The Prodigal's Return

“True. Although if you hadn’t had that checkbook, maybe you’d be riding in the back seat by now.”

“From what little I’ve seen of you so far, Acting Sheriff Jordan, I imagine I would. You’d be the last one to cut me any slack because of who I am.”

“Would you expect me to?”

“No.” Her voice still held a note of laughter. “Nobody else in town ever has. Dad stopped paying any of us allowance after we turned sixteen, and just paid our traffic tickets, instead. He said it wasn’t any more expensive. At least, until Carrie came along.”

“You, I expect, were the calm one.” Where had that come from? And why did he want to know so badly?

“To a point. I never hit that teenage rebellion stage. At least, not until I came home from my first semester at junior college and announced I wanted to marry one of the professors.”

“I cannot even imagine what Hank said about that.”

“And you don’t want to. It was probably two years after the wedding before my dad and Sam had a civil conversation. Of course, by then we had moved out to California and the distance alone was driving Dad crazy.”

“It’s hard to be apart from your family.”

She turned to look at him, her expression growing thoughtful. “You sound like you know something about that.”

“I do. I’ve got a thirteen-year-old daughter back in St. Louis. She lives with her grandmother, and I only see her about twice a month.”

Her expression held sympathy, but not pity. Tripp’s opinion of this woman was improving the more time they spent together.

“That’s not very often. Especially at that age. I’m sorry.”

“It’s the way life works— And we’re here.” Tripp tried not to sound sharp. But the last thing he wanted right now was sympathy from Hank’s daughter.

“Well, okay. Thanks.”

She didn’t seem to know what else to say. That was a switch. Laurel Harrison didn’t look like the type to be short on words too often.

She started to slide out the passenger side, then turned. “Do you need to come in and tell Max to give me the car?”

“No. Just show him that receipt Verna made up. He said that was good enough for him. Of course, that was when he thought Sam would be carrying it himself. But I think he’ll recognize you.”

“He’d better. His younger brother took me to the junior prom.”

“Then I suppose you can work things out by yourself. And keep that car legally parked now, you hear?”

“Don’t worry. I can’t afford another ticket. Or another tow job. I’m supposed to be keeping Mr. Sam out of trouble, not getting myself in trouble.”

She closed the car door and walked toward the gas station with as much dignity as if she were walking down a fashion runway. Tripp had to admit, he was enjoying the view of her retreat.

As she disappeared, Tripp tried to figure out what it was that intrigued him so. Maybe it was the fact she was so different from most of the women he knew. Everything about her was quiet, understated, but terribly expensive.

He pulled away from the Gas ’n’ Go, still musing on their differences. Laurel’s family could keep a Cadillac for decades, while he couldn’t hold on to anything for long. Even the important stuff, like his wife, his daughter and his home, had slipped away from him. Of course, not all of that was his fault alone. It took two to make or break a marriage, and Rose Simms Jordan had done her share of both. How had he ever expected that sweet girl, born worrier that she was, to handle being married to a cop?

She’d been a basket case from day one, panicky if he was ten minutes late, calling the station house a dozen times a shift. Once Ashleigh was born, the situation got even worse. Tripp was almost grateful when the day came that Rose claimed she couldn’t handle another day worrying about him, and went back to her mother. Being the practical sort, Pearl Simms took her back.

Of course, he’d always expected that Rose would grow up and come to her senses, and that they’d get back together. Marriage was a forever thing, wasn’t it? He’d always thought so before his fell apart. Instead, she seemed quite content to live with her mother and daughter in a safe, quiet household where she didn’t fret every moment about Tripp Jordan and the possibility of his getting shot, stabbed or mangled.

Ashleigh grew from a preschooler to a young lady, while her parents became more and more distant. Even after that divorce Rose had insisted on, when his daughter was nine, they were still friendly for Ashleigh’s sake. Their daughter never saw them squabble, and Tripp could say that he’d never said a bad word about Rose in front of the child. If Rose had ever put him down in front of Ash, it had never gotten back to him. Things probably would have drifted along like that for another decade, if it weren’t for Rose’s health.

