Seeing the confusion and fear in her eyes, Michael wanted to reach out and comfort her, sympathetic to her distress. The phone rang, startling them both. “Yes, Ada, what can I do for you?” Michael asked his secretary. Listening, he frowned, his gaze shifting to Mariah.
“Not necessary, she’s here with me ... can’t it wait until she’s more rested?” He sighed. “No, I suppose they’re right, or at least they’re following procedure. Tell them she needs about twenty minutes to powder her nose.” Michael hung up, his tone an attempt at reassurance. “Two agents from the FBI are downstairs requesting an interview with me. They were pleased when they discovered you were still here. I tried to put them off—she nodded, having heard his end of the conversation—but they insist on talking to you before you leave.
“Off to the washroom and take your time,” he said. “I’m going to find some food for you. They can jolly well let you eat while we talk.”
“This is going to be a dilly, trying to explain to them how I knew where Amanda was.” Mariah sighed. “What kind of odds are you giving they think I had something to do with it?”
With a shake of her head, she grabbed her purse from the couch where she threw it last night, and left the room. Michael rose, stretched the kinks out of his back, and headed for Ada’s office.
She stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, trying to find visible signs of change. Her face looked pretty much the same: maybe a little weary, her eyes sticky from having slept in contact lenses, hair messy from being smushed against the pillow. But nothing to mark what happened. What did she expect—lights blazing from her eyes? A halo around her head, proclaiming her divinity? She chuckled. If she had seen gleaming eyes or a bright halo, she’d be looking for Rod Serling.
Mariah combed her hair and continued to inspect her face in the mirror. Not paying attention, she set the comb down too near the edge of the sink. It balanced for a second, and slid off. Catching the movement out of the corner of her eye, she made a grab for it and straightened quickly with the comb in her hand.
Her image in the mirror frowned at her. Where was that old familiar pain that felt like electric shocks running down her left thigh?
When Mariah was a teenager, an orthopedic surgeon had cut a piece of bone from her hip and fused it to the misaligned disks in her lower lumbar spine, thus alleviating the pain in her leg caused by a pinched nerve. The procedure had to be repeated three years later because the fusion had dissolved, her body identifying and destroying something out of place. (Naturally, Rachel said. If it was going to happen to anyone...) Years later, she experienced pain in her knee which proved to be referred pain from the advanced arthritis in the disks above the fusion. There was nothing that could be done apart from cutting her open and cleaning out the arthritis, so to avoid additional surgery, she did muscle-strengthening back exercises, kept her weight under control, and tried to avoid any motion that would set it off. Like the one she just did to retrieve the comb.
Perplexed, she decided to repeat what just happened. Holding her breath, she let the comb fall, reached down to grab it, and straightened up.
No pain. Nothing. Not even a twinge.
Her reflection looked confused then frightened. There was no doubt in her mind that this was related to having found Amanda. There could be no other explanation. It could not be a coincidence.
To take her mind off it, she thought about the upcoming confrontation with the FBI agents. They were not going to believe how she found Amanda—she barely believed it herself. Mariah Carpenter squared her shoulders and straightened to her full height of five feet four inches. You, young lady, are not going to be intimidated by some civil servant whose salary, by the way, you pay with your taxes. Satisfied that she looked as good as possible under the circumstances, she went back to Michael’s office.
Seeing a plastic container steaming on the end table beside the couch, Mariah plopped down with an appreciative smile at Michael. A glass of milk along with a dinner roll, a peach, a napkin, and a fork completed the setting. “Contributions from one grateful Mrs. Ada Morgan,” he said. “She made a tuna casserole two days ago and brought leftovers for lunch yesterday. She was most grateful to donate it, glad she didn’t have to eat it again.”
Reaching for the container, Mariah said, “Please thank Mrs. Morgan for me.” Her stomach growled in anticipation. “I’d have preferred a large piece of chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, but this will do just fine.”
Michael’s smile faded. Reaching for the telephone handset, he said, “I guess we’ve kept them waiting long enough. I’ll tell Betty to send them up.”
The words were barely spoken when there were three sharp raps on the door. They exchanged a look of surrender, she with an “oh, well” shrug, he with a conspiratorial wink. Opening the door he greeted the two federal agents who decided they had waited long enough.
Frannie Manzetti gave Michael a thorough but quick glance, her attention immediately drawn to the woman on the sofa, devouring something fishy-smelling from a plastic container. Turning back to Michael, she stuck out her hand and said, “Michael Jenkins?” When he nodded, she said, “I’m Agent Manzetti. This,”—indicating her associate—is Agent Harold Sapitnaski. We’d like to discuss the Amanda Forrester kidnapping.” She shook Michael’s extended hand, her grip firm, the shake abrupt. Sapitnaski extended his hand also, his shake more relaxed and friendly.
Frannie now turned all her attention to the woman on the couch. Mariah Carpenter appeared oblivious to them all as she sat chewing her food and staring out the window.
As Frannie walked toward her, Mariah turned her head, and their eyes met. Frannie gave her that don’t-even-think-about-lying-to-me glare which usually unnerved her prey, but she was caught off guard by the returned gaze. Honest and direct, those hazel eyes were lit with a hint of amusement. Ok, she’s supposed to be intimidated, not entertained, Frannie thought darkly. However, based on her track record of daunting interrogations, she was confident she could rattle this woman until her teeth loosened.
Mariah’s hair was matted and there were faint purple smudges under her eyes, proof of the sleep deprivation mentioned in the police report. Even so, Frannie recognized beauty. Not the surface kind associated with models and actresses, but a face that held warmth and intelligence, a face that would draw people’s eyes back for a second and third look. Obviously tired, Mariah still radiated a charismatic energy to which Frannie found herself involuntarily drawn.
She unexpectedly realized she was under scrutiny and smiled inwardly. She knew she came across as classically severe in the accepted FBI uniform for females. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a topknot, accentuating her angular face; her gray, man-tailored suit was set off by a deep red handkerchief in the breast pocket, and she wore a white silk blouse with just the top button undone.
The silence continued. Frannie was damned if she’d be the first to look away. She heard Sapitnaski clear his throat in an attempt to break the uncomfortable stalemate, but to no effect. It was the pastor who broke the tension by offering them chairs. She noted that he placed them facing Mariah to lessen the illusion of an inquisition.
Frannie thanked him, grateful for the interruption that allowed her to break eye contact first without losing face. She noted that Carpenter still watched her as she continued to eat. She would have been more at ease if her quarry had looked either apprehensive or belligerent.