by Alana Terry
Alexa’s head shook emphatically. “Not possible. Single mom, husband left her for another woman, barely making it financially...”
“Sounds like a good motive to me—jealousy.”
“No, she’s just disappointed. Tonight, a man paid attention to her and we ripped that from her. She’s exhausted and not thinking clearly. When she has a chance to rest, she’ll feel terrible.”
Though not convinced, Joe kept silent. Heather’s behavior was not that of a tired mother. He sensed something was off. With a shrug, he laced Alexa’s arm through his and set off in an exaggerated stroll, hoping to lighten the mood. It worked. Alexa relaxed just a little. They walked home—almost briskly—chattering, and for a brief moment in the nightmare, the world was fine, life was grand, and no silent horror overshadowed their lives.
The moment she stepped in her door, the mood changed. Chief Varney hovered over her desktop computer, randomly typing words into her pass-worded account. “Miss Hartfield, what is your password? I’ve tried every one of Austen’s characters that I can think of, but none of them work.”
“Every one?” She almost snickered; Joe was sure of it. “How many have you tried?”
“Four—and that doesn’t include Austen, Jane, or any combination of those names.”
Now Joe tried to stifle his own snicker, leaning against the door to watch what he knew would be a comical scene as it played out before him. Rich—absolutely rich. Alexa moved the keyboard to comfort level for her and typed in her password. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but it isn’t one of Austen’s characters—my laptop is.”
Nodding, the chief said, “Darcy, isn’t it? I knew that went to something.”
“Knightley. I prefer him to Darcy.”
“Ok, fine; whatever.” The chief tapped at the screen. “Show me in your story where you used the shovel.”
Chief Varney was clearly losing the last shred of patience he possessed. Two minutes later, he glanced up at her with incredulous eyes. “The tip fell off the poker?”
Chapter 16
HE WATCHED—DELIGHTED. The house swarmed with officers—everyone on the force it seemed. They’d tell her now. They’d make her stop. He almost shouted his glee. “See, I told you they’d finally see. I told you they’d stop you!”
He took out his binoculars. He could see them dusting it for fingerprints. Did they think he was stupid? Did they think he hadn’t read every one of her filthy books to see where killers made their mistakes? People underestimate those they should watch the closest.
They examined every vehicle on the street. Martinez—the bungling oaf—drove up and down streets looking for his car. As if he would drive a car that they’d expect.
Cold—Zacchaeus probably wore sandals and a long-sleeved robe—was probably hot. He wondered if she was cold. He gazed through his binoculars, trying to catch her expression. Getting late—he should go. She’d be waiting for him anyway. Yes, she would.
Chapter 17
ON SUNDAY MORNING, Alexa shuffled out of her room in her robe and slippers. The living room air, warm enough to be stifling, surprised her. A mess also awaited her—a gift from the previous evening’s invasion. After she had answered every question Varney could throw at her, she’d put on her favorite nightgown, brushed her hair, and went to bed with orders for them to lock up when they were done. Small town life certainly had its advantages.
She hefted a log and opened her woodstove, surprised at how much heat still radiated from it, but discovered that it still burned briskly. Her eyes grew wide as the scent of brewing coffee assaulted her senses. She knew she’d forgotten to set the coffee timer before bed. The sound of keys in the lock took things to a new and terrifying level. Someone did have keys to her house!
Joe saw a flash of white in his peripheral vision as he entered the house—again. He stood near the stove warming his hands and rubbing his half-frozen cheeks. Subzero sleeping bags are fine for the rest of my body, but I nearly had frostbite of the nose, he grumbled to himself. The scarf he’d wrapped around his face had done little to prevent the feeling of numbness.
A sound behind him caused Joe to turn. Alexa, face as white as the robe she wore, jumped and dropped a gun. Joe glared at her. “What do you think you’re doing? You can’t just go around flashing guns and dropping them.”
“I—I thought you were the killer. What are you doing here, and how did you get my keys?”