Why had she spent all her time worrying about everybody else, and not enough about herself? Tripp still asked himself that question on a regular basis. If they had still been living together, would he have picked up on the fact that she was having more frequent and increasingly severe headaches? Probably not. She had always been good at hiding her own discomfort and focusing on him.

There wasn’t even any record of her having been to a doctor before the morning she collapsed at work. And both Rose’s mother and Ashleigh agreed that Rose had never complained. The doctors called it a “cerebral accident.” Whatever it was, it destroyed the person that Tripp remembered as Rose. Someone else lingered, unresponsive for a week. There was a lot of talk about brain death and lack of quality of life, and Tripp was very thankful at that moment that he was not the one legally responsible for making the decision that Pearl ended up making.

Maybe after that he should have insisted Ashleigh come live with him. But he couldn’t tear the child away from the only stability she knew, even if it no longer included her mother. Rose’s mom was already helping raise his daughter. As much as he wanted Ashleigh with him, her sense of security was more important.

He knew firsthand what an unstable home life did to a kid. Besides, he didn’t know anything about raising a girl. Especially not now, in the thorny teenage years. Just keeping her from throwing a major sulk or a full-blown teary scene in their limited time together was nearly impossible. What would he do with her twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week? They’d both be wrecks.

It wasn’t nearly as easy now that he was in Friedens and she was in St. Louis. It took more of an effort to connect with his daughter each time they got together. Still, they did connect, even though it wasn’t always easy. And he’d take a bullet to the heart before he’d give up his bond with Ash.

Tripp was almost to the office when he noticed something unusual. At least, it was unusual for Friedens. There was a kid on a skateboard messing around on the stairs of the public library.

Something about the rangy, skinny kid struck a chord in Tripp. He’d been that kind of kid, daring the world to knock the chip off his shoulder. Those shoulders were bowed in for protection, and the kid wasn’t used to his growing body just yet. What was he—maybe fourteen or fifteen? It wasn’t an age Tripp would wish on anybody, that was certain.

There weren’t any No Skateboarding signs posted in Friedens, so he couldn’t just stop the car and tell the kid he was breaking the law. The young man was no novice at what he was doing; that was evident in the way he sized up the metal rail on the staircase for a trick. If he knew how to slide down a metal stair rail on that thing, he also knew enough to argue that if there wasn’t a sign posted, he wasn’t doing anything illegal.

Tripp didn’t have it in for the kid. He just wanted to talk to him, find out where had he come from, and what he was doing in Friedens. It wasn’t exactly a hangout for city kids in search of entertainment.

Tripp knew he was attracting attention by traveling this slowly down the street. Everybody for three blocks would slow down with him, leery of doing something to get a ticket from the acting sheriff. So he sped up a little and cruised on past. He’d go park the car and come back on foot. All the better to talk to the unknown young man, anyway. No sense in giving the kid a reason to dislike him right off the bat. And as Tripp remembered from the city well enough, skateboarders didn’t need another reason to dislike or distrust an officer of the law.

Laurel felt like a guilty teenager sneaking in after curfew. She pulled Lurlene into the garage and looked for any evidence that might tell Sam about the car’s little adventure. She didn’t see anything. She retrieved her packages from the trunk and crossed the distance from the detached garage to the old Victorian house.

“I’m home. Anybody here?” The house felt empty. There was no music playing. Mr. Sam would have had big band or jazz playing on the console stereo that was almost as big as Lurlene. Jeremy would have found an alternative rock station for his radio, or put on a CD. No, there was no sound in here aside from the hum of the air conditioner.

Laurel peeked in each room on the first floor of the house as she passed by. Nobody in the parlor, which she expected. The dining room sat in empty majesty, heavy mahogany furniture as ostentatious as a dowager in a hat. Only when she got to the kitchen in the back were there any signs of life.

Even then it was just Mr. Sam’s old cat Buster, curled up on the middle of the kitchen table. That alerted her as nothing else did that no one was home. Mr. Sam loved that cat, but not enough to tolerate his presence on the kitchen table. She looked again, and saw a sheet of yellow legal pad under the cat’s wide rump. He made a grumble of discontent when she eased the paper out from under him to read what was written there.

