Mistaken for the Mob. Ginny Aiken
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chuckle began near the side door and soon gathered strength. Before long, everyone was laughing, even Roger and Charlie. Everyone but Mitzi.
Her elevenses deepened and furrows lined her lily-white forehead. She pursed her bright lips and looked ready to stomp and cry at her loss of control—and her lost battle against dogs.
“Silence!” the diminutive chairwoman yelled.
No one listened.
She banged her gavel to no avail, so she banged some more, and banged yet again, this time, however, with a bit too much force. The gavel broke.
“Oooh!” she cried. “Just look what you made me do!”
Her wail penetrated the good-natured chatter. Everyone faced forward, and more than one chuckle had to be smothered.
“Come on, Mitzi,” Maryanne’s father called out. “We’re done. The place has gone to the dogs, and I want to go home.”
“But…but we haven’t discussed the liver,” she said with a shuffle of paper. “Or the steamed spinach. I can’t abide them.”
“Hear, hear,” Charlie cheered.
Roger stood. “Aw, give it up. It’s nap time.”
Mitzi ran her fingers through her bright hair, spiking it into a ridge of exclamation marks. “Oh, and we haven’t even touched on the fountain outside. It’s an absolute disgrace. Who ever’s heard of pink flamingos in Pennsylvania?”
“That’s it!” Stan Wellborn said as he spun his wheelchair toward the rear of the room. “I’m gone. Those flamingos are just about the funniest thing around here. Go rent a sense of humor, Mitzi.”
Maryanne hurried to open the door for him.
“They stay,” he said. “They stay, and they stay pink.”
As they waited for the elevator, Maryanne kept quiet. Behind them, other residents poured out of the common area. Each voiced an opinion. At her side, her dad tapped his fingers on the wheelchair’s control panel, a sure sign of annoyance.
The elevator doors opened. Father and daughter stepped inside. No one else joined them, and the conveyance soon glided upward. Just before they reached the sixth floor, Stan chuckled.
“What did I tell you, Cookie?” he said. “Fireworks, right?”
She gave him a wary look. “Were you just fanning the flames?”
“Nah. Mitzi’s gone too far with her chairwoman thing. Those who want cats should have their cats, and those who want dogs should have them, too. Just don’t mess with my liver and onions, and leave my pink flamingos alone.”
When the elevator stopped, he flashed her a grin and winked. “Welcome to the loony bin, Cookie. And thanks for listening to me. I’m right where I belong.”
Just like that, Maryanne’s last qualms about her father’s move to Peaceful Meadows vanished. Stan Wellborn had found a home.
Her guilt lifted, she relaxed and the afternoon went by fast, full of laughter, good conversation, a killer game of checkers and a serving of her dad’s birthday cake.
All in all, it was a perfect Sunday afternoon.
“Good night, Cookie.”
“Good night, Dad.”
She hadn’t meant to stay so late, but Maryanne hadn’t wanted to leave her father. She’d had a great time, even though liver and onions was not her favorite dish. Dad had wanted her company at dinner, and since all that awaited her back home was an uppity cat and the report she’d written yesterday afternoon, she’d stayed. She could proofread the whole thing in no time once she got home.
The rain started around sunset, typical for a late spring evening in South Central Pennsylvania. Now, on her way out, she lowered her head, covered it with her tote bag, and ran into the night. In her hurry to reach the car, she didn’t watch her step, and her shoe hit a puddle. She slipped, yelped and dropped.
Muscular arms broke her fall.
“Thanks,” she said and then looked up. “NO!”
She froze in the circle of J.Z. Prophet’s clasp, tight against his chest, close to his warmth and clean scent. Not the smartest thing to do, but until she could breathe again, she couldn’t move. To gather her wits, she tried to think of something—anything—other than those intense gray eyes.
“You should be more careful,” he said, his voice deep.
She fought for breath, and this time, gulped in a lungful of fresh-washed air. “What are you doing here?”
“Taking care of business.”
His tone spoke volumes, but she didn’t understand a thing. Still, she had no intention of carrying on a conversation with the miserable creature. Certainly not while she remained in such a vulnerable position—at his mercy.
She shoved against his chest, and to her surprise, he let her go. She almost fell again, but she summoned her strength and stood upright. She tugged down her belt from where it had slid way up on her ribs; she straightened her skirt; she ignored the rain.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” she said. For good measure, she tipped up her chin. “But I do want to know why you’ve been following me.”
Something sparked in his eyes, but he still didn’t speak.
“Fine.” She stepped toward her car. “You can play Mount Rushmore all you want, especially in the rain. Just remember, if I see you again where you don’t belong but I do, I’ll call the cops.”
“Go ahead.”
The rain sluiced over his dark hair, plastered it to his head like a robber’s skullcap. It did nothing to endear him to her.
“If you want to convince me the law doesn’t bother you, then try something new. Quit following me and really mind your business. No sane man would dog an ordinary woman. There’s nothing interesting about me. I’m a librarian with an elderly, disabled dad.”
He shrugged, that incomprehensible intensity as always in his eyes. “I am minding my business, and I’m good at it.”
A shiver racked Maryanne. It had nothing to do with the rain and everything with the man. “Stalking’s a crime, you know,” she said, steps from her Escort…and safety. “They can lock you up for a long time, so quit before they do.”
She fumbled with her keychain, but to her dismay, she dropped it. With the last of her courage, she said, “Go crawl back under the rock from whence you came.”
As she went for her keys, his hand shot out and grabbed them. Fear churned her gut, and she prayed he wasn’t like a dog, able to scent it on her.
With a click, he unlocked her car door then handed her the keys. In silence, he strode into the dark. Maryanne collapsed against the fender and just stood there, drenched in rain and sweat. For long moments she just breathed and shook, thankful she could still do both.
“Lord God, thank you for…for…whatever. Just help me.”
When she could move again, she opened the door and sat. Long minutes later, she turned on the ignition. The drive home was a numb haze—another mindless drive under her belt. If she kept this up, she’d soon qualify as a homing pigeon, functioning on some instinctual plane.
That, and she’d have a couple of centuries of thanks and praise to offer her Lord.
In the garage, Maryanne sat back and tried to relax her shoulder muscles. She failed. Miserably.
The memory of J.Z. Prophet returned with the vengeance of hurricane-spurred ocean waves. What did the man want with her?
Because, without a shadow of a doubt, Maryanne knew J.Z. had come to Peaceful Meadows to keep tabs on