Seeking Refuge

by Alana Terry

  A glance at her simple thirties suit almost stopped her. If she had only worn the chocolate Regency. Still, it was too good to pass up. She stepped from between the rows of books and called, “Todd? Did you ever get in that cookbook I asked about?”

  The woman opened her mouth and closed it with an audible snap. “I—”

  “Hello,” Alexa said, nodding. “Todd?”

  “Yeah, it’s in the back. I’ll get it.”

  The women exchanged glances—Alexa’s amused and the other woman’s chagrined. At last the woman spoke. “I’m sorry if—”

  “The rumors don’t offend me. I’m always amused at how the story changes.”

  “So, it’s not true, it’s partially true, it’s totally true and you blackmail the police to let you get away with the blood thing, what?”

  “I’m waiting for the next one to be that I’m a vampire. They’re still pretty popular these days.”

  The woman nodded. “In other words, mind my own business.”

  “Not at all. Oh!” Alexa blushed. “Sorry, I just realized that you asked a question. I was lost in where the legend would go next.” She accepted the book Todd handed her and turned back to the woman. “It’s partially true.”

  “So, what part is true?”

  Alexa’s eyes darted between the woman and Todd before she sighed. “It is a truth, universally known but unacknowledged, that towns thrive on the secrets, real or imagined, of their inhabitants.”

  “What?” Todd stared at her.

  “She said towns like gossip.” The woman smiled. “I like you. So, what’s real then?”

  “When I finish a book, I do go into Austen mode. Jane Austen is why I began writing in the first place. I wanted to be able to take people into another world like she does.”

  “Some world—”

  “Right,” Alexa agreed. “I can’t see Miss Austen enjoying my books. Anyway, I wear my Regency dresses, and yes, I do handwrite each of my books in ink,” she added, stressing ink for Todd’s benefit.

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “It all started back with the first book. When I got done, I needed something less vile and more wholesome, so I pulled out my trusty copy of Emma. I love Emma.”

  “Your last name, no doubt.”

  “That didn’t hurt,” Alexa admitted. “So, as I was reading it, I realized that she had handwritten every single word—probably several times.”

  “And you decided to handwrite yours to see how long it took you.”

  “Nothing so very exciting, is it?”

  “But you still do it.”

  She nodded. “I still do it. I use candlelight because I like it—and you have no idea how hard it is to write at night by candlelight. I wear my dresses, and for about two weeks, enjoy a simpler life. It’s fun. Maybe someday those handwritten manuscripts will be worth something more than space taken up on my shelf.”

  “Probably worth a bundle now.”

  “Then,” Alexa said, sliding the cookbook across the counter, “I suppose I should probably move them to a safe deposit box.” She pulled out her credit card and a pen.

  The woman grabbed the nearest Alexa Hartfield mystery off a display table near the register and thrust it at her. “Would you sign it?”

  “It’s signed.”

  Fingers fumbled with the cover and a disappointed expression crossed the woman’s face. “Oh.”

  “Would you like me to personalize it?” A smile. Why didn’t people just ask instead of playing their silly games?

  “Would you?”

  ‘Sure. Who do I sign it to?”

  “Cheryl.”

  BREAKFAST DISHES DONE, Alexa powered up her laptop and burned a CD of her latest manuscript. She attached it to an email to her agent, and sent it off as she waited for the CD to pop out of the drive. The CD went into a prepaid FEDEX envelope, awaiting its scheduled pickup. Editor and Agent covered, she hit “print” and hurried to add more paper to the printer, watching for a moment as the pages dropped into the tray, the rhythm of the machine almost the soundtrack that signaled the change in her life.

  She stepped outside, her hand feeling the air, before she shoved her feet in her boots and pulled on a heavy jacket. It took three trips to the woodpile beside her mudroom to fill the wood box in the living room. By the second trip, the coat hung next to the door again, unneeded. She loaded the Franklin stove but did not light it—not yet.

  Phase one, complete.

