The Stonemason and the Lady (Dear Editor Book 2)

by Emily Sharpe

  The van. Eric put the car into reverse and headed back to the diner. Maybe he hadn't left yet. Damn. The van was nowhere in sight. Eric had come there for dinner because it was fairly close by. The apartment was worth a look-see. As he went through the gate of their complex, he slowed down. Eric's eyes darted in every direction, searching for the van. Nothing. He circled all of the buildings before he pulled into his parking spot in front of their apartment.

  Oh well. Probably nothing. Eric sighed, feeling a bit foolish. On a whim, however, he walked around the end of the building and stopped outside their bedroom window. Hoping that no one had seen him—he might be accused of being the peeper, even outside his own place—Eric pulled out his phone and enabled the flashlight app.

  The light revealed nothing near him, but as he moved the phone around, he saw it immediately—a distinct worn area nearer the window. Donna!

  Eric sped toward the club, hurriedly dialing Donna as he drove. She would have the ringer off, he knew, but prayed she'd feel the vibration and answer. Madame X was strict about certain things, and phones were one of them. It made perfect sense—she didn't want members to come out of a room, see someone with a smartphone, and worry they were being photographed or discussed.

  Through the car's Bluetooth, the number rang. And rang. And rang. Eric ended the connection before it went to voice mail. Damn. He wasn't even a member at the club. No key. No answer. How would he get inside?

  Eric was still blocks away when his phone rang. Thank God.

  "What's up, babe?" Donna asked. "I had to step outside to use the phone and it's raining. I'm in the car, but I've only got a minute. Why'd you hang up?"

  "Don't go back inside, Donna. Stay in the car." Eric sounded out of breath, but his voice was steady.

  Donna was alarmed. "What do you mean? What's wrong? Are you okay? I've got to go back, babe. I'm the only one here. I'm quitting soon, but it's my jo—"

  Eric spoke slowly but firmly as he sat impatient for a red light to flash green. "Have you seen a man there in a fishing vest?"

  Despite herself, Donna giggled. The question seemed to come from nowhere. "Noooo. Why? We don't really cater to fi—"

  "I think there's a man I saw at the diner on his way. In a fishing vest. I think he may be one of the Peeping Toms." He had a thought as the light changed and he sped off again. "Maybe no vest, but just a plaid shirt." What if he changes first? He suddenly felt ridiculous. A damn good stonemason, yes, but what gave him the idea he was fucking Sherlock Holmes?

  Donna twisted around in her seat just as she saw the front door closing. "Oh, damn. I've got to go, babe. A member just went inside, and I need to check them in. Bye! Be home in a few hours."

  Holding her purse over her head to shield her from the rain, Donna let herself back inside. Hmm. No one waiting after all. Only she and Madame X had a master key… and then she remembered the trouble about her key that second night. She had looked high and low, distraught that she had lost it, only to find it on her desk the next morning at work. She assumed it had fallen from her purse and been covered up with papers. Had someone taken it, made a copy, then returned the original? Who would do that?

  Donna rounded the corner of the hallway just as an arm could be seen pulling shut a door. In the dim lighting, she could still see enough to incriminate. Plaid. Oh man. What should I do?

  Madame X was with a client and therefore unavailable. Interrupting her at work could have disastrous consequences. But rule or no rule, she needed to let Eric know. "Eric," she hissed into the phone when she returned to the lobby, "I think he's here. The man in the plaid shirt."

  "Open the front door for me," Eric replied. "I just got here."

  "Now what?" she whispered. They stood in the semi-darkness, unsure of the best way to handle the situation, if there even was a situation. "He might have someone in there, Eric, someone we'd embarrass to no end. He might be someone completely innocent of anything but wearing a plaid shirt to an S & M club. We can't just burst in on him!"

  "No, but we could wait for him to come out and then follow him, I guess. Discreetly. Maybe this is a stop on his way to… peeping. Or he's escalated. Tired of just watching through windows and ready to take it to another level. Maybe he's brought a victim here."

