Murder in Miniature by Margaret Grace Read Free Book Online

Maddie standing at my bedroom door, sleepy-eyed, in an oversize red-white-and-blue team shirt (basketball? hockey?) that must have been her father’s. Of course, she would have been awakened by the extension phone ringing in her room, kept on for security.
    I covered the mouthpiece with my hand and whispered to Maddie. “It’s Mrs. Reed,” I said, meaning, Don’t worry, it’s not your parents . I tried to control the concern in my voice.
    I wondered how much Maddie had overheard and what she thought of it. First I’d told her Linda was at home sleeping off an allergy attack, now Linda was calling at two in the morning and I was asking where she was.
    Linda’s voice again, in short bursts of speech. “I’m at a no-name gas station off 101, near the on-ramp to 87. My car’s still at the school.” Nothing so simple as a flat tire, which I suspected, and no answer to “what happened?” but my relief at the sound of her live, if shaky, voice overcame any curiosity for the moment. Then fear crept in, and I pictured Linda tied to a chair (not gagged, but maybe wounded and bleeding). My heart raced. “Are you…?” What to ask—with Maddie now curled up beside me on my bed, questioning me with her eyes. There would be time later for explanations.
    “I’ll be there,” I said. “I’ll leave right away. Can you keep your cell phone on until I see you?”
    “I don’t have my cell phone. It must be in my car. I’m at a pay phone. I used all my change making this call. You can almost see the booth from the freeway. I think I’m near the San Jose airport.” Linda’s voice broke. I couldn’t tell whether she was crying or there was static on the line. “I’m not hurt or anything, Gerry, so don’t worry.”
    Don’t worry, indeed, but her comment gave me a little relief. I wanted to grill her right then, hold her hostage, so to speak, until she told me where she’d been all evening, why she left her crafts fair post. But it wasn’t the time. She clearly needed rescuing, not scolding. I knew Linda didn’t have many friends, just one or two acquaintances among her colleagues at the convalescent hospitals; the patients there were in no shape to socialize. And Linda didn’t belong to all the crafts clubs in town as I did, but rather treated her art as a solitary hobby. So, whom else could she have called?
    I had a vague picture of where Linda was calling from. The San Jose airport was about ten miles from Lincoln Point, the area mainly industrial. I hoped we’d be able to stay connected by phone.
    “I’ll have my phone on,” I told Linda. “You just stay right there. What’s the number? I’ll call you once I’m in my car.” Maddie, who was paying rapt attention, leaned over and scooped up the pad of paper and pen I keep on my nightstand. She held the pad firmly across her bony knees while I wrote the number of the pay phone.
    When I hung up, Maddie disappeared down the hall. I felt a nervous chill along my sweaty back. No question of being too tired to drive; I was energized by adrenaline (my layperson’s interpretation of why I was more awake than if I’d had eight hours of sleep). I splashed water on my face and threw on the knit pants and sweatshirt I’d worn at the fair. I grabbed a pair of clean socks and my sneakers, then snatched my purse from the chair by my bed. Ready to go.
    Then I stopped. What about Maddie? Should I leave her home or drag her out in the middle of the night? I thought of waking my neighbor and leaving Maddie next door. In spite of Linda’s claiming not to be hurt, I had no clue how she would look (bruised? bloody?) or whether the trip might be frightening to Maddie. Nor did I know for sure that whatever danger Linda might have encountered was now over. I imagined someone standing over her, forcing her to make the phone call. Call the police , a little voice in my brain said, why else do you have a nephew on the force? Let him go to a strange neighborhood and pick up a