  From the closet in her room, she pulled out the chocolate dress she had wished for the previous day. As inauthentic as they were, she pulled on her silky thermals first. The dress came next and then low-heeled boots. Not for the first time, she thanked the Lord for the man who invented zippers to replace rows of buttons and a buttonhook. Faux buttons were good enough for her.

  Next, she twisted braids into a knot at the back of her head. It wasn’t authentic, of course. She’d seen few fashion plates without curls around the face, but Alexa had no intention of cutting her hair for an occasional style. She donned her capote bonnet, secured it with pins, and surveyed the results. Note to self, she thought, have Adelaide make another dress from this pattern—in blue.

  Remembering the brisk autumn air, she opened her dresser, pulled out her ivory shawl, and draped it around her shoulders. A glance at the cheval mirror in the corner of the room caused her to pause. Sarah’s words from Sunday echoed in her mind. Was she out of touch with reality? Clothing choices were one thing, but her silly little ritual—maybe. A second glance reassured her. She felt pretty and she knew by the time she’d passed eighty, she would not regret the years she’d spent enjoying her life and her wardrobe.

  With her manuscript sitting on her desk, Alexa strolled down the sidewalk with a carefree swing of her marketing basket. The streets were quiet—exactly why she endured the summertime and weekend tourist glut. Officer Martinez waved as she crossed the street and entered The Market.

  The small bakery at the back corner of the store had hot sourdough bread on racks. Alexa dropped a loaf into her basket. In the meat department, she found a small beef roast and slid it into a plastic bag before adding it to her basket. The best thing about Fairbury’s small grocery store was, in Alexa’s opinion, the produce. She added iceberg lettuce, baby spinach, romaine, a ripe tomato, and apples before moving to the dairy case for cheese and a dozen eggs.

  Though the basket was heavy, she paused at The Pettler long enough to purchase a small bouquet of fall flowers, thanking him for the daisy he offered her. She tucked the blossom into her bonnet and walked back up the street, heading for Bookends. Todd would get a kick out of seeing her today. Would he realize it was manuscript completion time, or would he assume she was teasing him? Considering his more blatant attempts at flirtation lately, she hoped for the former.

  Once inside the store, Alexa left her basket on the counter and went in search of a new book. She sauntered past the mystery section with a bemused smile. Were there legends of why she didn’t read mysteries that she hadn’t heard yet? Probably—and none probably had anything to do with her simply not enjoying them anymore. After immersing herself in mysteries for nine months out of the year, she simply refused to read another one. She wanted science fiction, a western, romance—anything but suspense, mystery, or horror. Well, sometimes horror.

  A title caught her attention in the science fiction section. Galactic fairy tales. Intriguing.

  THE SCENT OF ROAST beef permeated every corner of her house. Alexa sighed. Roast, baked potato, salad, and fresh-baked rolls—could life get any better? Pie. If she had made a pie, that would have been just a bit better.

  She dipped her quill into the bottle of ink and wrote the next line of her manuscript. After two weeks of hand copying, only the last few pages of the manuscript remained. Another waft of roast reached her, taunting her and making her stomach growl in anticipation. How many times had she worked on the last of her manuscript and realized that the first meal of her sabbatical was identical to
the last?

  Alexa shredded her completed page and straightened the remaining ones. Four to go. She’d be done in an hour.

  As the final words dried on imitation parchment paper, Alexa pulled a roll of sheer blue ribbon and a pair of scissors from the drawer of her writing table. She glanced out the window and saw a silver sedan park at the house two doors down and on the right.

  She grew curious when no one exited the vehicle. A glance at her wood box gave her excuse enough to be nosy. She pulled her plaid wool shawl from a hook near the mudroom door. Wrapped warmly, her hair tumbling in waves about her shoulders, Alexa peered across the street at the car that had captured her attention. To her surprise, it drove away before she even picked up the first log.