  Donna snorted quietly. "You've been watching too much TV," she grumbled. Pause. "But that would be horrible."

  They were still discussing their options when the silent club phone glowed red, signifying a call from someone on the premises. "Lemme grab this," Donna said quietly. She cleared her throat softly and assumed her friendly phone voice. "May I help you?"

  It was a man. "I'm having a little difficulty with some of the equipment. I-I'm new at this, and there's some gizmo here that seems to be stuck. I was trying to fix it and the lights went off. Could someone take a look?" There was a low laugh. "I'm still decent."

  Donna rolled her eyes and mouthed the word "repair" for Eric's benefit. "Of course. I'll be right there—what room are you in?"

  Eric couldn't hear the voice at the other end, but even in the relative darkness, he recognized Donna's reaction for what it was—fear. She softly placed the receiver back in its cradle. "That was him. Plaid Man. What should I do? What do I say to him?"

  Eric straightened his back. The man he had overheard in the diner was here. From what little he could make out, the man knew Donna. There had definitely been someone looking in their window from outside. He had mimed cameras. The man just feet away from him, he believed, intended to do her harm. But what proof was there? They could call the police, but what exactly could they tell the dispatcher? Could he risk ruining Madame X's club because of a feeling, a guess, a hunch?

  "Give me the key," he whispered. "I'll go."

  Breathing hard, Eric turned the key in the door; it opened into darkness. The door slammed shut and he heard the lock reengage.

  The light went on again as a voice said, "Thank you for—oof!"

  Eric's fist made contact with the man's jaw, pushing him hard into the door. He was indeed wearing a plaid shirt. It was indeed the man from the diner. "You're not exactly what I had in mind," he said calmly, rubbing his jaw. "But I don't mind getting rough if you don't."

  Standing in the hallway, Donna could only guess what was taking place. The walls were soundproof. Her imagination was running wild. What is taking so long? After an agonizing amount of time, the door finally opened. Eric, bruised and bloody but smiling grimly, nodded for her to come inside. "Do you know this guy?"

  Lance Glover, bound by both ankles and wrists, hung on a St. Andrew's cross. His nose appeared to have been broken; his shirt was torn. "Donnalet!" he cried out. "I think there's been a misunderstanding. This prick thinks I've come here to hurt you. Nothing could be further from the truth. Nothing! I want to make you famous."

  "This is the guy from work!" Donna exclaimed. "The jerk! The photographer!" She stepped closer to him. "He grabbed me the other night when I worked late, and Lord only knows what he would've done if the guard hadn't come in—"

  Eric embraced her. "He grabbed you? Why didn't you tell me? Never mind; we can deal with that later. So what do we do with him now?"

  Donna crossed her arms. "I know what I'd like to do." She walked over to a little table and picked up a whip. "Were you planning to use this on me tonight, Lance?"

  Lance shook his head as vehemently as the choke collar would permit. "I've done nothing wrong. I was going to do nothing wrong. I just wanted to take some photos. You weren't cooperative. There was an order for photos of a woman with curly blonde hair; that's all. Someone out there likes your 'type'. Of course, I agree with him. You could have—"

  Eric's blow to Lance's stomach shut him up, but to his credit, the man recovered quickly. "That's it. I'm pressing charges. I'll have the club closed down and see you both in jail. I'm a member here. I have a right to be here. I paid to be here."

  Just then, Donna noticed Lance's padded backpack in a corner. As she walked in its direction, she cooe
d, "So, there's nothing naughty on your camera?"

  For the first time, the man on the cross looked frightened. His face drained of color, contorted in horror. "You can't do that; you can't see. That's my personal property. Stop! No!"

  He continued to plead with her as she slowly, even coyly, removed the camera from the bag. "Ooh, look," she murmured. "A camera. Lance has a big, big camera. Now let me see. How does it turn on? Oh, there it is. Well, what do you know? Pictures of women taken through their windows! Hmm. I think the police will be quite happy to look at all your wor—" Donna froze as she scrolled through more images.

