Seeking Refuge

by Alana Terry

  “I know exactly what you mean. I was at sixty thousand words before I realized that the history teacher actually had more motive and a better opportunity. His alibi was perfect. You wouldn’t believe how much I cut from that book once I named a better killer.”

  The kid shook his head, blonde curls waggling around his face like cocker spaniel’s ears. “So, like when did you switch over to the history dude?”

  “When they’re all in the teacher’s lounge.”

  “That’s brilliant man. Wicked brilliant.”

  Across the store, out of sight of the customers and their esteemed author, but with a fine view of the scene before him, he seethed. She was doing it again. Had she no shame, no modesty? Why did she glory in such wickedness? Someone had to stop her before the grisly scenes in her mind sullied and desensitized the minds of all Americans—before the guilt of murder marred her beauty and Christian virtue.

  “I love it when the story is as much of a surprise to me as it is to my readers. Of course, once I know the story has changed, I usually have to rewrite half of it and my research doubles, but it’s worth the fun.”

  She glanced at her watch. “Oh, I’m sorry! I’ve got to go. I didn’t do my laundry again this week, and the cleaners close in ten minutes.

  “Too busy writing?” Todd, the bookstore owner’s son, often flirted with Alexa Hartfield. He needed to beware of her temptations.

  “It’s just hard to remember there is laundry out in my garage. Thirty feet from the door is out of sight, out of mind. I need to find a way to protect a washer and put it on my back porch. Of course, if I do that, then I actually have to do the laundry myself. It’s a vicious cycle.” Alexa’s teasing banter cut him. Was she trying to flirt now?

  “Well, thanks. Everyone appreciates the time you take to come in here like this.” Todd angled for another date. The fool.

  He watched as she waved absently and then dashed for her car. Who would think that someone driving a cute little car like that would glory in the destruction of human lives? She would sit in church the next day as though she were spotless and pure before the Lamb of God, instead of the putrid wasteland of sin that she truly was. He now needed to focus on how to stop her—when.

  Chapter 2

  TODAY—

  An ebony Mercedes rolled through the broad, tree-canopied streets of Fairbury. The passenger snapped pictures between clumsy and hesitant gestures as she directed the driver. She grew agitated as she consulted a map, juggling her camera and almost dropping it—twice. An officer walked a beat along the sidewalk, and although he showed no interest in their vehicle, it made her visibly nervous.

  The car slowed as it passed a small bookstore. The man, Ted, glanced at her and asked, “So, Cheryl...park?”

  The woman nodded. “Yeah.”

  Residents and tourists milled about the town square, but even the newcomers could differentiate between them. “Weird, isn’t it?”

  Ted nodded. “It’s like one big family has company over or something. So bizarre.”

  “So, what—is that cop Barney Fife?” Though tinged with sarcasm, he noted that Cheryl couldn’t hide the hint of longing she felt as she scanned the rest of the square. “She would live in a place like this. It’s like Mayberry in 3-D.”

  “We’ve got this. People in a place like this will be trusting.”

  “Do you see her?”

  Ted shook his head. “No—well, not unless she’s dressed in normal clothes. Where’s that picture again?”

  She grabbed an iPad and pulled up a photo that looked like a studio shot. “Kind of pale, huh? Not gorgeous, but she does have something—almost glamorous.”

  He stared at the picture before he surveyed the area. Cheryl shook her head. “There’s just no one with auburn hair like that—unless it’s dyed and she changed it.”

  Ted glanced back at the iPad again. That smile. “It looks like she’s got a secret, doesn’t it?”

  She glanced at him before answering. That tone—appreciation—she hadn’t expected that. “Yeah, but all white and pasty. Ugh.”

  “It fits her style—porcelain skin. Not everyone lives in tanning beds, Cheryl. She’d look really stupid in one of those long dresses all bronzed.”

  His fingers drummed on the steering wheel, his other hand resting on the gearshift as he waited for Cheryl to take her photos and make a quick run into the bookstore. Cheesy—Bookends. The town was full of stupid stores like that. The Deli, The Pettler, The Market. “Streets should be just first, second, third. Can’t believe they bothered with actual names,” he muttered.