Joe rubbed his hands together over the stove once more and then turned to warm his back. Alexa grabbed the gun and carried it out of the room, and when she returned, she still looked like a fine imitation of a ghost. She glared at him, repeating her question about the keys. “You told Judith that they were in your muff thing. Something about a little pocket inside...” Alexa didn’t seem impressed with his convoluted explanation. “Anyway, she put your lipstick in the bathroom—something about it melting if we left it too close to the stove.”
“Why the stove? Why didn’t you just turn on the thermostat?”
Joe chose not to explain that he hadn’t noticed—that he’d just assumed she had some strange preference for the stove—like her old clothes and such. She’d probably laugh at him. “You should sit down,” he muttered, trying to save face. “You’re really pale.”
Alexa perched on the edge of the chair. “Were you really here all night?”
“In my Jeep, yeah.”
“What? You should have used the guest room! It was supposed to get down in the single digits last night.”
“I didn’t have an invitation. I did try to switch shifts with Judith—just drive past now and then—but overtime and stuff.”
“Of all the insane—” Alexa moved to the kitchen. Joe followed, trying to hear the rest of her rant. “—December, has to be near the top of the list.” She turned to him, jabbing her finger at his chest. “Next time wake me up and ask, then. How do you think I’d feel if you got sick—” she choked “—or worse out there? I can see the headlines now, ‘Cop Dies of Frostbite While Guarding Local Author’s Home—Author Claims the Proprieties Must Be Observed.’”
Joe smiled to himself. She was back. The terrified woman from the previous night was gone, and in her place, stood the feisty author—the one who wouldn’t be beaten. He remembered something Judith had told him. “Oh, that reminds me. The papers named the murderer. You’re not going to like it.”
Alexa brought him a cup of steaming coffee and quirked her eyebrow at him. “Well?”
“The Plagiarist Killer.”
She groaned. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“I know. The only thing worse might be ‘The Copycat Killer.’”
Disgust dripped from her lips as she railed. “Why can’t they use their brains? What about something like ‘The Eclectic Killer?’ Wouldn’t that be better? Honestly, journalism has lost all of its creativity in pursuit of ‘breaking news.’”
“That sounds like a great book title.”
She shook her head, disgusted. “No way. Lousy title for a book—too schoolish. ‘The Red Flower’ by Alexa Hartfield.’ Ugh. But, it has potential...” He could almost see her mind rearrange letters as if playing Scrabble, working to find the right word combinations. “Eclectic Killings. Eclectic Death. Death to Eclectics. It Takes One to Kill One.”
His attempts to keep his laughter in check dissolved into guffaws by the last suggestion. He’d never seen this side of her. All he’d ever seen of her was confidence and decisiveness. Tossing out weak book titles showed how much work went into the novels that everyone assumed she wrote between shopping trips for her large and varied wardrobe.
She stood behind her counter and waited for him to gain a little control over his laughter before she said, “Ok, Friday. What’ll it be? Omelet? Scrambled, fried, or poached eggs?”
“What, no Eggs Benedict? I would have thought that under the circumstances...”
She pulled out a saucepan as she said, “Go home and change. Breakfast’ll be ready in thirty minutes. Do
n’t be late. Eggs are nasty when they’re cold.”
Joe reentered the house twenty-nine minutes later. The smell of fried ham, toast, and something he couldn’t identify made his stomach growl. He didn’t, however, smell eggs. She must have made oatmeal or something instead. He deserved it with a crack like the one he’d made about Eggs Benedict. He shrugged out of his jacket and went to offer his help.
On the table in the dining room sat a plate of steaming Eggs Benedict. Alexa arrived with another plate of food and a pitcher of juice and set the pitcher on the table. “Eat up; it’ll get cold.”
“Cold! They’re steaming hot! I was just joking.” He sat down, staring at his plate in dismay. “I feel terrible.”
“You should.” She paused long enough to make him look guilty before adding, “You were in the cold all night.” Alexa winked. “Eat.”
