~ Truth To Tell ~

by

Patricia Scott

Mid-morning, Holly was halfway through the book reservations, when a man pushed his way through the main swing doors, bringing in the chilly December weather. There was a light frosting of snow melting on his suede jacket. Feeling the sudden influx of cold air, Holly looked up to see Peggy dealing with him at the inquiry desk in the Reference department. Holly couldn’t remember seeing him before in the library. And yet, she felt that there was an air of familiarity in the wide, slightly off tilt smile which he gave to Peggy that complimented the curling black hair that peaked high over the thick dark brows and the bold straight nose.

He was impossible to miss. Over six feet and a likely contender for the football field, he was a big man. His muscular shoulders filled out the rust colored, suede jacket admirably. He unzipped the jacket and waited quietly, with his long arms folded across the chest. And while Peggy phoned downstairs for his request, he gazed inquisitively over at the tall shelves of fiction and directly at Holly. Much too quickly for her to lose the puzzled look in her eyes, when she encountered his immediate warm smile of recognition. He obviously thought he knew her from some place or other.

Holly, her cheeks burning like a bush fire, gathered up a pile of the book reservations from the trolley, and bumped them down awkwardly on her desk. And as she did so, she felt his eyes homing in on her like lasers, while Peggy listened to his every word with her mouth held wide open and her pale blue eyes lighted up like Chinese lanterns.

Holly shook off the strange vibes she was getting and applied herself diligently to the job in hand and did her best to ignore him. Minutes later, still smiling, he was moving off easily with a large folder of newspapers in his arms into the quiet rarefied atmosphere of the reference department.

“That man, what did he want, Peggy?” Holly whispered as the junior hurried over to her desk. It was made only too obvious by her shining eyes that she had plenty to say and was bursting to say it. “Why couldn’t he look it up on the computer?”

Peggy giggled. “He insisted on having the newspapers to work on for a start. Isn’t he drop dead gorgeous?” she sighed heavily. “And would you believe it? He works for TV,” she squeaked. “On that program called Past Crimes? You know the one that’s put on extra late on Saturday nights?”

Holly shook her head and frowned. “Uh-uh! Not my kind of viewing.” She smiled wryly. “I like to get a good night’s sleep.”

“Well,” Peggy said eagerly. “It deals mainly with old unsolved crimes. True ones that took place in the past--some are way back into the last century. Are you sure you haven’t heard of it? It’s very popular.”

“Seems like it.”

“They’ve managed to solve quite a few cases. And they’re fascinating to watch, Holly. Sometimes they get phone calls which offer information. Only in the more recent cases of course.”

“Of course--” Holly closed her file, prepared to hear Peggy out and thought with an inward groan of all her work confronting her, still to finish.

“Sometimes the police come in on it.”

“He told you his name?” Holly tried hard to keep the interest out of her voice. But Peggy was eager to share it with her anyway.

“Not yet.”

Holly felt uneasy. She was almost positive that she had met him before. He seemed familiar. But why should he come in here when he could have used the morgue in the newspaper office for his research?

“He’s the program’s investigator; he digs out all the facts, see? And he uses old files and interviews people who were involved. If they’re still around that is. Like a P.I. Right now he’s researching for a local crime.”

“A local crime? I guessed that already or he wouldn’t be asking for the old newspapers. Did he mention what he was looking for? Or is he keeping quiet till it’s in production?”

Why was she getting so personally involved? It had nothing to do with her.

“It’s a crime that was committed, twenty years ago, he said. Close to Boston in Arbington. My Mom might know about it. It’s well before my time.” Peggy giggled.

“Arbington!”

Panic bells started to ring out inside her head. Why should this happen? A cold sweat broke out in beads on her forehead and she felt shaky. This was crazy. Why should this be affecting her so much?

“Did,” she said, swallowing hard to clear her throat. “Did he mention what was involved? Is it really worth him coming here?” she asked, feeling her legs trembling under her as she leaned over the desk. This was really so stupid. Why was she behaving like this? She hoped that her face wasn’t betraying how bad she was feeling.

