Maggie slammed her fist on the arm of the chair she was sitting in.
Al smiled slightly, but his eyes were steady. “ Terrorist is probably a strong word. But I think you should take him or her, or even them, seriously. I’ll stay at the show myself Friday and Saturday nights. Pretty quiet at my place, since my wife died. Give me something different to think about. So don’t you worry.”
“I’d really appreciate that. I don’t think we should panic anyone about this, either, right?”
“Absolutely. Although most of my guys are pretty calm about stuff like this. I’ll tell them some crazy has been writing letters and we hope he doesn’t show up. If he does, we call the police. That’s all. They’ll be more alert, and no one will start carrying as a result.”
“Good. That sounds just right.”
“But keep me tuned in, Maggie. If you get any more messages from this guy or find out anything about whoever shot Mrs. Sloane, let me know. Or even if you just need someone to talk with. I haven’t been a detective for a while, but I’m not totally out of the loop. This is a lot to have on your shoulders. I’d like to help.”
“Thanks, Al. I promise. I’ll tell the police. And I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“And, Maggie? If you remember the voice? The one that called and threatened you? Tell someone. Right away. I don’t want to scare you, but that could be critical. If that man doesn’t want anyone to know who he is, and you do know, you could be in danger.”
Chapter 15
Who Is Coming? Charming Victorian lithograph of three small children, one holding a doll, peeking out a doorway with their dog into a snow-covered yard. C. 1885. 6.5 x 9.5 inches. Price: $70.
Maggie knew she had to report the threatening telephone message to the police. But priorities were priorities. She’d packed the tuna salad and baked-bean casserole in large coolers filled with ice, and the warm May sun had already turned some of the ice to water.
Her next stop would have to be the Sloanes’ house, before the food went bad.
Their large Victorian-era home had once been the center of a farm. The barn now housed cars instead of cows, and more cars, in various stages of repair, were parked in the yard. Usually broken-down cars on property indicated a broken-down house. But here the house was intact and newly painted. Maggie pulled into the wide driveway and parked her faded blue van between a small navy sedan and a large brown station wagon.
The girl who answered the door looked about thirteen and might have been part African-American and part Asian. She wore faded jeans and a cropped T-shirt. “Yes?”
“I’m Maggie Summer, a prospective parent from OWOC. I know your parents, and I was here for the picnic in April.”
The girl opened the door a little farther. “You’re not a newspaper person?”
“No! I just brought by some food. Carole Drummond said maybe you could use it.”
“Hey, Dad! Some lady’s at the door who says she knows you!” The girl kept the door half-closed.
Maggie suspected a number of unknown, and unwelcome, people had knocked on this door in the past couple of days. In the background several radios or CD players were loudly emitting contrasting sounds. A couple of figures walked through a room at the end of the entrance hallway.
“Dad!” The girl’s voice was piercing.
Then Eric appeared at her side. “Hey, Kim, what’s the deal?” He looked at Maggie. “Hi, Professor Summer. What’re you doing here?”
At least this was someone who recognized her, who didn’t think she was a reporter or some other unwanted voyeur. “Carole Drummond suggested you and your family could use a little sustenance, so I brought a couple of things you could have for lunch or dinner.” She thrust the large bowl into his hands. “This is a tuna-pasta salad. I have a casserole in my van.”
By the time she returned to the door, Eric had deposited the salad in the kitchen and Kim had disappeared.
Al smiled slightly, but his eyes were steady. “ Terrorist is probably a strong word. But I think you should take him or her, or even them, seriously. I’ll stay at the show myself Friday and Saturday nights. Pretty quiet at my place, since my wife died. Give me something different to think about. So don’t you worry.”
“I’d really appreciate that. I don’t think we should panic anyone about this, either, right?”
“Absolutely. Although most of my guys are pretty calm about stuff like this. I’ll tell them some crazy has been writing letters and we hope he doesn’t show up. If he does, we call the police. That’s all. They’ll be more alert, and no one will start carrying as a result.”
“Good. That sounds just right.”
“But keep me tuned in, Maggie. If you get any more messages from this guy or find out anything about whoever shot Mrs. Sloane, let me know. Or even if you just need someone to talk with. I haven’t been a detective for a while, but I’m not totally out of the loop. This is a lot to have on your shoulders. I’d like to help.”
“Thanks, Al. I promise. I’ll tell the police. And I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“And, Maggie? If you remember the voice? The one that called and threatened you? Tell someone. Right away. I don’t want to scare you, but that could be critical. If that man doesn’t want anyone to know who he is, and you do know, you could be in danger.”
Chapter 15
Who Is Coming? Charming Victorian lithograph of three small children, one holding a doll, peeking out a doorway with their dog into a snow-covered yard. C. 1885. 6.5 x 9.5 inches. Price: $70.
Maggie knew she had to report the threatening telephone message to the police. But priorities were priorities. She’d packed the tuna salad and baked-bean casserole in large coolers filled with ice, and the warm May sun had already turned some of the ice to water.
Her next stop would have to be the Sloanes’ house, before the food went bad.
Their large Victorian-era home had once been the center of a farm. The barn now housed cars instead of cows, and more cars, in various stages of repair, were parked in the yard. Usually broken-down cars on property indicated a broken-down house. But here the house was intact and newly painted. Maggie pulled into the wide driveway and parked her faded blue van between a small navy sedan and a large brown station wagon.
The girl who answered the door looked about thirteen and might have been part African-American and part Asian. She wore faded jeans and a cropped T-shirt. “Yes?”
“I’m Maggie Summer, a prospective parent from OWOC. I know your parents, and I was here for the picnic in April.”
The girl opened the door a little farther. “You’re not a newspaper person?”
“No! I just brought by some food. Carole Drummond said maybe you could use it.”
“Hey, Dad! Some lady’s at the door who says she knows you!” The girl kept the door half-closed.
Maggie suspected a number of unknown, and unwelcome, people had knocked on this door in the past couple of days. In the background several radios or CD players were loudly emitting contrasting sounds. A couple of figures walked through a room at the end of the entrance hallway.
“Dad!” The girl’s voice was piercing.
Then Eric appeared at her side. “Hey, Kim, what’s the deal?” He looked at Maggie. “Hi, Professor Summer. What’re you doing here?”
At least this was someone who recognized her, who didn’t think she was a reporter or some other unwanted voyeur. “Carole Drummond suggested you and your family could use a little sustenance, so I brought a couple of things you could have for lunch or dinner.” She thrust the large bowl into his hands. “This is a tuna-pasta salad. I have a casserole in my van.”
By the time she returned to the door, Eric had deposited the salad in the kitchen and Kim had disappeared.
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