He watched as she paused to offer a silent prayer for her food and then cut her first bite. Without waiting for a second scolding, he cut into his egg and took a bite. “Mmmm... this is good. Do you eat like this all the time? Linguini for lunch, Marcello’s for dinner, Eggs Benedict for breakfast?”
“Yep. Having filet mignon after church.”
He almost missed the trace of sarcasm in her tone. Before he could consider it, he asked the question that had been plaguing him since the previous day’s lunch. “How do you have any time to write if you spend all day cooking, eating, and getting dressed?”
She laughed. “Is that what you think I do? I cook and put on clothes all day long... wow.”
Joe nodded and glanced around for a napkin before licking his fingers and taking another bite. Alexa rolled her eyes. “How long do you think it takes me to get ready for the day?”
He glanced at his hand again, causing Alexa to jump up and retrieve a napkin. “Here. Now answer the question; you’re not getting off that easily.”
“Well, weren’t those old clothes kind of hard to put on—layers and buttons and hooks and stuff? Kind of time-consuming, isn’t it?” He kicked himself for bringing up the subject.
“Do you have sisters?”
“One little sister. I know girls and getting ready.”
Alexa grinned, taking the last bite of her muffin before asking, “How long does it take her to get ready wearing ‘normal clothes?’”
“At least an hour—more if she takes a shower.” He felt smug. He was not novice to women and their beauty rituals.
“Ok,” she said. “You’re on. I’ll be ready in thirty minutes or less. If I don’t look exactly like I always do in that time, I’ll buy you lunch. Deal?”
“And if you do make it, I assume that means I’m buying.”
Alexa’s mantel clock chimed eight o’clock. “Perfect. I’ll be in here before it chimes the half hour. Enjoy your meal. There’s more in there if you’re still hungry.”
Seconds later, Joe jumped as he heard her say, “Oh, and, Friday?” He glanced over his shoulder, sure that he had egg yolk smeared on the other cheek. “There’s fruit in the fridge—top shelf, on the right, behind the milk.”
Alexa strolled to the guest room and stared at the dress hanging over her closet door—the same one that had been there last night. The same one that Joe had seen when he went to get Sarah. Though tempted to switch with something longer and fuller skirts, she decided not to be a “sore winner.” That she would win the bet wasn’t a question.
The burgundy wool suit was a masterpiece—tailored perfection that only Laidie could produce. “Lord, I love that woman,” she whispered, pulling the fitted jacket on over an ivory silk blouse. As she slipped on her matching pumps, she turned in front of the mirror, admiring the asymmetrical kick-pleat—in front rather than back. “The detail—love it,” she whispered before grabbing a hat and moving to the bathroom.
She wore a bib as she applied her cosmetics—foundation, blush, powder, mascara, eyeliner, eye shadow, lipstick. Once more she was tempted to add a more elaborate hairstyle—anything to give Joe a fighting chance, but she preferred the low twist at the nape of her neck with her hat. She pinned it in place and spritzed herself with a bit of perfume on her way past her bedroom.
At eight twenty-five, she walked into the kitchen, poured another cup of coffee, and sat beside Joe as he finished his bowl of berries. “Would you like some cream with those?”
“What, not offering me the proverbial crow?”
Alexa laughed. “After lunch, Friday. After lunch.”
ALEXA STEPPED FROM Joe’s Jeep and onto the sidewalk, waving as he rolled down the street. They’d spent too much time at lunch, and he’d be late if he didn’t hurry. She hurried inside, grabbed an enormous package, and reemerged just as Joe reached the corner. His tires squealed, making her curious. It didn’t seem like him to disregard the rules for speed that the town paid him to enforce. She hadn’t said or done anything to irritate him—had she?
Her heels clacked on the sidewalk as she hurried to catch Heather before they left town. Sarah saw her and called for Zach. The boy squealed at the sight of the large gift and raced to catch up with his sister, but the box was too unwieldy for him to carry alone. With a theatrical offer of help, Sarah led Zach, carrying half the box herself, to their house and through the door.
