Caught in the Middle Read Free

looked at him. “Nothing much happened here,” I said. “I opened my trunk, and there he was. I closed my trunk, hoping he’d go away. I opened my trunk and he was still there. I called you.”
    “That’s it?”
    “That’s it.”
    A car squealed into the alley behind the official cars. A man climbed out and walked authoritatively toward the open trunk. He leaned under the protective plastic and around the men taking photographs, studied the situation, then walked to the policeman and me.
    As he watched the approaching man, the policeman snorted, little puffs of foggy breath erupting from each nostril. “The press already! That’s all we need.”
    “Don!” I said as I flung myself at the man. He ducked to miss the points of my umbrella and patted me comfortingly on the back.
    “It’ll be okay,” he said as though to a crying child. “It’ll be okay.”
    Suddenly I realized that I had thrown myself at my boss, a man with whom I had only the most superficial of working relationships, a man I had on a pedestal. Ever since I’d gone into journalism and realized what editors did in putting together a newspaper every day, I had been in awe of them. And here I was, hanging all over my editor like a Southern belle with the vapors. I pulled back in embarrassment but was glad when he kept a comforting hand on my shoulder.
    “Don, there’s a body in my trunk,” I said.
    “I noticed. Who is he?”
    I glared at him. “Why does everyone think I know him?”
    “It is your car.”
    “That doesn’t mean I know him! I suppose you think I put him there, too?”
    “Did you?” asked the policeman.
    I blinked, my anger gone as quickly as it had come.
    “You don’t really think I did, do you?” I could feel the handcuffs already.
    The policeman shrugged. “Someone put him there.”
    “Well, it wasn’t me.” I hoped I sounded confident. “If he were really my body, I’d put him in someone else’s car.” I looked from the policeman to Don. “That only makes sense, right?”
    The policeman shrugged.
    Don smiled.
    I shivered. “I think I’ll go inside.”
    I sat forlornly in my living room for a few minutes seeing the bright light from the generators through the tall windows. That was a nice thing about old buildings—tall windows.
    Restless, I got up, went to my minuscule kitchen and put some water on to boil. People would be in soon, and hot drinks would be welcomed. Personally, I still wanted my Coke and Oreos, but there was no way I had the nerve to get a can from the trunk, even if they let me.
    Ten minutes later, the policeman, whose name was Sergeant William Poole, sat carefully in my blue wing chair, his hair hanging damply on his forehead and his shirt gaping a bit about the belly. A mug full of coffee sat on the end table beside him, and he had a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other. “All right, Miss Kramer, tell me all about it. In fact, why don’t you tell me about your whole day.”
    I nodded. “Okay.” I cleared my throat nervously. “This morning I drove my car to Taggart’s garage for its annual state inspection. Jolene Meister, the secretary from work, picked me up at the garage at six forty-five.”
    “Where do you work?”
    “At The News.”
    “Then he’s your boss?” Sergeant Poole nodded at Don Eldredge, who was sitting comfortably on the sofa.
    “Yes, he’s my boss.”
    “You been at The News long?”
    “About three months. I started just after Labor Day.”
    “What do you do?”
    “I’m a general reporter and feature writer.” Which sounded more glamorous than the gofer I often felt like.
    “Have you lived in Amhearst long?”
    “Since Labor Day weekend.”
    “Where do you come from?”
    “The Pittsburgh area.”
    Sergeant Poole nodded. “Did you leave a family in Pittsburgh?”
    “My parents and Sam, my younger brother, who’s at Penn State.” And Jack, I thought. And Jack.
    “So you took your car to be inspected this morning. Why’d you go to