“Out of milk. Gone to get some. Back by three.” It wasn’t signed, but with handwriting that bad, Mr. Sam didn’t need to sign his notes.

Laurel looked at her watch. It was past four now. Where were the guys? Pulling the car keys out of her purse, she headed for the front door again. Visions of Mr. Sam falling ill on the way home from the store crowded into her worried mind, tumbling on top of images of Jeremy getting in trouble or hurt in town somewhere.

“Lord, protect them both,” she said out loud. “At least, until I can find them and fuss at them if they’re all right.”

She knew it wasn’t the world’s sanest prayer. But it was one that she knew mothers had been saying for hundreds of years.

She was going to have to call Gina when she got home, or e-mail her, to share this latest news with a sympathetic soul. Laurel headed for the car so she could find Jeremy and his grandfather before her imagination ran away with her.

Chapter Four

An hour later, Laurel was still talking to God. This time it was under her breath, asking for patience, as she argued with Mr. Sam aloud. That eventual phone call to Gina was getting longer by the minute as she had more reason to vent. “I know you’re used to living alone and not being accountable for your time. And honestly, Sam, I’m not trying to rein you in.”

“Then what’s this business of being sure I had heat stroke just because I was ten minutes late?” The older man’s tufts of white hair stood up at right angles to his scalp.

“You were more than ten minutes late. And I was worried about you.” Laurel didn’t add, just like I’d be worried about Jeremy, although she wanted to. For that matter, she was still a little concerned about Jeremy. He should have been home by now as well. But pointing that out wouldn’t sit well with Mr. Sam. If she told him how much she kept tabs on Jeremy, he would be sure she was equating his behavior with that of her child. And they were already arguing over who was responsible for whom, and how much.

Laurel took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I guess it boils down to the fact that we both need to get used to having another adult around, Sam. You aren’t used to letting anybody know what’s going on in your life. And I’m only used to keeping track of a forgetful teenager.”

“Speaking of my grandson, where is he?” Sam peered around the kitchen. “At least I left you a note about where I was going to be.”

“That you did. And I appreciate that part.” What she didn’t appreciate was his obvious attempt to shift the attention to Jeremy. Besides, it was aggravating when Mr. Sam was right about something. Laurel was beginning to think she’d been on her own too long to live under the same roof with anybody but Jeremy.

Sam lifted his glass. “Maybe once we finish this cold lemonade, we ought to go out scouting for him. I’d even let you drive. You seemed to do a good job before.”

Laurel felt a pang of guilt at that one. It was on the tip of her tongue to confess her afternoon’s problems to Mr. Sam and get it off her chest. Instead, she got up from the table and put her nearly empty glass next to the sink. From that position, she could see Sam’s old answering machine. He’d grudgingly accepted the thing as a gift from them years ago. Even then, he’d only taken the machine when they assured him it was their own used model, that they were upgrading. Mr. Sam had never been into modern conveniences, as evidenced by the car he drove and the house he’d never renovated or moved out of. This archaic model seemed to suit Mr. Sam just fine. And right now, the message light was blinking.

“We may not need to go out after him. Maybe Jer got smart enough to call home and tell me what’s going on.” She punched the button on the machine, listening for the message.

It wasn’t Jeremy’s uncertain tenor that greeted her. Instead, it was a confident baritone, one that she’d already become too familiar with.

“This is Sheriff Jordan calling for Mrs. Smithee. We have your son Allen down here at the police department visiting us for a short time and would like you to call or come and retrieve him as soon as possible. Thank you.”

Allen Smithee? Jeremy had told Jordan that his name was Allen Smithee? Jeremy was going to be grounded for life once she bailed him out.

“Now you know that sheriff isn’t going to understand Jeremy’s joke,” Sam said behind her with a chuckle. “Bet that Tripp is going to be pretty put-out when you tell him what’s going on.”

“Not as put-out as my son is going to be when I get through with him. Mind if I take the keys back?”

