Chapter 33

Lane

As Lane pulled into the parking lot of the Starry Point Police Department, she found herself almost wishing she’d taken Michael up on his offer to accompany her. Given his feeling about Mary, the offer had both pleased and surprised her, but in the end she’d decided to go alone. As it was, Mary was leery of strangers, and Michael might not be seen as a friendly face. Come to that, she wasn’t sure after the way things had ended the other day that Mary would want anything to do with her.

The station was stifling, the air thick with coffee and stale cigarette smoke. The desk sergeant, a stringy young man who couldn’t have been more than twenty, glanced at her over his glasses as she moved in his direction, a half-eaten hot dog forgotten at his elbow.

“Afternoon, ma’am. Something I can do for you?”

Lane scanned the lobby, relieved to find it empty. “Mary . . .” Her voice trailed off as she realized with a pang of shame that she didn’t know the woman’s last name. “I’m here for Mary.”

“The bag lady?”

“Her name is Mary,” Lane corrected, for what seemed like the tenth time that day. “And I’d like to know why she’s been brought here.”

The sergeant peered at her timidly. “Your name, ma’am?”

“Lane Kramer. And I’d like an answer to my question, please.”

He clearly had no intention of answering. Instead, he indicated a wall lined with chairs covered in tattered red vinyl. “If you’ll just have a seat, Ms. Kramer—”

“Look . . .” She paused long enough to search out his name badge. “Sergeant Matthews, let’s not play games. A friend saw you pick her up in one of your squad cars. I know she’s here, and I want to know why.”

“Are you a family member?”

For a moment she thought about lying but shook her head. “I’m a friend.”

“In that case I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

He sounded polite enough, but there was something in his tone that suggested he was enjoying himself just a little. “You can’t or you won’t?”

Matthews pushed his glasses back up his nose, his baby-smooth face carefully bland. “The rules state—”

Lane threw up a hand, cutting him off. She didn’t care about the rules, except for the one that said you couldn’t just drag an old woman in for questioning because you felt like it, especially one with a history of mental illness. “Has she been charged with anything?”

Matthews’s eyes slid away.

Lane rapped her knuckles on the desk. “Of course she hasn’t. Because she hasn’t done anything wrong!”

“Your friend is a person of interest, Ms. Kramer.”

“Person of interest? In what, exactly?”

“In the recent rash of break-ins.”

“That’s ridiculous! They haven’t got a scrap of evidence.”

“They’re just asking her some questions.”

“And before they started asking questions, I don’t suppose she was offered a lawyer, by any chance?”

“No need for a lawyer if she hasn’t been arrested. It’s just routine.”

“It’s harassment!” Lane shot back. “Of a woman with a history of mental illness!”

“Ma’am, please. I’m going to have to ask you to lower your voice or leave.”

“I want to talk to Donny Breester.”

“Chief Breester is tied up at the moment.”

“Interrupt him.”

“Ma’am, I really can’t do that.”

Lane leaned over the desk until she was eye-to-eye with Sergeant Matthews. “Get him out here now, or I’ll go back there and find him myself.”

Matthews scowled back at her but eventually turned away, disappearing down a narrow hallway. A few moments later Breester appeared, looking smug and vaguely annoyed.

“Well, well. Twice in one day. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’ve come to take Mary home.”

“Mary?”

“The woman you picked up in the park, and are holding for no damn reason.”

Breester folded his arms. “We’ve had several reports of her being seen in the general area where the burglaries took place.”

Lane’s eyes widened at the absurdity of his assertion. “Of course she’s been seen in the general area. She lives in the general area! Just what did you think you were going to accomplish with this little interrogation of yours?”

“Who said anything about interrogation? We’re simply gathering information about her, and her, uh . . . friends.”

“Do you intend to charge her with anything?”

Breester’s smile was thin and indulgent. “I believe we’ve already had this conversation, Lane. Police business is police business.”

“And harassment is a lawyer’s business, Donny. Has she been read her rights? Was she offered an attorney before she started answering your questions? For that matter, does she even know why she’s here?”

