The Arcanum of Beth

by Mary Jane Russell

  The

  Arcanum of Beth

  By

  Mary Jane Russell

  The Arcanum of Beth

  © 2009 by Mary Jane Russell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  ISBN 10: 1-935216-01-5

  ISBN 13: 978-1-935216-01-8

  First Printing: 2009

  This Trade Paperback Is Published By

  Intaglio Publications

  Walker, LA USA

  www.intagliopub.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  _______________________________________________

  Credits

  Executive Editor: Verda Foster

  Cover design by Sheri

  Dedication

  For Joyce Coleman, friend and attorney extraordinaire—you are always there for me.

  Acknowledgment

  Many thanks to Sheri Payton and Kate Sweeney for turning down the first draft of this book but giving me another chance to revise and resubmit; to Kate Sweeney for bouncing ideas for the rewrite that led to acceptance for publication; to Verda Foster for graciously wading through the numerous corrections during editing and finding the last loose ends; and to Sheri (artist, not boss) for the cover designs to choose from.

  Most of all, I count my blessings for my parents, William and Alma Russell, who instilled in me the love of books and reading and a work ethic that never allowed me to give up on anything. If they could see me now.

  Prologue

  “How long did it take you to finish the crossword this morning?” Ellen Harris stood before the coffeemaker as though her presence would make the ready beep sound faster. Her partner had already been through a pot brewed from Seville orange-flavored beans. Ellen preferred Folgers from whatever store had it the cheapest.

  She wore men’s pajama pants with hems dragging on the floor and a thin, faded T-shirt that she considered her most comfortable. She was just back from filling the bird feeders before any of the neighbors were up to see her outside. Buddy, the tri-colored Australian shepherd, stayed on Ellen’s heels. His paws were immaculately clean.

  “What?” Janet Evans was not aware of the folded newspaper in one hand and the sharpened number two pencil in the other as she finished watching the morning news on the local television station. “It’s decaf.” She always prepped the coffeemaker for Ellen when she poured the last of hers.

  Her eyes never left the small screen. She was draining the last use from an ancient seven-inch television by letting it run continuously on the breakfast table. She had another small TV turned on in her former sewing room that was now her home office. The Singer cabinet worked well for her computer, but she could not remember the last time she had plugged in the sewing machine. It was a holdover from her defunct marriage. Janet had made most of her daughter’s clothes until they both started school.

  Ellen’s hair had turned solid white in the past several years. She kept it cut no more than an inch long. It was easy enough to tell how she had slept by the angle the hair stuck up from which part of her head.

  “Comb’s good for that.” Janet’s yogurt sat untouched. She stuck the pencil behind her ear and idly felt her own not-quite-shoulder-length hair—almost long enough for a trim. Janet didn’t need a mirror to know it was time for a dye. She refused to allow the presence of a single gray strand in what Ellen referred to as her Ronald Reagan hair.

  Ellen ran her hands through her hair to uniformly tousle it. “How’s that?” She flipped her partner off.

  “Lovely.” Without looking down to see if the dog was in his usual spot beside her chair, Janet held the toast crust beside her hip. The bread was gently taken from her fingers.

  “Faster or slower today?” Ellen blew on the hot coffee, knowing the sound annoyed Janet almost as much as the decaffeinated grind annoyed her. She smelled the carton of one percent milk beside Janet’s cup to decide the likelihood of eating cereal for breakfast.

  “It’s fresh.” Janet read the clue and knew the answer before she finished counting the squares to fill. “What are you talking about?”

  “You always time how long it takes you to complete the crossword puzzle.” Ellen glanced at the mostly empty grid. “Must have been a good lead story to slow you down enough to actually read the newspaper and watch the television version, which is usually the reporter reading from the newspaper.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “You’re running late.” She intentionally let her boobs press against Janet’s arm as she leaned over the table for the cereal and the neatly folded front section of the newspaper. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  “Oh, please. You wish.” Janet pushed Ellen away as she tried to kiss her cheek. “Sorry, fresh makeup. I want to save that article.”

  “What’s it worth to you?” Ellen had not yet opened the paper.

  “Eat your bran flakes. You know all that matters to you in the morning is a good poop.” Janet’s hand rested on Buddy’s head. “We know who the sweetheart in this house is, don’t we, Bud?”

  “Damn, how long have we been together?” Ellen snapped the paper open as she walked toward the refrigerator.

  Janet frowned through her drugstore reading glasses as she was slowed by the double meaning of the next clue. “Just go to the den. I’ll talk to you tonight. I’m running late. Some of us still have a job to go to.”

  Her partner of twenty-one years had not yet decided what to do with her time now that she’d exercised her option to draw a pension after passing her fifty-ninth birthday and having thirty-seven years of service with the local women’s college. Ellen leaned toward camping out in the den watching cable television and cruising the Internet all day. Janet kept giving Ellen the ads for art classes offered by the city with the hope that she would discover a new hobby or, heaven forbid, a hidden talent.