  There were dozens of photographs of her. There she was at work, in the parking garage, bending over to pick something up, on the phone, laughing at lunch. She gasped. What the fuck? At the apartment, too. Naked, getting dressed, talking on the phone in her FaceTime costumes. He had obviously been stalking her for months. Without a word, never taking her eyes off the man on the cross, she handed the camera to Eric.

  The camera had re-set to the beginning. He scowled as he thought of all of those women around the city, blithely going on about their business without a clue that they were being watched. Photographed. Their privacy invaded, their images virtually raped by this man. When he came to the first photo of Donna, he looked no further. With an anguished cry, he held the camera high over his head, as if to throw it against the wall.

  Both Lance and Donna screamed in unison, "Don't!"

  "My work!" Lance pleaded. "My camera! That's worth a lot of money. You have no right."

  "The cops!" Donna cried. "It's proof." She walked to Eric and laid a hand on his arm to calm him. She had never seen him so angry. She wasn't sure he could even hear her, so intent was he on destroying the camera with its vile contents.

  Slowly, he lowered the camera and pulled out his phone. "Yes, I'd like to report a Peeping Tom," he said quietly, giving the club address. "What? No. Trust me, he's not going anywhere."

  15

  All is Well

  The hearing for Lance Glover was well-attended. When word got out at the magazine that one of their own, or who had been one of their own, would stand before a judge, Worth announced that anyone wanting to be there could have the day off. Although he had done nothing wrong in the hiring process, he still felt responsible at some level. The least he could do was appear in court, answer any questions the judge might have, and restrain Eric if it came to that. Donna had described the events leading to Lance's arrest, and Worth secretly wished that Eric had taken more liberties with the troll.

  Newspaper headlines simply read Peeper in Custody. Every scared woman and indignant husband came out of the woodwork for the spectacle. Just as the community had breathed a corporate sigh of relief when Jessica had identified the arsonist last year, it now breathed another for a little while, at least for now. Rumor had it that Lance Glover could identify other Peeping Toms in the city and was anxious to cooperate with the authorities. A plea bargain was on the table, but all that would be decided later.

  Today, Judge William Tate eyed the full house in his courtroom, wishing he'd gotten the haircut his wife had been nagging him about for weeks. The Peeping Tom case would be in the news and stay in the news, possibly for a very long time. The judge smiled. It was an election year.

  His wife had issued clear orders at breakfast: no way should that horrible man be free on bail. The judged squirmed in his seat. Although there were multiple infractions, Lance Glover had no prior arrests. Under the law, there wasn't much wiggle room. But there was some.

  Donna happened to be looking at Judge Tate when the bailiff handed him a folded note. The judge opened it, his mouth moving a little as he read. Grimly, he nodded and said something to the bailiff, who headed off in a hurry, his purpose unrevealed to the courtroom.

  When the time came, Judge Tate addressed the accused, "Lance Glover, you have been charged with voyeurism, invasion of privacy, petit theft, assault, and the sale or distribution of pornography. How do you plead?"

  Lance Glover displayed none of the bravado he'd shown at the magazine—a few nights in county lock-up can be educational—but he spoke loudly and clearly, "Not guilty, your honor." The spectators responded with various catcalls and boos, necessitating the judge's use of his gavel.

  When the room was quiet again, the Assistant District Attorney asked the judge to consider Glover a flight risk. He had no family in the area and had recently quit his job, he said, waving vaguely in Worth's direction. The judge took it all in. The magazine. Maybe they would like to do a feature on him? Good publicity…

  The public defender was about to put in her own two cents when one of her assistants handed her another folded note. She conferred with Glover and then addressed the judge. "There are protesters outside the courtroom, Your Honor. Mr. Glover is happy to stay in protective custody. Request for bail is withdrawn."

  After sitting in jail for several weeks, despite the numerous allegations, Lance Glover never stood trial. As expected, he pled out, alerting the police to several other enterprising photographers in the city he knew to be operating currently for the benefit of a particular online pornographer—some professional, like him, others, amateurs. In exchange for his testimony, he was granted five years' probation—in another city. A group of women also filed a class action civil suit, winning a nice settlement.