“I’m not treating her differently than I would any other criminal in my custody.”

“Except she’s not a criminal!” Lane fired back. “And if you haven’t arrested her, she isn’t actually in your custody. You’ve got no right to do what you’re doing, and you damn well know it. So, either you charge her with something or you let her go.” She paused then, lifting her chin a notch. “Unless, of course, you’d rather explain it all to an attorney?”

Breester’s smile was lazy, insolent. “You’re telling me that woman—that bag lady—has a lawyer?”

Lane fought to keep her voice even. “I’m telling you she has a friend with one. And I’ll be only too happy to get him down here.”

Breester glared at her while the seconds ticked by, clearly weighing his options. Finally, he glanced at Matthews, who was doing his best to appear invisible. “Tell Deacon I said to turn the old bat loose.” He shot Lane a glance before turning away. “For now.”

Lane was actually shaking as she and Mary left the station. She filled her lungs with cold air, then exhaled slowly, willing her hands to steady as she helped Mary into the car and fastened her seat belt. She’d never been good with confrontation, especially when she wasn’t sure she had a leg to stand on—like today, when she’d bluffed her way out of the police station with a visibly rattled Mary in tow. She knew nothing about the law and, apart from her divorce lawyer back in Chicago, didn’t even know the name of an attorney, let alone have one on call. Still, she’d pulled it off, winning the battle if not the war. But the worst lay ahead, and it was time Mary knew it.

Rather than starting the engine, Lane reached into her purse and pulled out Mary’s purple bag of pills, placing it on the seat between them, a poignant reminder of their quarrel. “Mary, I know you’ve been through a lot today, and that you’re probably still mad at me about the other day, but we need to talk.”

Mary’s head came around with agonizing slowness. She said nothing, just fixed Lane with a queer, empty-eyed stare.

“Mary . . . do you know who I am?”

“You’re the Inn Lady,” she said, with a childlike vacancy in her eyes. “You’re Lane.”

Lane was relieved to find Mary still tethered to reality, if only loosely. It was clear the day’s encounter with the police had left her more than a little rattled. Had they been rough with her? Badgered her into talking about her past—about the boy? Discreetly, she peered down at Mary’s hands, searching for traces of ink, but found none. She hadn’t been fingerprinted, then. Thank God for that. But if they had, what would they have discovered? A charge of murder? Manslaughter? She shuddered to think what Landon and Breester would do with that sort of information, and how quickly they would use it to their advantage.

“Yes, I’m Lane,” she said finally. “And before I say anything else, I want to say I’m sorry about the other day, when I pressed you about . . . about what you told me. Do you remember that?”

The wide, staring eyes closed briefly. “I remember.”

“You don’t have to worry. I’m not asking you to talk about that. In fact, after today I promise I won’t ever press you to talk about anything you don’t want to. But right now there are things you need to know about Hope House . . . and the police. They want to close it, Mary.”

Mary’s eyes narrowed, sharp and suddenly lucid. “Why?”

“They think—or they’re pretending to think—that the break-ins are connected to someone who lives there.”

A long, slow blink. “To me?”

Lane shrugged. “That’s the thing. I don’t think they care, really. As long as they can pin it on someone, and look good doing it.”

“It’s the mayor, isn’t it? It’s Landon?”

“Mostly, yes. How did you know?”

“His wife’s been hanging about the last few weeks. Volunteering, she calls it, though I’ve never seen her peel the first potato. Asks a lot of questions about who’s in charge, where the money comes from to run the place, that sort of thing. She hasn’t gotten far, I don’t think, since no one seems to know. She’s been asking about us, too, wanting to know everyone’s story. No one tells her anything, of course. It’s against house rules.”

“I know you said no one seems to know, but, Mary, I’ve got to speak with whoever oversees Hope House, and let them know what’s happening. They can’t stop it if they don’t know what Landon’s up to. Now think hard. Are you certain you’ve never heard a name mentioned, or a trust maybe?”