  Once Cheryl climbed back in the car, shaking her head at her failure to find the object of their quest, he eased the car from its parking spot and drove toward the residential area at the end of the street. She punctuated her description of the little new and used bookstore with gestures, directing him toward their destination. The tires crunched over dried leaves as the car purred down the streets and turned onto Sycamore Court. Again, trees canopied the street—sycamore of course—light golden leaves falling with each puff of wind.

  Cheryl pointed to the house at the end of the cul-de-sac. “That one. She calls it ‘Hartfield Cottage.’ Who names houses anymore?”

  “You sure?”

  She called up her file of photos on the iPad and passed it to him. “Yep. Right there. Can’t mistake that Craftsman style. Bet that thing on the gate says the name too. Angle into the curb so I can get a good shot in this light. That golden moment—can’t miss it.”

  Golden moment. Cheryl was freaky about that stupid thirty-two second moment in late afternoon when she got her best pictures. Just as she snapped the first shots, a candle glowed in the window, silhouetting the woman inside. She gasped and took another one. “Oh, man. Perfect.”

  Another window glowed with faint candlelight. “That’s got to be another room—bedroom maybe?”

  She nodded. “Wish I could get her silhouette there.”

  “I’d like to get a few cameras in there,” Ted growled. “Is she talking on the phone?”

  “Looks like.”

  He glanced at his partner. “Did you get what you need?”

  “Yeah.”

  Car in gear, he zipped back down the street. “I’d like to get a recorder in there, at the least.”

  ALEXA HARTFIELD PINCHED piecrust edges with a practiced flick of the wrist, humming an indiscernible off-key tune. Satisfied with the pie’s appearance, she slid it into her tiny oven and set the timer. The counter, a short peninsula jutting out from the wall by the back door, was liberally coated with flour. It took little time to dust off the remains of her pastry rolling and wipe it down. She filled the sink with hot water and soap, submerged the dishes, and set up the dish drainer.

  Satisfied, she unrolled her long sleeves, rebuttoning them at the wrist, and removed her flour-dusted apron, tossing it out the mudroom door and into a laundry basket. Her skirt hung almost to the floor, occasionally dragging in the flour that she’d managed to drop. Broom, dustpan, and a shake of the skirts outside told her all was well in the wardrobe department.

  Darkness slowly descended on Fairbury and crept in through the windows. Alexa hesitated—candles? A smile formed and she grabbed her igniter. Candles tonight. Definitely. She moved through each room, lighting each candle placed specifically to accent the décor. One illuminated the floral arrangement in the corner while another cast the profile of Robert Burns against the wall—a shadow from the plaster bust.

  She snapped on the light of her guest room and opened the closet door. Decisions... Her hand reached for her favorite kilt, but a dandelion yellow jacket caught her eye. Haven’t worn that yet, she reminded herself. Again, she hesitated. It felt like kilt weather, but the yellow... There wouldn’t be much more time to wear it before the weather changed and it looked out of season.

  She hung the dress on a hook beside the closet door and checked it for dust, wrinkles, or any other defect. Still perfect. It would need a crinoline—those
full fifties’ skirts nearly always did. She went into the office and pulled out the necessary garment and brought it back, hanging it with the outfit.

  Hat—where’s that... She found it and laid it on the guest bed. Stockings, slip, underwear, girdle. She piled each garment on the bed next to the hat and then reached for a shoebox. Done.

  Sunday’s wardrobe planned, Alexa closed the door behind her and opened her bedroom door, flicking on the light. She pulled out her robe and nightgown and carried them into the bathroom. There. Wonder how long I have to bathe? she mused inwardly.

  A glance at the timer on the stove told her she barely had time for a bath. Alexa deliberated for a few seconds, her eyes scanning the room. When they fell on her laptop, she sighed. Shower. She still had several hours’ worth of work ahead of her.

