Seeking Refuge

by Alana Terry

Seconds later, they stared at one another, speechless, as Alexa drove by, waving cheerily as she passed them.

  Chapter 6

  EXACTLY THREE SECONDS after she entered her hotel room, Alexa clicked off her flats and unbuttoned her jacket, slipping it off and draping it over a chair. She lay on the bed with one arm covering her eyes. “Home” at The Drake for two full weeks—she should really unpack. I really should... Sleep overtook her before she could complete the thought.

  THE LINE OUTSIDE BARNES and Noble seemed even longer than usual. Her heels clicked on the sidewalk as she moved briskly past the crowd and into the store. A photographer detained her for a quick snapshot and she knew that with the line stretching behind her, the picture would be impressive—exactly the kind of thing James loved to see.

  Inside the store, Alexa removed her coat, brushing a few stray snowflakes from the rich brown wool. The sight of those snowflakes dismayed her, and she found herself hoping the crowd would make it inside before the snow really began falling. James stood behind her chair and gestured for her to sit.

  “You look scrumptious in that one, Alexa. You really should stick to the sleek Hepburn look. It’s so you.”

  “Funny, someone just told me the other day that my signature style is the Regency period.”

  “Ugh—those long things. I vote this one.”

  Alexa slid into the chair, dug her favorite pen from her purse, and unbuttoned the top button of her suit jacket. She’d chosen the boxy but tailored suit because of its professional yet approachable feel—two important qualities at signings. However, she’d also added a pillbox hat with a black blusher and tigerish striped feathers—just to keep James on his toes and her reputation as a vintage connoisseur.

  After two hours and dozens of faithful readers, Alexa was famished. She thanked an elderly woman for yet another compliment on her outfit, while sending silent but urgent messages to James. As one of the store employees opened another case of books, Alexa sighed. She jerked her head almost imperceptibly at the coffee bar as she reached for a new copy and smiled up at the businessman before her. “Would you like this signed to anyone in particular?”

  “Will you sign it to ‘Lorie—L-o-r-i-e?’ She’s my daughter. She loves your work—reads all your books, over and over and over...”

  “How old is Lorie?” Alexa asked as she opened the book and began to write.

  She glanced up just in time to see the man’s expression change from mock exasperation with his “obsessed” daughter to pain. He sighed. “Sixteen. She spends a lot of time in the hospital. You are her escape from pricks, prods, and calculus.”

  Alexa reached into her purse and withdrew a business card. “Is she home now?”

  “No,” the man said, shaking his head. “They hope she’ll be home by Christmas, though.”

  She slid the card across the table along with her pen. “If you wouldn’t mind and you think she might enjoy it, I’d love to visit her. I’m here for a few more days, and my afternoons are often empty.”

  Before she could add that she’d understand if he would rather she not come, the man scrawled something on the card and passed it back to her. “Thank you. I know that would mean a lot to her.”

  Alexa tapped the book in front of her. “Would you like me to finish this now, or should I bring it with me when I go?”

  The man hesitated—watching her. She knew from experience that many offered to visit but few came. She hoped her offer would assure him that she meant it when she said she would. The weight of the man’s pain seemed slowly to lift as he nodded. He shook his head and stepped back. “Thank you,” he rasped before turning and leaving.

  Alexa passed the book to Elise. “Please put that in my bag.”

  A middle-aged woman, matronly and looking as far from someone who would enjoy her books as she could, stepped up to the table. Alexa smiled and asked to whom she should sign the book, but the woman ignored the question. “That was kind of you—really. I’m going to tell all my friends that you’re real.”

  “Thank you.” What else could Alexa say? She glanced awkwardly at James, who shrugged. “Shall I sign it to someone special?”

  AT THE END OF THE SIGNING, James and Alexa hurried into a waiting taxi. “Alexa, I have to admit it. You have class. That deal with the hospital? Genius. News gets around. People like someone with a heart.”

  “I—”

  “Your next book is a bestseller before the deal is even signed. Elise is already trying to find out more about the girl.”