  Chapter 4

  LEAVES RUSTLED AS ALEXA raked them into a pile. She saw a couple—people she’d never seen before—strolling toward her and smiled to herself. If they were tourists, and by their studied nonchalance it appeared that they were, they’d be disappointed. Instead of a long dress or some other period clothing, she wore skinny jeans, a fitted azure sweater, and a houndstooth newsboy perched jauntily on her head, holding her hair out of her face. Too modern to be interesting to passersby, but Alexa did enjoy the incongruity of people being shocked by modern attire rather than the lack of it.

  The couple neared her house, murmuring to each other—almost intimately. However, the irritated glances they sent her way startled her. I suppose they wanted a better story for their friends, she mused as she began a new pile. If she didn’t get the leaves bagged before Zach and Sarah got home, she’d be raking all over again the next day.

  Her cellphone buzzed in her pocket. Digging it out, Alexa smiled at the name on the screen. James Neumann. “Good morning, world’s most amazing agent.”

  “Very flattering, Alexa. If only I believed you.”

  “Take a look at your commission payment next time it arrives and compare it with that of some of your colleagues. I would not pay your prices if you weren’t the best.”

  “I give you better service, too.”

  That she couldn’t deny. James had an uncanny instinct for knowing what would sell, how to sell it, and how to get the best from the authors he represented. “So, hey, thanks for calling me back. I had a question.”

  James laughed. “Which ending.”

  “Right. What do you think? The first has a literary feel that appeals to me, but—”

  “Which did you put in your handwritten manuscript?”

  She sighed. As much as she hated to admit it, he was right. Literary or not, the first ending didn’t have the power or punch of the second. “You know which one I used. Scrap the first.”

  “Does Martine have both endings?”

  The question solidified her decision. “No. I only sent her the second.”

  “Always trust your instincts. If you want to write the next great American novel, do it, but don’t mix your genres.” Before she could agree, James added, “I’m also going to talk to Grant about film rights. I think this one will go big screen.”

  “We can discuss that at the meeting. Thanks, James.” She disconnected the call, lost in thought. Another motion picture. Her second and fifth books had been blockbusters. Yes, they had filled her investment accounts nicely, but was it worth it? The fallout in certain circles had finally dissipated from the last one. Did she really want to go through it again so soon after Press Mute?

  Alexa forced that thought from her mind, dialed the police station, and asked for Chief Varney. The man’s voice, slow and lazy, came on the line a minute later. “Miss Hartfield. How are you today?”

  “I’m great. You?”

  “Can’t complain. How can I help you? Going to kill some more people this week?”

  She laughed at their running joke. “You know me, always trying to find some way to kill off a few people. Do you have time for lunch on Monday? I have a new scenario to run past you.”

  “Happy to help.”

  “I’ll be at The Coventry at eleven-thirty on Monday. Will that work?”

  “Sure will.”

  He started to disconnect but Alexa stopped him. “Um, Chief? I’m going to the six-thirty showing at The Fox. Can you have one of your guys drive by my house around nine-thirty—make sure I got home? I’ll turn off the porch light when I get inside.”

  “Will do. It’ll give the guys something to do.”

  Alexa plugged in her phone charger and smiled. Sometimes living in Fairbury was a bit inconvenient, and it was always out of the way, but the security of knowing the local police department didn’t mind playing chaperone on a Saturday night was worth any annoyance the distance from Rockland or Chicago might bring. The simple fact that calling for the drive-by was likely unnecessary added to her comfort. However, the officers didn’t seem to mind. If tourists didn’t love Fairbury, she never would have asked.

  ALEXA ENJOYED THE RESIDUAL warmth of butterfly tickles as she strolled home from the romantic comedy at The Fox. Leaves beneath her feet sent a whiff of musty earthiness as she walked. A quick glance at her phone reminded her that an officer would arrive soon and expected to see her signal of “all is well.” As she neared her cottage, a sense of unease overtook her. Something looked amiss. A quick mental inventory assured her that the gate hung shut, the street was free of unusual cars, and no lights lit rooms that should be dark.

  The gate swung open to her touch. Lights... the porch light is out. Odd, she thought.