Mary shook her head. “There was a Gwen someone or other who set it all up for me. She was just a social worker, though. Nothing to do with Hope House. Can they do it, do you think? Shut it down?”

“I don’t know. I just know they’re going to try. And the police chief’s in on it, too.”

“Breester. He’s Landon’s man, that one. Does as he’s told.”

Lane was surprised by Mary’s keen assessment of the situation, from the hidden agenda of the mayor’s nosy wife to the role of Landon’s feckless henchman. But there was something else behind those suddenly shrewd eyes, a grim understanding of what Hope House’s demise would mean for her, and for her friends.

“I’m sorry, Mary, to be the one to tell you this. But I thought you should know.”

Mary’s lids slid closed, her head lolling against the headrest as if she’d suddenly grown very tired. “They’ll have no place to go. No one to feed them, or make them take their pills. They’ll slip back, get sick again. And then they’ll be sent back to wherever they came from—back to the White Coats.”

She was talking about herself, of course, contemplating the loss of her freedom, perhaps even her sanity, because some small-town mayor and his sidekick had painted a bull’s-eye on the place she called home.

“We’re not going to let them get away with this, Mary,” Lane vowed fiercely as she turned the key in the ignition and slipped the car into reverse. “We’re going to fight them—the mayor, Breester, all of them. We’ll fight them, and we’ll win.”

Mary’s eyes dragged open slowly, empty again, and so very sad. “How?”

“I haven’t figured that part out yet, but I will. In the meantime, I think we should keep this between us until I figure out who I need to talk to. Right now we’re going to the park to pick up your bike, and then I’m taking you home.”

Michael was waiting at the door when Lane walked in, a pen behind his ear, his face full of questions. He took her keys and the stack of mail she was holding and placed them on the foyer table, then helped her off with her coat.

“Well?” he prompted, when the coat was finally hanging on the rack and she still hadn’t volunteered any news.

Lane wasn’t sure she was ready to rehash it all, especially with someone who wasn’t likely to see her side. Groaning, she kicked off her shoes, crossed the parlor, and sagged onto the couch.

“I just dropped her off at Hope House. They actually had her in a room when I got there, grilling her about the break-ins. I had to threaten to call my lawyer before they’d let her go.”

Michael snorted. “They think she’s behind the break-ins?”

“No. They just want it to look like they do. I ran into Landon earlier today. He informed me, quite proudly, too, that he plans to close Hope House, and means to use the break-ins to do it, even though they haven’t got a shred of evidence against anyone living there.”

“You think he hauled Mary in for questioning just to make it look good?”

“Something like that, yes. She also told me the mayor’s wife is pretending to volunteer while she pumps everyone for information.”

“Sounds like the man means business.”

“Yes, it does. And I have to figure out a way to stop him.”

“Lane, I know how you feel about this, but have you considered that getting mixed up in a local skirmish like this might be bad for business? We’re talking about the mayor and the chief of police. I’m not saying what they want to do is right. It’s not. But the deck is sort of stacked against you. These are powerful people you’re talking about, at least here in Starry Point.”

Lane sighed. She found Michael’s advice exasperating, probably because she’d been rolling something similar around in her head since she dropped Mary off at Hope House. It wasn’t like her to stick her neck out, to stir the pot and risk any kind of fallout. Yet here she was, ready to take on the world for a woman she barely knew.

No. That wasn’t true. She did know Mary, or at least knew her well enough to know she was in desperate need of a friend. Maybe it was the haunted look in those sea-colored eyes of hers, as if she’d lost some part of herself along the way and didn’t know how to get it back. Lane had seen that look before—in her own mirror. Broken. Empty. Lost.

She knew what it was like to feel lost in your own skin, to sift through your todays and find no trace of your yesterdays, to know life had shaken you so hard that parts of you had simply fallen away. Mary’s circumstances might have been different, but the end result was the same. She was alone and adrift, defenseless in a world bent on mowing her down. Michael didn’t understand, but that didn’t matter. Mary needed a friend, and she planned on being that friend.