  Trying to keep an edge out of her tone, Alexa spoke as calmly as possible. “I have a contract, James. I met a deadline. The deal was signed weeks ago. Do not flatter me, and whatever you do, don’t investigate a sick child for my financial gain. That’s the lowest thing I’ve heard from you in a long time.”

  James pulled a manila envelope from his briefcase. “The movie rights deal hasn’t been signed yet. Cinamation’s offer is why Martine called this meeting tonight. She’s afraid they’ll get you alone and try to romance you away from her.”

  “They’re a movie company. I’m not a screenwriter, James. That’s ridiculous. And why—”

  “They’re trying to branch out into publishing. Can you believe that?”

  Alexa glanced at her watch. “We’ve got time. I want to stop and change. I didn’t realize this was a big meeting. Oh, and I decided that the chapter I sent you will be for my next book. I want Martine to approve a switch to something new I started last night.”

  James ignored the switch in conversation and frowned. “You look fine. The suit suits you.”

  “Very funny.” Seeing that he was not going to yield easily, she tried another tactic. “If I promise to stick to the twentieth century, will you please give me twenty minutes to change without arguing?”

  She covered a grin as he directed the cab to her hotel. An unspoken understanding existed between agent and author. She could wear her “crazy outfits” as long as they gave her good publicity. The minute they became a liability, Alexa had promised to change her clothing style for public appearances. That notion suited her well. If her fan mail was any indication of public sentiment on her wardrobe, she had no concern of having to overhaul it anytime soon.

  At the Drake, James headed for the bar while Alexa stepped into the elevator. Once in her room, she hustled out of her suit and into her favorite dinner dress—another Audrey Hepburn inspired look. The simple knit dress, black, had a portrait neckline that reminded her of her mother’s senior picture. She exchanged the pillbox hat for a black Juliet cap and kicked off her brown shoes. She grabbed her spike-heeled, pointed-toed pumps from her shoe bag and slipped them on her feet as she dug through her suitcase for a black clutch.

  A glance in the mirror sent her rushing to the bathroom. She wrapped a towel around her neck, swiped powder over her forehead, nose, and chin, surveying the results with a critical eye. Satisfied, she grabbed a tube of nearly red lipstick and added a fresh splash, taking the tube with her. With the lipstick added to her purse, she grabbed a white wool cape, swung it around her shoulders, adjusted her hair, and hurried out of the room.

  Downstairs, she strolled to the front desk and asked that someone have the bartender let James Neumann know to meet her at the front entrance. A glance at her watch told her they’d have ten minutes to spare if they hurried.

  At the restaurant, Martine met them at the door. James murmured approvingly as she checked her cape. “You were right. Stopping was an excellent idea.”

  “Stuff it, James.” Alexa glared at him, silently ordering him to cease flirtation.

  Martine raised an eyebrow. “Has he been drinking?”

  Alexa shot James an impatient look. “How’d you guess?”

  “He only flirts that overtly after a Scotch and soda—or two.” Her eyes took in Alexa’s dress approvingly. “That one is stunning! Audrey Hepburn inspired?”

  “Yep.”

  Martine tugged Alexa toward the restrooms. “We’ll be right back. Jus
t let them seat you. We’ll find you. Elise just called and she’s going to be a little late.”

  Alexa managed to stifle a response until they entered the ladies lounge. “What is it? You sound a little—panicked.”

  “I got a call from your police chief—Barney someone.” Martine rolled her eyes. “Really, Alexa? Barney? You live in the modern equivalent of Mayberry, even sounds a little like Mayberry, and then police chief Barney hunts me down to find you?”

  “His name is Varney. What did he want? Did they find the guy who broke my porch light?”

  Martine’s complexion faded from a lovely olive to a sickly grey-white in the space of seconds. “You—your porch light?”

  Unsure why a broken light bulb should cause her editor such distress, Alexa explained about her sliced hand, showing her the stitches that itched and the thumb that throbbed after a long day of signing. “I’m flying back to Rockland, driving home, and getting them removed before I go on to New York.”

