Reunion at Red Paint Bay - By George Harrar Page 0,11
tie. He gave her a hug and inhaled a wonderful citrus scent, possibly grapefruit. He could never remember the name to buy it for her.
“This one’s of the Liberty Bell,” she said. “He’s getting closer.”
“It’s just been three cities—Salt Lake, Chicago, and now Philadelphia. That doesn’t necessarily make a pattern.”
“Sure it does. Any two things are meaningless. Three show a pattern.”
“Okay, what’s the message this time?”
She read it dramatically, as if reciting lines in a play: “I learned a valuable lesson from you some time ago. I am now in a position to pay you back. Come to the River View Restaurant in Bath, Sat. July 2, 7 p.m. Faithfully …”
“So maybe these cards have a point after all,” Simon said as he took off his jacket.
“Which is?”
“That I helped someone in my generous past, and that person wants to repay me with dinner. The mystery will be solved July 2 at seven p.m.”
Amy inspected the message more closely. “It’s written ambiguously. Pay you back could mean getting even.”
“Why would you jump to that idea?”
“You’re a journalist. The stories you run in the Register aren’t always positive. Like that sex registry last month. There were a lot of mistakes you had to correct the next issue.”
“There were two mistakes in the level of offense, and they weren’t our fault. The state gave us incorrect information.”
“Still, somebody on that list could hold you responsible for ruining their reputation. They might want to get back at you somehow.”
“And you think they’d go to this elaborate effort, starting out in Salt Lake City and letting me know they’re coming?”
“Revenge is often elaborate. That’s part of its appeal. You get to enjoy it over and over again as you plan it.”
He searched for a hanger in the hall closet but couldn’t find one. He wanted to ask why there never were enough hangers, but that would imply that she was in charge of them. He slipped his jacket around another one and turned back into the hall. “When did you become an expert on revenge?”
She handed him the postcard. “I’m an expert on people, and I don’t think you should meet this person.”
“Nothing’s going to happen at the River View.”
“It has those huge windows. Somebody could take a shot at you from outside.”
The thought of being a target amused Simon. Had he somehow fallen into a cliché mystery novel? “I won’t sit by the windows or on the deck out back, how’s that?”
“I’m serious, Simon. You don’t know who this guy is or what he intends.”
“This person has become a he in your opinion?”
She pointed at the writing. “Look how large the letters are and the way the words crowd in at the end of the line. No woman writes like that.”
“Messiness is a male trait?”
“On postcards it is.”
“All right, I admit there’s a small risk responding to an anonymous note. But it might make a good human interest story for the paper. I’m going to meet him.”
“Then I’ll go with you.”
“You weren’t invited.”
“Nevertheless, I’m going.”
It was useless to try to persuade her otherwise, so Simon just nodded and headed for the stairs. “How did your speech go?” she called after him.
“I was triumphant,” he said as he mounted the steps. “A standing ovation, if you count the busboys waiting at the back for me to finish so they could clear the tables. They were standing at least.”
“I’m sure you knocked ’em dead.”
Davey was late for dinner, which wasn’t like him. He always turned up on time for food. “Maybe he’s kicking his soccer ball around out back,” Amy said as she set the dining room table.
Simon opened the side door to check the yard as a black-and-white Red Paint police cruiser pulled into the driveway. The possibilities raced through his mind—Davey struck by a car, Davey caught shoplifting, Davey smoking or drinking. Simon ran to the squad car and saw his son sitting in the backseat, his arms folded in his lap, staring straight ahead with a fierce expression on his face, like a criminal who doesn’t believe he should be treated as a criminal.
Officer Jim Daly, the oldest patrolman on the force, hoisted himself out of the driver’s side. “Everything’s all right, Simon. Just a little scrap on the Common your kid got into, so I thought I’d bring him home to you.”
Daly opened the back door and Davey slid out, his head down. Simon squatted so that he was eye level with his son. There weren’t any visible bumps or bruises.