  She stood on her porch, staring at the dark light fixture, confused. It was a new light bulb. Headlights around the corner sent her into the house, flipping on lights and starting a fire. With a new bulb in hand, Alexa hurried to change it before she forgot. She reached in to unscrew it but jerked her hand back in pain.

  As blood poured from the wound, Alexa rushed to the kitchen sink, grabbing a fresh towel from a basket hanging above the window. She tried to put pressure on it, but the pain grew unbearable. Afraid there might be broken glass in the wound, she wrapped the towel loosely around her hand, grabbed another to help protect her clothes and car, and floor, and rushed to her car.

  FLORESCENT LIGHTS, antiseptic, and cool, sterile surfaces—the clinic amused her with its predictability. She stared at her bandaged hand, frustrated. Eight stitches in her right hand—right hand. It almost couldn’t be worse—not for a writer.

  She absently shook the bottle of Tylenol and codeine, waiting for the first ones to take effect, waiting for the nurse to return with her discharge papers. An officer knocked on the wall. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Hello, Officer Freidan.”

  “Joe works.”

  Alexa pointed to his nametag. “Not Jordan—Joe?”

  “I don’t answer to Jordan, but I can’t tell the chief that.” He pointed to her hand. “Wanna tell me about that?”

  “I hope Dr. Weisenberg didn’t bother you unnecessarily.”

  “How about you let me decide that. What happened?”

  “Nothing, really. I went to the movie, walked home, saw the light was out—was just going in when your lights shone on my porch.”

  “Shone on the porch—you even talk like a writer.” With his pen, he gestured for her to continue.

  “I just thought the light was burned out. It was odd—just replaced it last week—but you know, it’s dark so it’s burned out, right? I got another bulb, went outside to replace it, reached up to unscrew the old one, and ripped my hand open.”

  “Why didn’t you flag me down?”

  Alexa bit the corner of her lip. “Honestly? Because I didn’t know it was you, and Officer Martinez...”

  From the way Joe continued to write, nodding at her words, she suspected the other officers knew of Martinez’ star complex concerning her. Joe hardly looked up from his notepad as he said, “Guess the chief knows that, huh? He radioed for me to come back from Brunswick instead of sending Martinez or Judith.”

  “Chief Varney is very indulgent of me.”

  Joe no
dded again. “I should probably drive you home—shouldn’t drive on that stuff.” He pointed to the prescription bottle in her hand. “Unless you have someone you’d rather call? Taxi Tom is done for the night, I think.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know anyone I’d feel comfortable calling this late—aside from Tom or Lily Allen, and I’m sure they get enough calls like that. If you don’t mind, I’d really appreciate the ride. Thanks.”

  “I’ve got to go that way anyway—want to look around your house just in case.”

  “Why?”

  “Make sure there is or was no one inside.”

  Her eyes grew wide as his words struck home. “I—I didn’t even think of that. I just strolled back inside—”

  Joe’s chuckles made his mustache twitch. “Fairbury’s queen of mystery misses a potentially serious situation.”

  They rode to her house without speaking a word. Once he shut the door behind her and climbed behind the wheel—silence. Alexa mentally tried to describe it, working through every kind of feeling she had ever imagined, but failed. There was no awkwardness caused by a frosty discomfort, nor was there that lazy companionable air she loved about some of her closest friendships. They simply did not communicate on any level. As he pulled into her driveway, she filed the experience away in her mental folder of potential scenes and chose instead to focus on the broken light bulb.

  Joe left Alexa on her porch while he took a quick walk through the house. Standing, waiting, and feeling rather foolish at the idea that something was seriously wrong, Alexa stared at dark blotches on her porch, illuminated by the light from her living room. Dried blood—hers. Suddenly, a wave of nausea washed over her.

  Just as Joe returned, Alexa gasped.

  He tensed, his hand dropping instinctively on his gun. Once more, her mind filed the motion away as he asked, “What is it?”

  Her hands and voice shook as she said, “Did you send anyone out here while we were at the clinic?”