  BIBLE TUCKED AGAINST her and her purse dangling from her wrist, Alexa stepped out of her cottage the next morning, decked from head to toe in yellow. With a pie in her other hand, she descended the steps of her front porch, walking briskly toward the end of the street. Several children waved at her, and she smiled as she returned their waves.

  A young girl and her even younger brother raced to meet her. “Mom said we could come with you today. We don’t have to go to Daddy’s this week.”

  “Well, that’s good news for me, isn’t it? We’re having a potluck after church, so why don’t we go ask your mother if it’s okay if you come home a little later than usual.”

  She followed the children inside the house, through to the kitchen. Buried in the depths of the refrigerator, their mother was elbow high in soapsuds, scrubbing. The girl screeched, “Mom! Miss Lexie says they’re having pot lucky after church, and can we stay for it. I won’t have any pot, and I won’t let Zach have any either. I promise.”

  “Ow, Sarah! I’m right here! You don’t have to yell!”

  “Sorry, Heather—” Alexa began.

  The woman gave Alexa an apologetic look before turning her attention to her impatient daughter. After explaining that church potlucks do not serve illegal drugs, Heather waved them off. “That’s fine. Go. Just behave yourselves—and don’t take too much food—and only take what you know you’ll eat.” As the children turned, she muttered, “I’ll be here scrubbing the bathtub or some equally exciting job when you get back.”

  Alexa led the children out of the kitchen. At the door, she gave Heather an understanding smile. “I’ll bring a plate of food home for you. We should be back by two.”

  She felt Heather’s eyes on her as they walked down the steps. Should she have invited her neighbor—again? A voice broke through her reverie. “—says you’re crazy.”

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “Mom. She says you’re crazy to walk around town in those high heels.”

  “Yeah,” Zach added. “She likes your long dresses better than ones like that.” The boy pointed to her calf length skirt.

  “Oh, did she say why?”

  “Zach—”

  “Yeah, because you’re pregnant in the long ones, and you’ll look fat like a stuffed pig soon.”

  Her lips twitched. “That’s an unusual reason.”

  “Zach! That’s rude.”

  “Mom said—”

  “But you’re not supposed to tell her!” Sarah’s cheeks turned pink as she tried to fix her brother’s gaffe. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Little kids always mix up stuff like that.”

  “I’m only—”

  “It’s ok, Sarah,” Alexa interjected. “I’m not offended. I can’t imagine your mother enjoying my wardrobe any more than I’d enjoy hers. That’s ok with me, and I’m sure it’s ok with her.”

  “Sooo... can I tell you what Cadence Whyte said?”

  “Um—”

  “She said you are living in a dream world. She said you shouldn’t try to live in the past since God chose for you to live here and now.”

  Alexa barely stifled a snicker. She watched as Zach walked a couple of yards ahead of them, kicking rocks and other debris out of their way. Teaching him to do that had been the best idea she’d ever had. It kept the boy from running amok.

  Certain that Cadence had overheard her parents commenting on her choice of wardrobe, Alexa took a few seconds to word her response in the least offensive way possible. “Well, some people don’t quite know what to do when other people, like me, choose to do things differently than everyone else. I am very happy with living now and here. I have every modern convenience that I could possibly desire and the freedom to use them or not as I choose.”

  Sarah walked beside her, quieter than the girl had ever been in her presence. “Then how come you wear those weird clothes? Cadence says that only people in movies wear stuff like you do now. She says you just walk around in costumes all the time.”

  “Well,” Alexa said, stalling. “I like my clothes. I think they’re pretty, so I wear them.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone wear a dress like that ‘cept you.” Sarah pointed to Alexa’s retro ensemble, clearly torn between admiration and the dawning realization that being different was not always cool. “That skirt sticks out and everything.”

  “You’re right. Most people don’t wear things like this anymore.”

  “So, why do you?”

  What she had assumed was a desire to be ready to defend her to Cadence Whyte now felt like a collaboration to get the inside scoop on her wardrobe choices. “Well, a long time ago, I decided that life is too short to limit myself to wearing only what is fashionable this year.”

