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MIKE SWENSON checked his watch for the twentieth time.
Eleven forty-three; worth the risk. He glanced briefly around the newsroom before making his way downstairs like a man on a mission.
“Picking up a prescription for the kid,” he lied to the receptionist, tapping her desktop on his way past.
“Yeah, sure,” Cathy muttered without glancing up.
So focused on what had happened this morning, he was through the door and outside before her indifference registered. Was it only yesterday, she’d freaked out his wife with innuendoes about another woman? Thank goodness Susan had still seemed contrite this morning.
If only Ginger Barnes could be handled so easily.
“Mister Swenson,” she had greeted him first thing this morning; and, like the ring of a hammer, the name had reverberated in his head ever since. Mis-ter Swenson. Mister Swen-son. Mister Swenson, until he was positive the use of his new surname meant far more than hello.
Anxious to do something about the babysitter’s mounting threat, he shoved his car into gear and joined the town’s weekday traffic. Chewing his lip and squinting into the sun, he drove without aim.
Ginger Barnes must be neutralized. He knew that. But how and when? Confronting her before he was 100% certain she knew something risked arming her with information she could take straight to the police.
Which meant all she had so far was unfounded suspicion, otherwise the police would have shown up already. He braked hard for a stop sign.
Swenson, Swenson, Swenson! It had to mean something. His stomach churned with indecision. Perhaps if he monitored the woman’s behavior every chance he got, an answer would somehow become obvious.
He eased forward with care. Realized he was almost at his own street. Idling at its mouth, he saw no sign of the babysitter’s red Acura. She must have taken Jack somewhere for lunch.
Three possibilities came to mind, all within a block of each other.
He turned his Chevy around and drove.
***
"WHAT'S DIDI UP to today?" I asked Will after we settled Jack into his high chair at Kentucky Fried Chicken. Hello kisses had been exchanged and food collected.
"I got chickin," Jack loudly announced to the nearest newcomers.
"She’s teaching dance to inner-city kids this afternoon," Will answered. This was obviously a day he worked at home, because he wore a green golf shirt and a fancy sports watch coveted by runners. "Before that, I don't know."
Jack twisted in his high chair to address two teenagers. “I GOT CHICKIN!”
Will’s lips twitched. "While it is always lovely to see you, Ginger dear,” he tilted his head toward the boy, “perhaps you should tell me why we’re here while you can.”
"Thank you,” I replied as a blush infused my cheeks. Toddlers’ meltdowns did occur without warning; and Will and I had never met for lunch before. Me wanting to pick his brain was a given.
Yet how was I to start?
Behind his designer glasses Will’s hazel eyes patiently waited.
I occupied Jack with his water cup before getting straight to the point. "Eric, Chelsea's neighbor from the birthday party, happens to be a phenomenal singer. I've heard him, and he really is amazing. Frank Sinatra, Josh Groban caliber."
"Can't get any better."
"Right. So Chelsea, The Music Teacher, wants to help him become rich and famous. Live the dream, and all that."
"Does she?"
"Does she what?"
"Want to live the dream?"
"No,” I answered, although the question gave me pause. "At least I don't think so. She likes teaching little kids and conducting." Plus she was married now and, I hoped, wanted kids of her own—eventually. Not that being rich and famous would prevent that...
I waved my hand to erase the line of thought. "Mainly, I think she's excited about discovering an exceptional talent."
Will tried to hide his bemused smile by saying, “But...?"
“Fries!” Jack hollered, so I gave him a handful of mine.
"Yes, but,” I continued, “Eric gets stage fright. Paralyzing stage fright. In a chorus where he can’t be singled out he's fine. Alone with his vocal coach, fine. On a stage by himself—can't do it."
"I noticed he opted out of 'Happy Birthday' the other night, but I figured he was one of the many of us who can't sing."
"Well, he can—and he can't. What can be done about it, Will? Anything?"
"Oh, yes. Cognitive behavioral therapy, exposure therapy, virtual therapy, hypnosis."
"All that?"
"Hi! I got chickin!"
"Yes, Jack. You got chicken all over you. Ketchup, too." I dipped a napkin in my water and began to clean the boy’s face and hands. Over my shoulder, I asked, "Which one do you think would work for Eric?"
Will said he would have to interview Eric to figure that out. "Can you set it up?"
I dropped the napkin along with my jaw. "I wasn't expecting you to personally..."
Will pushed his paper plates aside. "Sounds like a worthy cause, and an interesting one."
"Do you have time?"
"For a friend of yours, of course."
Was Eric a friend of mine? Until proven otherwise, yes. "Thanks," I told my best friend's husband, wondering yet again whether I should have come clean with my worries regarding Eric’s innocence.
Sobered by the thought, I fell silent as Will and I made our way to the parking lot. I was carrying Jack and my shoulder bag, so Will walked me to my Acura and helped me settle the toddler in.
As I turned back to say good-bye, I saw a man in a parked car overlooking the restaurant duck down out of sight.
My immediate impression was of Mike Swenson, possibly because the car looked very much like the one Mike drove. Considering this wasn’t the first time I had gotten this impression, the coincidence gave me chills.
“What’s wrong?” Will asked.
I watched as the car pulled back, revealing only the passenger’s side. As it shot forward and disappeared, I remembered that Jack would hear my answer. “Nothing,” I told Will. “Just looked like someone I know.”
“Someone you don’t like,” Will observed.
I chuckled. “Very astute, Doctor. The guy I thought it was does give me the creeps, but he would be at work now, so no worries.”
“We’re not all monsters, you know.”
“Of course not,” I concurred. Then I thanked him for being such a good guy and gave him a proper hug.