Marge Arnold limped up to the reception desk at the Prosecutor’s Office. Waving at the receptionist, she said, “I’m heading on back to see Elsie, Stacie.”
Stacie looked up from the computer screen. “She’s not here.”
Marge’s eyes closed, and her hand grasped her hip. With a weary effort, she focused on Stacie with a smile.
“Which courtroom will I find her in? It’s important. She’s not left for the day, has she?”
Stacie gave Marge a look of surprise. “Nope. She’s sick. I figured you’d know.”
Marge’s brow wrinkled. “Sick? Sick with what?”
“She didn’t say. She ran out of here in the early afternoon, said she was coming down with something.” Stacie peered at her reflection in the brass county seal that hung over her desk, taking a moment to toy with her bangs.
When she turned back to face Marge at the counter, Stacie blew out her breath with a huff. “She complained about it all morning long. All I know is, I’m glad she got out of here. Whatever she’s got, I don’t want to catch it. It’s almost the weekend.”
Marge leaned on the counter, frowning. “Elsie wouldn’t go home sick unless she’s in a bad way. We raised her better than that.”
Stacie, who regarded sick days as an unofficial extension of paid vacation time, just shrugged.
Stacie returned her focus to the computer screen, effectively ending the conversation. But Marge lingered.
“Is there a bug going around the office?” she asked.
After a beat, Stacie looked up, her brow lifting in a clear show of annoyance.
“A bug? Don’t think so. Not that I know of.”
Stacie returned to the keyboard, hitting the keys with a vengeance. Marge watched her, while a finger of worry nagged at the back of her head.
“And she didn’t say anything about what she was coming down with?”
Stacie’s fingers froze, resting on the keyboard. Without glancing over, she said, “Why don’t you call her and ask her?”
Marge nodded, slipping around the counter that separated the public from the receptionist’s desk. “That’s a good idea. May I use your office phone? I dial 9 to get out, right?”
Stacie stared with righteous indignation as Marge lifted the landline receiver from its cradle and dialed Elsie’s number. Marge gave her a reassuring wink.
“This will just take a sec.”
As the phone rang, she silently urged Elsie to pick up; but the call went to voice mail. Marge smiled into the receiver, taking care to speak in an upbeat tone as she left her message.
“Honey, it’s Mom. I came over to your office to see you, and Stacie says you went home sick. I’m awful sorry to hear you’re under the weather. I can bring some 7UP and soup over, if that would help—”
She would have said more, but the buzz sounded in her ear, an electronic hum that let her know she’d said her piece. Marge returned the receiver with a worried sigh.
“She’s not picking up. I sure wish I knew what was wrong. You reckon she’s sleeping?”
Stacie didn’t answer immediately. She spun her chair to check the wall clock, which was about to hit 5:00 p.m. With a meaning look in Marge’s direction, she lifted her purse from the spot beneath her desk and pulled out her keys.
“Mrs. Arnold, I’m gonna have to lock up.”
Marge nodded absently. “You do that. Honey, is there any chance that Breeon is around? We need to visit.”
The second hand was barely past the five o’clock mark as Stacie thrust her arms into the sleeves of her coat. “Well, she’s not here either.”
Marge regarded Stacie with a knowing look. “Bree’s out, too?”
“Yeah. About thirty minutes ago. Went tearing out of here. Didn’t say where she was going, or when she’d be back. In case you’re wondering.”
Marge was certain she knew the news that sent Breeon on a tear, but she kept the information to herself. Moving for the door with renewed energy, she shouldered through, letting it bang against the wall.
Something was the matter with her daughter. She could feel it, deep inside her gut, just like she sensed Elsie’s needs and moods in infancy and childhood and adolescence.
Marge intended to get to the bottom of it. And not over the phone. She wanted to see Elsie in the flesh.
She would hunt her daughter down at her apartment.
The wind made her shudder as she limped out to her car, still parked on the street in front of the Barton Police Department. Maybe her preoccupation made her less careful than usual; or maybe it was the sore muscles that made it difficult to twist around and see over her shoulder. As she backed her sedan into the road, all she could think of was Elsie; and her daughter was the last thought on her mind when she heard brakes screech on the town square, the thump of a mighty crash and shattered glass, right before everything went black.