  Madame X's club did not suffer at all from the eventful night with Eric and Lance. There was an upgrade to the security system—keypads rather than keys—and Madame X hired full-time staff to maintain safety and privacy for her clients. It was rumored that Lance had installed tiny hidden cameras, which Madame X never confirmed or denied. She did, however, assure her clients that after a brief closure, the club had passed a thorough inspection and was open for business. There was, if anything, an uptick in membership.

  It was a beautiful spring day in the city, sunny with a cool breeze announcing that they might have a few more days of sweater weather before things heated up. Eric met Donna downtown for lunch—he was building ornate stone columns outside an office park nearby. They sat and enjoyed hot dogs by the fountain as they had done the first day they met.

  Today, Jessica and Worth joined them. The four often spent time together these days, and Jessica was impressed by how much more outgoing her ex-boyfriend was. Whatever influence Donna had had, the results were positive. Donna still seemed to be more fragile, but every day saw improvement. And maybe fragile was the wrong word, Jessica decided. There was something she needed, though. She hoped her friend would get it.

  While Eric conversed with Worth on any number of topics, Jessica and Donna compared baby photos on their phone. Between Angela's family and the adopted extras, the baby lacked for nothing. Layla and Keith were completely comfortable spending a date night out while Jessica and Worth, Chet and Carol, Kari and Jon, or Donna and Eric babysat. They rotated Friday evenings, besides family gatherings and impromptu visits. Angela thrived with all the attention.

  "I swear, she's the cutest baby ever," Donna gushed. "I told Layla she should take her to a photographer, sign her up for modeling. Those baby ads in the magazine have got nothing on her."

  Jessica agreed. "Paul's going over this week, in fact. He has friends in the 'biz' as he put it. Who knows where it will lead? She could be the new face of baby food, diapers, or Baby Gap." She grinned mischievously over her hot dog. "I mean, you were going to be a model, so…"

  Donna laughed and threw a French fry at her friend before her smile turned into a frown. "You have no idea how horrifying that was, to see myself on that perv's camera. I just hope all the video from the club was destroyed along with the files. We found a camera in every room. Every. Room."

  Jessica raised her eyebrows. "So you and Eric may have starred in some smash hits without knowing it?" She knew by now that Donna's interest in the club pre-dated her job there.

  Donna made a face. "There was that one night. But let's just say we may have and leave it at that. Anyway, we're not members
there. Our room at home will suffice. The club brings back bad memories."

  "Ah yes, the infamous red room!" The first time Jessica and Worth had eaten dinner at Donna and Eric's apartment, she'd opened the red room door by accident, thinking it was the bathroom. Of course, they had to get the whole story—the bullet version, anyway.

  On the way home, Jessica had brought it up again to Worth. Was that something he thought he would enjoy? A red room? The outfits? The toys?

  Worth had shaken his head. "Different strokes for different folks, love. And you already 'stroke' me just fine." To encourage her, he grabbed her hand and placed it in his lap as he drove.

  "You don't fantasize about other things? I mean, I'm willing to do just about anything you want," Jessica had offered, her hand exploring. "Within reason."

  Worth chuckled. "Don't you know me better than that? I know we haven't been married all that long, but seriously? Let's see, I'm going to quiz you. What size shoes do I wear?"

  "Twelve narrow."

  "Okay. That was an easy one. What's my favorite color?"

  "Green. Like your eyes."

  "Correct again. And what, pray tell, is my favorite ice cream flavor?"

  "Vanilla." The look on his face when she said the word was priceless. "You mean…"

  Worth had pulled into the condo garage, shut the car off, and taken Jessica's face in his hands. "I mean that I could not care less if anyone thinks we are 'vanilla', or even if we are. If handcuffs and whips bring pleasure to other folks, great. There is no need to compare ourselves to anyone else. I love you; you love me. And when you get right down to it, what goes on behind closed doors is no one's business."