Sam waved at the kitchen table where his key ring still sat. “Go right ahead. I’m not getting involved in this one for love or money. That’s one of the wonders of grandparenting.”

“Right. Somebody else handles the mess.” Laurel tried not to sound too sour. One phone call to her friend Gina was never going to be enough to explain all of this.

Sam put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on the boy, Laurel. It’s the kind of thing his father would have done, and that’s a source of entertainment for me.”

“I’m glad somebody’s enjoying this. I don’t think it’s very cute.” She tried not to clench her jaw. Her first thought was absolute aggravation at her smart-aleck son. Her second thought dismayed her even more, because she wanted to go look in the front hall mirror.

Before she faced Tripp Jordan again today, she wanted to make sure her hair was combed and that she had fresh lipstick on. And her own little flash of vanity was even more upsetting than the prospect of dealing with a smirking fourteen-year-old.

Tripp looked confused when she came into his office. “Didn’t expect to see you here again today.”

“That’s because you didn’t understand Jeremy’s practical joke. If you knew anything about Hollywood, script writing and the movie business, you would have, but no one expects you to.”

This time he didn’t look quite as dense with his brow furrowed. Laurel gave thanks that he didn’t immediately look angry, either.

“Who is Jeremy, and what are we talking about?” Tripp stood up, making his chair squeal as the unoiled wheels rolled across the tile floor.

“Jeremy is my son. He’s fourteen, about six feet tall, and is usually seen on or near a skateboard. And right now I suspect he’s answering to the name Allen Smithee instead of Jeremy Harrison.”

So far Tripp wasn’t looking as if he understood any of this. “Why would he do that? He gave me the right phone number, obviously, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Calling himself Allen Smithee was probably his first thought when you asked him what his name was. A Southern California police officer would probably have told him, ‘Nice try kid, give me your real name,’ and the joke would have been over.”

Tripp shook his head as if to clear out cobwebs. He looked as if he were seconds from running a hand through his dark hair in exasperation. “I still don’t get it. You want to explain this whole thing in terms that even a Missourian can understand?”

Laurel took a deep breath. “It’s a private joke for anybody involved in movies. Since about the 1930s, anybody who produced a picture, or directed it, or wrote the script and later decided they didn’t want their name in the credits because the movie turned out too awful for words used the same fake name.”

Realization dawned on Tripp’s handsome face. “And I’ll bet that name is Allen Smithee, right?”

“Correct. Jeremy’s dad threatened more than once to use the Allen Smithee clause on something he wrote, but he never carried through with it.”

“So Sam, Jr. was a screenwriter?”

“For fifteen years. And Jeremy learned some of the ins and outs of the movie business from his dad.”

“So I’ve been had.”

“I’m afraid so. Please tell me you won’t press charges.”

She didn’t expect the laugh that came from Tripp.

“I should, just to teach him a lesson. But since I pulled him in on basically bogus charges myself just to get him off the street, it serves me right.”

Laurel didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Bogus? You mean Friedens doesn’t have a law against skateboarding? And you brought him in, anyway?”

“It’s not on the books yet. Not specifically. But only because we haven’t had anybody skateboarding around town. I suppose that we could stretch some of the trespassing or loitering statutes we use for the teens cruising in cars on Friday nights. It just hasn’t come up until now.”

“Now I don’t know who to be madder at, you or Jeremy. For him to have his first full day in Friedens end this way wasn’t what I had in mind.”

Now Tripp looked annoyed. “But of course you approve of him misleading an officer of the law?”

“No, I certainly don’t.” Why did this man get under her skin at every turn? Or maybe she was just letting him in. “You have to know that, given my background. But like I explained before—”

“I know, if I were more up on the movie business, I would have known. Guess I missed that day at the academy.”

He was beginning to sound angry now, and Laurel felt herself backing down just a little from her protective motherly stance. She breathed deeply, trying to make herself calm down. “I’m sorry, honestly. I didn’t mean to come off defending my son’s behavior when he was in the wrong. And he is clearly in the wrong here, Tripp. No one should expect you to recognize the false name he gave you. What can I do to get him out of whatever cell he’s in?”

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