“I hear what you’re saying, Michael, but someone’s got to fight for her, and at the moment I seem to be all she has. This is a witch hunt, and nothing more. In fact, I’d lay odds that the mayor has plans for the land Hope House is sitting on. I saw it for myself when I dropped Mary off. It’s a prime stretch of sound, much too picturesque to waste on a bunch of schizos and needle freaks.”

Michael stared at her, clearly stunned by her unsavory description.

Lane waved the look away. “Those are Breester’s words, not mine. It’s how he characterizes the residents of Hope House. I swear, I nearly smacked him.”

Michael eased down beside her, his face somber. “Lane, you need to be very careful about what you’re implying. You’ve got no proof of anything like that.”

“Apparently proof doesn’t matter. If Landon can imply that Mary’s some sort of criminal, why can’t I imply that he’s using his office for personal gain?”

“Because you could end up in court for slander, or worse.”

Lane huffed out a fresh wave of frustration as she let her head sag against the cushions. “God, I’m exhausted. Until today I had no idea how much energy it takes not to poke someone in the nose. And poor Mary. You should have seen her, Michael, like she’d just been shaken out of a nightmare. She had no idea why she was even there. And then, when I told her what Landon wanted to do—” Her words dangled when Michael’s hand closed over hers.

“You have a great big heart, Lane Kramer. It’s my favorite thing about you.”

Surprised, Lane lolled her head in his direction. “You have a favorite thing about me?”

“Several, actually.”

The words sent a pleasant surge of heat into her cheeks, as did the sparks smoldering in his slate gray eyes. Except none of it was real. He was leaving in a few months. She needed to remember that. She cleared her throat, extricated her hand.

“Yes, well, my great big heart better come up with a plan, and fast. Right now, though, I’m too wrung out to think past grabbing something to eat and falling into bed.” Her eyes widened suddenly. “My mother . . . my God, I forgot she was even here.”

“Relax,” Michael said before she could bolt off the couch. “She’s still lying down. I brought her some tea and soup on a tray. She didn’t look like she’d be up to having company any time soon. Dare I ask what you did to your mother to bring on a splitting headache?”

“Oh, ha-ha,” Lane shot back darkly. “It’s a migraine. She gets them all the time. Even when I’m not around.”

“Well, then, I suppose you’re off the hook. Did you at least have a little fun?”

“I took her to the Historical Society. She seemed to enjoy it, though I’m sure she would have enjoyed bridal shopping more.”

“You didn’t set a wedding date, by any chance, did you? Because I’ll need to let my family know.”

Lane grinned, then lowered her voice. “You’ve got no one but yourself to blame for this little charade, mister. But don’t worry. I’ll wait a few months, then call her with the teary details of our tragic breakup.”

Michael feigned a scowl. “And whose fault will that be?”

“Oh, mine, of course. I won’t have any trouble selling that. As far as my mother’s concerned, it’s always my fault. Seriously, though, thanks for looking after her while I dealt with Mary. It really was above and beyond the call of duty.”

“Shucks, ma’am. Any boyfriend worth his salt would’ve done the same. Now, you said something about food. Didn’t I see a little pizza joint down the road?”

Lane shot him a grateful look. “Carmine’s. There’s a magnet on the fridge if you don’t mind calling while I hop in the shower. I need to scrub off the police station residue. Anything but anchovies works for me.”

Feeling wearier than she had felt in a very long time, she dragged herself up the stairs, dimly aware of Michael’s voice in the kitchen as he ordered the pizza. In her sitting room, she scooped a scrap of paper from the floor—a note in Dally’s loopy script, scribbled on the back of a grocery store receipt and slipped under her door.

Call me. Dying to know what happened with the police. Enjoy Turkey Day with your mom and Professor McDreamy!

Lane crumpled the note and tossed it in the wastebasket, then stripped out of her clothes. There was no point in denying it. Michael was rather dreamy, although admitting it while stripped to the skin and waiting for the shower to warm up was unsettling in the extreme. Almost as unsettling as admitting how comfortable she was becoming with this little game of house they were playing. But then, it had been an unsettling sort of day.