  Struggling to speak, Martine fumbled her words. “Alexa—a woman—someone in your town—name is in my purse—left it at the hotel. Anyway, someone broke her porch light and—”

  Dread washed over her. “Wait. Let me tell you what happened and you tell me if I get it right.”

  “Okaaaay...”

  “Two days ago, a woman flipped her porch light switch, but it didn’t come on. She either reached up and sliced her hand as I did, or she used a flashlight to help her see to change the bulb and discovered that it was broken and all of the glass gone.”

  “Yeah... how—”

  “Wait. There’s more, right?”

  “Um—”

  Alexa continued the scenario without waiting for confirmation. “The next night, the new bulb was also broken, so she called the police.”

  “Barney—”

  “Varney,” she corrected again.

  “Said that someone named Joe took the report.”

  “Makes sense. He took mine too. Anyway, last night is conjecture, isn’t it? They can’t tell exactly what happened, but they think it happened again and when she turned to go inside to report it again, someone rushed up behind her and slit her throat.” The shock on Martine’s face told her she was right. “I’ll even go so far as to guess that a large piece of broken bulb was found rammed into the wound, but it was not the weapon.”

  “How do—”

  Alexa reached into her purse and pulled several folded pages from it. “Chapter one of my new manuscript.”

  Martine didn’t unfold the pages. Why should she? Alexa had just given her the contents. “Look, you go order yourself whatever helps you over a shock—order me a cup of coffee, will you? I’ve got to call the chief.”

  Martine attempted a sympathetic pat to her arm, but it was evident that her thoughts were already elsewhere. Alexa gave her two minutes before she called Elise with news of a potential publicity goldmine. A writer making headlines when her books became fact—cheesy or not— people would buy it. There’d be a pre-order button on Amazon by the end of the week, if Martine had anything to say about it.

  Alexa shook with fury. How many novels had she read as a teenager where some author found his or her work copied? Pathetic and predictable. She stared at herself in the mirror, trying to grasp the reality of the news. “Some creep has made me a cliché and killed someone to do it. How despicable.”

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and dug through her purse for her phone. Chief Varney’s relief settled around her heart. The old guy had a soft spot for her, and she could hear it in every word. “Martinez was going to track your credit card activity, but Joe suggested just calling your editor and seeing if she could get a hold of you. Did she tell you what happened?”

  Thanks to a credible alibi, Alexa managed to convince Varney that she didn’t need to return three days early. “This is both my vacation and my livelihood. I really don’t want and cannot afford to cut it short unless it is absolutely necessary.”

  “Well, when you get done with Dr. Weisenberg at the clinic, you come right in. If we have questions before that, we’ll call.”

  As Alexa stuffed her phone in her purse, her mind whirled with questions. Who had read her manuscript? How? With every effort to hide her confusion, fear, and fury, Alexa strolled through the restaurant, found their table, accepted her menu, smiled at her companions, and muttered, “Never a dull moment in the murder business.”

  The moment she heard her own words, her cheeks flushed. “That was tacky. Did not come out like I meant it.”

  “Funny though,” James offered.

  Martine and Alexa effectively steered the conversation away from anything personal to her and focused on their offer. Alexa hardly heard what they wanted, but it seemed they were requesting an option on her next book as well. By the time they left, James and Elise were bursting for more information.

  “I think it could hurt her,” Elise said ruefully.

  Alexa agreed. “Look, I don’t want to sound flippant, but this isn’t just a dead body. A woman died. She has friends and family. People see me as an eccentric but kind woman. If I become ‘dangerous’ in the public mind, I’ll lose readers. I’ll be just another sensationalist.” She sighed. “And really, even if I’m wrong and it ends up being the most profitable thing ever to happen to me, do I really want it? A woman died!”

  Several diners glanced their way. James shook his head and hissed, “Shh! I’m afraid for you. This sounds dangerous. Someone knows what you wrote and then actually copied it. It’s one thing to watch on Murder She Wrote, but it’s another to live it.”