  “But Mom says things always come back in style—like this skirt. She says it was popular back in the eighties.” Sarah spun, her short yoked-skirt and belted top looking like leftovers from Alexa’s elementary school closet.

  “That is true. Some do. I just don’t want to wait around for my favorite styles to come back when I can wear them today. I wear what I like when I like, and I don’t worry about what anyone else likes or wears.”

  The church steeple came into view as they turned the corner. Alexa’s eyes slid sideways every few feet, watching her little friend as the girl’s mind worked through their discussion. At last, Sarah nodded. “Miss Lexie?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I think your clothes are beautiful. I’m glad you wear them.”

  “Thank you—Zach! Wait. Do not cross that street,” she called before turning back to Sarah. “He just wants to get me in trouble with your mom.”

  “Mom says he doesn’t think until it’s too late.”

  They crossed the street, waving at an officer walking the beat. Alexa started to ask if Sarah knew her Bible verse for Sunday school, but the girl spoke again. “Maybe someday Mom can afford to buy me pretty clothes too, but it’s ok if she doesn’t. I’m going to buy cool stuff that I like when I’m rich and famous like you.”

  THE BLACK MERCEDES sat hidden in a sea of cars surrounding First Church of Fairbury. Inside, Ted and Cheryl watched as Alexa entered the building, ushering two children ahead of her. The incongruity of a woman looking like Donna Reed and a young girl who looked as if she stepped off a Disney Channel set amused Ted. “The children aren’t hers?”

  Cheryl shook her head ruefully as she snapped a picture. “No. It’s too bad, really.”

  Her companion nodded.

  Chapter 3

  “I HEARD THAT THERE’S some weird ritual she does,” Cheryl whispered, glancing around the room as if trying to keep their conversation private. “Is it true?”

  The man behind the counter shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not like anyone around here actually goes to her house. She’s friendly in town, but she keeps to herself.”

  “So, what is the legend of Alexa Hartfield? What does she supposedly do?”

  “Well...”

  “Come on, I could ask around, but you’re the book man. You know better than anyone what she’s really like, don’t you?” And flattery is exactly what makes you sing, isn’t it Mr. Bookends? Cheryl mused as she smiled at her
prey.

  “Well, I mean, I don’t know if it’s true or anything...”

  “Of course, it’s just a legend, right?”

  “True. Ok, some of it I know is. I’ve watched enough to see. You know her taste in clothes—totally eclectic, right? I mean eighteenth and nineteenth and twentieth centuries—all mixed up, never know what it is going to be next, right?”

  “That’s what I’ve noticed...”

  “Well, when she finishes a book, she only wears those things like they did in Jane Austen days—the long ones that fit right under the—” He swallowed hard.

  “I think they’re called Regency.”

  “Right!” The guy took a swig of his Dr. Pepper before continuing. “Well, they say that when she finishes a book, she only wears those dresses. She uses candles instead of electricity and handwrites every word of her manuscript with a quill pen—some say dipped in blood.”

  “No way!”

  “I don’t believe that part at all. I mean, I know some people have watched for lights on during those weeks that she only wears those dresses and they haven’t seen it, but no one has seen those manuscripts. I mean, if there was any truth to that, the police would surely have looked into it.”

  “Probably her genre,” Cheryl added helpfully. “Makes people think of the macabre.”

  “Right. Well,” Todd leaned forward. “Here’s the weirdest part—assuming the blood thing isn’t real.” He glanced around the room before whispering, “They say she burns each page, one by one, to feed the ghost of Jane Austen as her literary mentor.”

  ALEXA SMIRKED AS SHE listened to Todd tell the story. She’d never heard the blood for ink version and suspected it might have been created just for the strange tourist who seemed entranced by the silly legend. Then again, he knew she was back there. Had he added it just to tease her? She wouldn’t put it past him.

  The question before her: to leave or not to leave. Would it be nobler to keep her presence a secret or should she make it known? Did she care? The look on the tourist’s face—when would she ever have that chance again?