the postcard.”
Wrinkling her nose in disgust, she replied, “It’s probably going to smell old and musty, like Grandma Ruth’s house used to.”
“Grandma was a bit old-fashioned, I guess. But there’s always something to be learned from an older person.”
“Then how come you’re always telling Gramps how to do stuff? Maybe his way would be better than yours.”
Before Brad could muster a suitable response about his responsibilities as head of the household, his need to have order and complete control, Stacy had put on her headphones, popped a wad of gum into her mouth and tuned him out, which was probably just as well.
It would be difficult to explain his need for normalcy and sameness since his wife’s death. He really didn’t understand it himself. He just knew that he needed his routine, his life, to remain uncluttered and uncomplicated.
Carol’s death had turned his world upside down. He’d never realized, until she was gone, the depth of despair he was capable of, the gut-wrenching emotion, the emptiness inside him. For months after her death, his life had been chaos and confusion. Now that things were almost back to normal he wanted it to stay that way.
And driving to Pennsylvania in search of his errant father was not what he considered normal, or the way he wanted to spend his free time. And neither was dealing with rude country-inn owners who didn’t return phone calls.
“I’LL BE IN TOUCH about the loan, Beth. And please thank your aunts for the jam. Mrs. Pickens will be delighted.”
After the banker disappeared down the front steps, Beth slammed the door shut and leaned heavily against it, breathing a deep sigh of relief that the inspection was finally over.
Mr. Pickens’s visit had gone on a lot longer than she’d anticipated. The man had been disgustingly thorough. He’d stuck his head in every oven, freezer and refrigerator, flushed toilets, turned faucets on and off, and she fully expected him to don a pair of white gloves to see if she had dusted the furniture that morning.
She hadn’t.
But the worst had come when he’d ventured into the cellar, poking around at every little thing. She’d held her breath, waiting in fear that he would discover the bones and shirt, but fortunately the banker had found nothing amiss.
The grandfather clock in the foyer gonged four, and Beth knew her aunts would be expecting her to join them shortly for their daily ritual of afternoon tea, and to give them a full accounting of her meeting with the banker.
She had just turned toward the stairs when a knock sounded at the door. Thinking Mr. Pickens had forgotten something, Beth rushed to answer it.
Opening the door, she stared at the dark-haired man standing on her porch. He was tall and looked to be in his mid-to-late thirties, judging by the crow’s feet appearing at the corner of his eyes. The stranger smiled, and she caught a glimpse of perfect white teeth. The man’s parents