  “Did that ever happen on Murder She Wrote?”

  “I don’t know!” James protested. “It just sounded like something you’d see on that cheesy old show.” He took a swig of his wine. “Who has seen this new manuscript?”

  Alexa covered her face with her hands. “Just you and Martine, and neither of you saw it before this woman was killed. At least that lets you off the hook when I talk to Varney.”

  “Just them?” Elise sounded even more rattled than she looked.

  “Just them.”

  Chapter 7

  AS HE DROVE AROUND town, he talked to her. “You see why I had to do it, don’t you?”

  As he drove past the church, he imagined her in there, singing. Singing—she was tone deaf. He’d realized it the first time she’d visited. The others claimed that they avoided sitting near her because of her off-key voice, but he knew better. Yessir. They didn’t want to sit by someone as thoroughly wicked as Alexa Hartfield.

  He stopped in at Bookends. Todd was in back, probably goofing off on the computer in the name of “inventory” again. He grabbed a couple of books and went to hide them. Everyone needs a hobby. His was hiding Alexa Hartfield books in plain sight.

  Freud and Jung. He’d put her book between them—very fitting. Yes, it was. He dumped the other copy in the planter near the couch and hurried outside again.

  As he backed out of his parking spot, he muttered, “Will you get it now? Will Todd find where the books are and wonder about it? Will he see through you now?”

  He drove to Sycamore Court, parked several doors down, and watched her house. The porch light glowed in the shadow cast by the overhang. Still, on in broad daylight—was she scared? “Maybe now you’ll understand. This is serious. You must repent.”

  Chapter 8

  PARKING LOTS—OVERFULL and understaffed. A lobby full of people waiting—hopeful and scared. The elevator filled with confident doctors, harried nurses, and confused visitors. Sterile corridors with their waxed floors. Her shoes clicked along, punctuating every step as she searched for the room number on the back of the card in her hand.

  She knocked on the door of room 2318. “Lorie?”

  A tiny young woman lay in the bed, dwarfed by tubes and machines. The girl appeared to be child-sized in a woman’s body. Could someone so tiny read her novels? It seemed inappropriate somehow.

  Alexa silently prayed that she had
entered the wrong room and asked, “Are you Lorie Thorne?”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “Oh, wow! Dad said he had a surprise, but he didn’t say it was you!”

  Assured of the right room, Alexa slipped off her coat and sat in the ugly mauve vinyl chair beside Lorie’s bed. “Well, I found you on the first try; that is unusual for me.”

  Lorie nodded and then blushed. “I—I’ve read all of your books.” A groan escaped. “Everyone says that, don’t they? How embarrassingly cliché of me.”

  Something in the girl’s tone and manner of speaking piqued Alexa’s interest. “I understand you are a calculus whiz.”

  Without accepting or denying the compliment, Lorie diverted the topic slightly. “Not exactly a whiz. I prefer grammar, literature, and a good novel to algorithms and polynomials.”

  “Do you do any creative writing?”

  Again, Lorie blushed. “I play with it some. I have probably a dozen characters all fleshed out in my mind, but...”

  “So, what has stopped you from giving them a story?”

  “I don’t know how to explain it, but when I write I get ahead of myself. I can’t slow down long enough to get the details and the subplots that give stories depth. My stories read like an outline.” She smiled at Alexa. “When I read your books, I see them as a movie flashing across the screen of my mind. Mine read like a verbose synopsis.”

  There it was again—the same speech pattern. She sounded more like an adult than a teenager. Alexa squeezed the girl’s hand and winked at a nurse entering the room. As the woman changed out an IV bag, she added, “That’s exactly how my first draft reads. I call it ‘the time line’ and sometimes ‘the laundry list.’ Once that is written, I go back and put in all the details that I skipped, didn’t think of, or didn’t know the story needed until it was done. Once that is done, I add description.”

  “Really? So, three rewrites?”

  “Not rewriting... I just found that if I take the time to do all of it at once, I put in too much that has to get cut, or I miss little nuances that I catch when I’m dealing with basic plot points.”