Peggy had her eyes on the man down in Reference. “He said that there was a nasty murder committed. Most of the crimes are about murder and worse,” she added cheerfully

“Yes, I suppose they would be.” Holly tried to be casual about it.

“He said that it’s nearer to home than usual. That’s why he’s here. Oooh!” Peggy said still watching him. “I’d love to get a personal invite to that TV Studio. Do you think he’d give me an invite if I asked him? Would you like one?”

“What a ghastly thought! No thanks.” Holly shuddered, feeling goose bumps springing up all over her, despite the warmth of the central heating, and she hugged her arms around herself protectively. “Did he mention to you where and when it actually happened? Or is he keeping it close to his chest?”

Holly tried to make light of it. But what he was involved in had made a devastating impact on her. And she had to find out why this should be.

Her sudden interest prompted Peggy to watch her more keenly now. “I thought you didn’t want to know. I think it’s exciting. Don’t you honestly like watching any thriller movies on TV?”

“I don’t.” Holly confessed with a weak smile. “You must think I’m silly. Talking about this makes me feel weird. I can’t explain why though.”

“Well, I’m not that keen on watching old war films. So you can have your own good reason, I guess.” Peggy stared back earnestly at her. She wore contact lenses, which were still giving her trouble. A bubbly, eighteen year old, she said seriously, “Anyway it took place over twenty years ago so you might not even remember it,” she added with a cheeky smile. “What do you think?”

“Oh--thanks, young lady.” Holly chuckled. “I would have been nine possibly at the time. Just the same I can’t remember it and I was living in Arbington then, I think,” she added cautiously.

“You were? And you don’t remember your parents talking about it?”

Holly frowned, her eyes clouding. “Sounds strange, I know. But I honestly can’t recall it. My parents would have done, I’m sure,” she said chewing at the rich berry red lip color on her soft bottom lip. “Oh! Damn the wretched man! It’ll worry me all day. Why does he have to come here now? I hate mysteries. Especially ones I can’t remember.”

She fidgeted with the turtleneck collar of her cream wool sweater, thinking hard for a moment and shrugged her slim shoulders. “I moved up coast to Maine about then. So it can’t possibly ring bells with me,” she said, but she had a gut feeling inside her tummy that it soon would.

Peggy moved in closer, to whisper. “He’s coming back, Holly. He’s coming over here! He must have found what he wanted. Go on speak to him. I bet he’s spoken for or married though.” She heaved a long breathy sigh as the man in question came towards the girls.

“Hi there! Miss Holly Randall?”

She stared at him as he held out a newspaper page.

“I’d be glad of your help. Would you mind taking a good look at this news story, please? And tell me if it means anything personally to you.” His gray eyes were serious.

“To me?” How did he know her name?

“Could this be a relative of yours, Miss Randall?”

There was a gasp from Peggy, all ears beside her.

“I think that this is your mother, Holly,” he continued deliberately. “Take a good look at the picture. Do you recognize her?”

Startled by his directness Holly stared down at the paper page as he placed it carefully on the desk top, smoothing out the newsprint with a strong tanned hand.

“Mom! No, no--it can’t be!”

She closed her eyes tight. Opened them again and felt the color draining from her cheeks as she studied the photograph. She pulled her gaze away to find him watching her intently. Her lips tightened perceptibly and she couldn’t speak.

Peggy squeaked, “Holly! Do look at her again,” she said, her eyes widening into saucers. “She looks like you. Except her hair is worn short and yours is long. Could that really be your Mom? Did she have copper hair, too? You must be able to remember her, surely.”

“There must be some mistake.” Holly found her voice at last as she stared once again at the page spread out before her. Her heart was taking off at full tilt and she felt sick. She wanted to vomit. This couldn’t be happening. Her head swam for a second or so then cleared. There really was no doubt about it. It was her mother… Stephanie Randall.

She read the bold black headlines again, that accompanied the picture.

STEPHANIE RANDALL

STILL MISSING

Stephanie Randall, the beautiful wife of murdered university professor, Grant Randall, is still missing despite all police efforts to find her.

She swayed on her feet and felt faint. “It must be a mistake. It can’t be true,” she whispered and collapsed into the leather chair behind her.