By the time Alexa arrived, the wrapping paper littered the floor and a dozen pieces of the building set lay around him as he tried to organize them. “Zach?” Alexa waited until he gave her his attention before she added, “You need to ask your mom if it’s ok to start this now.”
He scooped the pieces into the box and dragged it down the hall to his mother’s room, calling for her. “Moooom. Mom! Look!”
Moments later, Heather followed her son into the living room and watched as he tried to show her all the amazing things in the box—dismayed. Alexa smiled, nodding. “Exactly. I got what I thought might keep him busy for a long time, but I didn’t think now was the right long time.”
“Zach, go put that in your room. We’re leaving. You can build it when we get home.” She surveyed the room until she saw Sarah by the door. “Sarah, you guys get buckled. It’s probably warm by now. We have to go before I burn half the tank.”
“Have a safe—”
Heather interrupted. “May I speak to you outside for a moment?”
One glance at Heather’s face as the door shut behind her equaled a dissertation on the woman’s fury. “First the dress thing and now this? Really, Alexa? Don’t you feel guilty?”
“Why should I feel guilty for buying them Christmas presents?” She knew her voice came out in a slow-motion monotone, but she couldn’t help it. The question was ridiculous. “I buy them gifts every year—Christmas and birthday—with your permission.”
“Isn’t that set a bit—”
“That set,” Alexa interrupted, “was your suggestion. What is the real problem?”
Heather exploded, verbal shrapnel penetrating everything in sight—but Alexa took the full brunt of the blast. “Do you really think I don’t know what you’re doing? What kind of idiot do you think I am? Leave. Us. Alone.”
“What? You were eager enough to drop off Sarah last night. I have a hard time believing that you’re this upset about me interrupting your evening last night.”
Heather’s eyes filled with angry tears. “You really don’t get it, do you? Why should you?”
“I’d like to—”
“You don’t hear all day how pretty you are and how you have the best clothes and make the best food and live in the best house and have time to play games and take them to the park and to movies—” she choked. “You don’t hear how much they’d rather be with you than their own mother.”
Taken aback, Alexa started to speak and changed her mind. She gave Heather a slight smile before turning away saying, “Have a Merry Christmas, Heather. I’ll pray that you have a safe trip there and home again.”
“See, it’s not so pleasant on the other side, is it?” Heather spat after her. “Maybe now you won’t feel so smug in your h
ouse with all your fame and your money. What has it gotten you? What!” Alexa turned as if to speak, but Heather’s tirade had just begun. “You’re still alone. You have to make friends with children for companionship. You have someone who is out to get you—someone wants you dead. You’re not even safe in your own house! What good are nice clothes and a fat bank account when you’re dead?”
Alexa didn’t look back. She hurried home, unexpected and illogical tears blinding her. At the corner of the Malone house, she remembered the patch of ice exactly half a second too late and crashed down on her ankle. The sound of screeching tires told her that Heather was gone.
Two houses. She could walk two houses. It was probably just twisted anyway. Stiff tomorrow, fine on Christmas—everything would be good.
Then again, standing nearly made her cry—torturous. She used the fences as crutches as she stumbled along home, thankful that Fairburyites liked their fences. The temptation to remove her shoe nearly won out over common sense, especially as she watched it swell. However, cold won the debate. She needed to be indoors before she took off that shoe.
She stood on one leg at the gate, staring at the long stretch of walkway to her door. It had never seemed long before, but all twenty-five or so feet seemed a mile as she tried to imagine limping along it without something to hold onto. Desperate, she began looking for loose boards in her own fence, fighting to wrench one free. At last, she found one, though it cost her another hard landing on her injured foot. At the steps, she crawled up and into the house, shredding her stockings.
Once inside, she jerked her shoes off and stared as her foot slowly swelled to immense proportions. She crawled to the couch, pulled herself up, elevated the foot, and felt around beneath the couch for her laptop. After a few minutes on the internet, she sighed, shutting it again. Ice. The kitchen wasn’t that far; she could crawl to the fridge for ice.