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Sandra lifted a trembling hand to knock on the late referee’s door. What was she doing? She didn’t do stuff like this! It was entirely irrational. It occurred to her then that maybe Bob was using some supernatural mind control over her. She looked at him over her shoulder and opened her mouth to ask, but he shook his head slightly. Oh yeah, she probably shouldn’t talk to him right now. She returned her attention to the door, which was still shut. How long was she supposed to stand here and wait? She’d never felt more foolish, and yet, there was a weird thrill coursing through her veins too. As absurd as this was, she was having a bit of fun.
She was about to give up and leave when a sports car pulled into the driveway and a long-legged blonde climbed out. “Can I help you?” she asked, sounding notably suspicious.
Sandra froze. What was she supposed to say again? Why was she here again?
The woman approached, scowling, her arms laden with shopping bags from multiple department stores. She came up the steps with a confidence Sandra envied. “Who are you?”
Suddenly, Bob was standing very close behind her. Had he crept up on her or just materialized there? She didn’t know, but the hand he placed on her shoulder brought incredible reassurance. “I’m sorry, I’m not very good at this sort of thing,” she stammered.
“What sort of thing might that be?”
This woman was unpleasant. She’s grieving, Sandra reminded herself. I think. “I was there ... when your husband died, and I’m so sorry for your loss, but I just ... I’m really shaken by the whole thing, and well ...” She glanced at the closed door. “Could we talk inside?”
The woman hesitated.
“Only for a minute.”
With body language that made it clear she wasn’t into the whole thing, she unlocked the door and swung it open so that Sandra could step inside first. Suddenly, Sandra was sure the widow was going to stab her in the back. If that happened, would Bob protect her? Could Bob protect her? He didn’t look like much of a fighter. Did he have an invisible sword tucked away somewhere?
Sandra stepped into the cool darkness and then stepped aside until the woman could join her. “My name is Sandra. Your husband was reffing my son’s soccer game when he died.”
The woman dropped her keys on a counter and set her packages down on a bench. “Isabelle,” she said, without looking at Sandra. “And?”
“And ...” Really, what was the and? Why was she here again? “And, well, I was the last person he spoke to before he died”—
Isabelle’s eyes snapped to attention at that.
—“and that’s kind of a personal moment, and I thought you’d like to know what he said.”
“I would like to know,” she said with notable eagerness.
Sandra took a shaky breath. Oh boy, no turning back now. “He said, ‘You’ve got to stop white.’”
Barely a flicker, but it was there. That meant something to this woman. But what? What could that possibly mean other than the interpretation Sandra had? “Is that all?” Isabelle asked.
Sandra nodded. “I’m sorry. I wish there were more. It just seemed like such a strange thing to say, and I thought, as his wife, you might want to know. If it were me, I would want to know my husband’s last words.”
Isabelle nodded. “Right, well, thanks for stopping by.” She put one hand to Sandra’s back as if to shoo her out of the foyer. Was that fear in her voice?
Sandra stood firm. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“No, nothing at all,” she said quickly. Too quickly.
Sandra tried not to look suspicious. She didn’t want to tip her hand.
“He’d been saying lots of weird things lately. Getting older, you know,” she said, as if she had the first idea about what it meant to get older.
“I see.” Sandra looked at Bob for further cues, but he was just standing there.
“So, is that all?” Isabelle opened the door.
“Uh ... yes. Thank you. Again, I just wanted to say sorry for your loss. If there’s anything I can do, just—”
“Thank you.” She slammed the door in Sandra’s face.
She stood there for a second and then turned toward the driveway. Bob had already seated himself in her passenger seat. He was an assuming angel, wasn’t he?
She had the sudden urge to leap over the steps and run to her minivan, but she forced herself to take normal, even steps. Once she’d backed out into the road, though, she turned to Bob. “Did you see that? She flinched when I said the thing about the white team! She totally knew something! She was hiding something!” She slammed the steering wheel with her open palm. “I knew it!” Then she wondered why she’d just said that. She hadn’t known anything at all.
Bob was smirking. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were enjoying this.”
Sandra tried to keep the joy out of her voice. “Would you prefer I be miserable?”
He shook his head. “Of course not. I just think it’s funny that you’re having fun. Anyway, you’re right. She did flinch. She does know something. But whereas she won’t tell us what she knows, I don’t see how that little visit helped us much.” He made it sound as though the whole thing had been her idea, and had been a bad one. This was obnoxious.
Even worse, she felt defensive of the idea. “It helped us by suggesting that she’s the one who killed him.”
“Then I’m off the hook,” he said matter-of-factly.
“What?” What hook was he off, exactly?
“If she’s the one who killed him, she didn’t do it on the soccer field, so it’s not my fault—”
“Is that all you care about?” she cried, indignant. Then she folded her lips in. She’d just interrupted an angel. Maybe that wasn’t advisable.
“Of course not. But if it’s not my fault, then I’ll let the police do their thing. I don’t need to try to make up for my lack of diligence if it wasn’t my lack of diligence that got him killed.”
This made perfect sense, of course. But it also made part of Sandra sad. She didn’t want to leave it up to the police. She wanted to figure out the puzzle herself. “We need more information,” she said, mostly to herself.
“We do. And I have no idea where to get it.”
“Me neither.” They rode along in silence for several minutes. Then she remembered the mind control. She cleared her throat. How should she phrase her question, exactly?
“Go ahead, spit it out.”
“I thought you couldn’t read my mind.”
“I can’t, but I’m intuitive enough to know you have something on your mind.”
“I was just wondering ... do angels ... I mean ... can angels do ... mind control?”
He barked out a laugh. “Of course not!”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “Excellent.”
He was still laughing. This annoyed her. It hadn’t been that stupid of a question. She decided to ask him another question, to get his mind off her last one. “Peter has another home game today. Is that one of yours?”
“It sure is. Middle school soccer has never made me so nervous.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Are you serious? Haven’t you been battling big scary demons for millennia?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Those weren’t my missions.”
“Really. So what kind of missions did you do in Old Testament times? They didn’t have middle school soccer then, right?”
But Bob didn’t answer, and when she looked in his direction, he was gone.
That trick was going to get annoying.