Dead Ball by Judith Arnold

Author:Judith Arnold
Language: ara, eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BelleBooks, Inc.
Published: 2014-02-02T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

IF HYSTERIA WERE Lainie’s style, she would have been ready to book a nice, long cruise on the SS Funny Farm by the time she got home. However, her temperament tended toward composure and dignity. During the worst periods of Roger’s illness, she’d never snapped, never thrown plates, never screamed at her in-laws or the kids. She’d driven to Hopwell every day, taught her students, come home, and overseen Roger’s treatment. And kicked the hell out of soccer balls when necessary.

It was raining too hard today for her to kick a soccer ball outdoors, and she wouldn’t risk kicking one inside the house, given how much energy she had to burn. A single kick might take down the TV or smash a window. Besides, she didn’t have time to kick the hell out of anything. She was in possession of a BlackBerry.

Not her BlackBerry.

Perhaps not Arthur Cavanagh’s BlackBerry, either. She didn’t even know how to turn the damned thing on, let alone how to call up the data on it to see if anything stored in its circuitry identified its owner.

But just assuming it was Arthur Cavanagh’s BlackBerry, who would have hidden it in her purse? The answer to that question made her want to kick soccer balls until she dislocated all her toes.

At least Sean wasn’t lurking in her driveway today. She didn’t have it in her to be maternal and nurturing with him right now. Given the rain, he’d probably tucked his skateboard under his arm and ridden the bus home. Thank God for the lousy weather.

She locked herself inside the house, as if she expected the police to show up in riot gear and smash down the door. If that was what they wanted to do, her locks weren’t going to keep them out, but she felt safer with all the doors bolted. After double-checking the cellar door one final time, she returned to the kitchen, lifted the cordless, took a deep breath, and phoned Roger’s old firm. She still had the number memorized.

“I’d like to speak to Peter Cataldo,” she told the receptionist who answered. “It’s urgent.”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“No.” Most of the receptionists would recognize her name, and she wasn’t ready for them to learn about the mess she was in.

“I’ll see if he’s available,” the receptionist said reluctantly before putting Lainie on hold.

In less than a minute, Peter picked up. “Lainie?”

“How did you know it was me?”

“Anyone else would have identified herself. What’s up?”

“I found a BlackBerry in my purse,” she said, then explained the significance of her discovery.

“Did you touch it? Of course you touched it,” he answered himself. “Don’t touch it anymore. Where is it right now?”

“It’s lying on my kitchen table.” Staring accusingly at her, its glossy chrome-trimmed black frame and cute little monitor mocking her. “Should I wipe my fingerprints off it?”

“No. If you wipe your fingerprints off it, you’ll wipe off the fingerprints of whoever put it in your purse, too. Just leave it on your table. Don’t touch it.

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