  Ellen actually had a knack for ceramics but decided after three weeks of classes that it was too girly for her to continue. They were both watching for the announcement of the recreation department’s next woodworking class.

  Ellen read the opening paragraph and whistled as she looked over her glasses at Janet. “Congratulations, Mrs. Evans. You did it. Both of those damn women in prison, one for twenty years, the other for five. Murder of the first degree, conspiracy to commit murder. Overt act and malice aforethought…those words you love to hear.” Ellen whistled again, causing Buddy to bark. “I still can’t believe that sorry-ass brother of hers got off scot-free. You must be glad to have that mess over with. I know you learned things about your friend you wish you hadn’t.”

  “Twenty years with the possibility of parole after five, eight years reduced to five…such a small price to pay.” Janet rubbed Buddy’s head to calm both of them down. She had purposely avoided knowing the sentence before it was pronounced. There weren’t enough years left to the two women convicted to make restitution for the death they caused.

  “Who always says justice is fleeting at best?” Ellen frowned and continued to read the synopsis of the guilt phase of the trial that had ended almost a month earlier. Ellen missed the bittersweet smile that briefly crossed Janet’s face when she heard the quote she usually muttered about most cases. Ellen shuffled into the adjoining den, dripping milk from the cereal bowl. Buddy obligingly trailed her, licking the drops from the floor and knowing he would have the bowl when Ellen was d
one. “Why you don’t want to retire and do want to be involved in agency and family cases is beyond me.”

  “Some of us lost money in the stock market instead of catching the small tech companies that paid out big. Some of us went to college later in life and have loans to pay off. Some of us had to pull our money out instead of becoming vested in a decent retirement program. Some of us paid child support. Why you get up this early when you don’t have to is beyond me.” Janet watched Ellen ruefully. “I know you guys have a busy day of television watching planned.”

  Ellen had been Janet’s biggest supporter when she put herself through four years of college and three of law school. Ellen had waited patiently for their time together as Janet figured out she needed to divorce her husband. Ellen hadn’t questioned Janet’s changing jobs five years before to become partners with a small town lawyer who never turned down a case, instead of staying with the county’s commonwealth attorney. Most importantly, Ellen had understood Janet’s friendship with a woman young enough to be her daughter.

  Ellen’s voice trailed off in the other room. “I did like her, you know. She deserved better.”

  Janet’s pencil stopped midway through the next answer. Her mind was not on the puzzle, even though she felt obligated to fill in at least half of the blanks no matter the time it took. She was not willing to take a chance that missing one morning’s mental exercise would hasten whatever form of dementia awaited her in a few years. Her mind was on a decision she made shortly after the guilt phase of the trial was over—she would not become involved in the sentencing phase or appeal unless subpoenaed. Her part had been to bring an indictment to trial. Those women killed her dear friend and there was no appropriate restitution.

  She stared out the window, taking no notice of the finches jockeying for a perch on the feeder. To think, her true friendship with Beth Candler started only three-and-a-half years earlier over her impersonation of Dolly Parton, yet Beth had become the friend of a lifetime.

  Chapter One

  “How in the hell did I let myself be talked into doing this?” Janet looked at herself in the full-length mirror, then at the assemblage of outfit strewn across the bed. “That damn Greg must have cleaned out the bottom of his closet for me…literally and figuratively.” She chuckled at her own play on words.

  Janet was average height. She preferred to admit to five foot six inches, yet knew she was a little shy of that mark; it just had a good sound to it. Her figure was not bad, just solid and a little more in circumference than she preferred. Reality was a hard taskmaster. She had borne a child, she loved food, and her life’s work was fairly sedentary. The outcome was inevitable.

  Her religion on Sunday mornings was golf, regardless of the weather. She maintained that she had closer interaction with a divine being on the open greens than anyone confined to a hard pew, boring speaker, and off-key choir possibly could. Besides, it gave her and Ellen much needed time together.

  “The only place we’re the same size is the bust.” She stared at the low-cut dress as she adjusted the plunging neckline and wished the lines didn’t continue straight down her body. When had her waist disappeared? She twirled, sending the yards of material in the skirt of the dress into motion similar to a descending parachute.

  “Here goes nothing.” She pulled and tugged the curly long blond wig over her pin-curled hair. “Jesus, this feels like a bizarre B-girl stocking cap.” She adjusted the hairline and burst out laughing.

  “May I see you yet?” Ellen called to her from the kitchen.

  Janet bargained for privacy while dressing by threatening Ellen with a weekend of transcribing boring legal documents. “Absolutely not. You may only see after I’m completely ready. I don’t have time to rebut your commentary.” Janet looked at the package of glittery fake nails. These she did know what to do with. She used the plain ones on a regular basis, applying polish to match her lipstick despite the crude remarks from Ellen.

  She concentrated on the jars of makeup and variety of foam and bristle brushes. Soon she had on twice her normal amount of makeup, as well as the longest false eyelashes she had ever attempted to stick to her eyelids. “Payback is hell, Greg.”

  Janet stood back from the mirror and stared at herself. A low rumbling laugh began near her ovaries and carried all the way up until she howled with laughter. “Why did I wait until after I was in my fifties to have this much fun?”

  Ellen could no longer tolerate the separation. “What in the hell?” Her jaw dropped. She was absolutely speechless and broke out in a laugh that doubled her over. She barely drew enough breath to speak. “You, Ms. Low-key, conservative, don’t-call-attention-to-my-personal-life, are going out in public like that?”

  Janet nodded, struggling to breathe and speak at the same time. “I most certainly am. I intend to enjoy parading around like this. I’ve spent more than my fair share of time in those damn stuffy business suits. Don’t even try to ruin this for me. It’s not going to work.” She accentuated the last few words with an accompanying flounce of the four-inch dangling rhinestone earrings that she had spent an entire dollar on at the discount store.

  “Ruin it? I’m sorry now I didn’t come up with a Porter Wagoner outfit to go with you. You look like Dolly Parton’s bimbo grandmother. I love it.” Ellen bent over with another burst of cackles.

  “Close enough.” Janet clapped her hands together, careful of the nails. “Perfect. You couldn’t have paid me a better compliment. That’s exactly the look I was trying for. No one at the party knows what my costume is except Greg and maybe Andy if Greg can’t keep a secret. What delicious fun this will be. You better reconsider.”

  Ellen shook her head. “As much as you tempt me…and you do in that outfit, by the way…I’ll still pass. Too many straights will be there. Too many of the people you work with don’t know about me. I’m not much on mixed parties. You wouldn’t want me there drinking enough to loosen up around all those strangers.”

  “Don’t hate. You need to be more open-minded.” Janet tried a shoulder shimmy to check if her boobs stayed in her dress.

  “Damn.” Ellen grinned. “Does Beth know about us?” Ellen gestured toward the door and waited for the lady to leave the room first.

  Janet frowned. “I’ve told her I have an ex-husband and a daughter her age. Have I made a big production of coming out to her? No. I just assumed she knew.”

  “Humph.”

  “Don’t start that. I have no problem telling people I know. I just don’t think my personal life is everyone’s business. Who cares about an old woman of fifty-three anyway?”

  “I sure as hell do.” Ellen slapped Janet’s butt as she passed.

  Janet patted the wig down. “Play your cards right, and you’ll sleep with Dolly tonight.” She winked as she walked past her and out of the room. It was impossible not to add a little extra swish to her walk.

  Janet did remember to take her camera bag from the hall tree—the only safe way for her to survive that night would be as the one taking the photographs. It was a shame she didn’t have a more exciting ride than her nondescript Ford sedan. Why hadn’t she thought to rent a two-seater of some sort? What a hoot that could have been. One thing for sure, she would drive very carefully and drink very little. The last thing she wanted was to be pulled over and tested by one of the deputies she routinely worked with.

  Janet slowly followed the narrow side streets into one of the older subdivisions. It was a perfect Halloween—just chilly enough to know it was fall, warm enough so the children didn’t have to be hampered by coats. She loved October in Virginia.

  Beth’s was the perfect neighborhood for Halloween—a strong middle-class subdivision that had held its value since first built in the early 1920s as a mix of dissimilar frame and brick two- and three-story family homes. She watched the clusters of children approach the houses with parents waiting in the street. She eased to a stop along the curb in front of Beth’s house—a Dutch gambrel with the aluminum siding painted a soft cr
eam and maroon shutters as an accent. It so suited Beth.

  Beth Candler was one year younger than Janet’s daughter. Janet sighed. She had not seen Melody in the twelve years since the child had graduated from college and moved to Chicago.

  Beth bought the house when she turned thirty and left the family farm she shared with her parents through her father’s illness and death. It had not been an easy decision for her to leave the land and her mother, but both women knew it was past time for Beth to be on her own.

  Beth’s mother was called by her mother’s maiden name, Keith, since they shared the same first name. Keith was involved in the small farm community through church and volunteer work, as well as being a reliable babysitter. Beth knew Keith was fine on her own. She rented the farm acreage as soon as word of its availability went out each year. Beth struggled with guilt over losing her father, leaving her mother to manage the Candler land, and spending so much time building a career as an accountant.

  She started keeping the books on the family farm while in high school and taught herself to treat business laws with a Nancy Drew approach, searching for the clues to keep a business profitable and take advantage of tax laws. It was a knack she refined as she slowly rose through the ranks of a local accounting firm.

  Janet knew what to expect when the front door opened. The house was neat as a pin, no random dust or cat hair to be found. Keith teased her only daughter about cleaning a clean house. The furniture was early twentieth century mission oak that Beth found and restored piece by piece at minimal cost. Nothing matched exactly, but all blended together to create the impression of a warm country home that, for the night, just happened to be decorated with orange lights, cobwebs, and hanging skeletons. The food was a mix of country cooking and easy hors d’oeuvres. Beer was on ice in what had been a laundry day wash tub used by Beth as a wading pool in the summers on the farm.