THE FOURTH STEVEN
MARGARET MOSELEY
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 1998 Margaret Moseley All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 1732065635
ISBN 13: 978-1-7320656-3-5
Published by
Brash Books, LLC
12120 State Line #253,
Leawood, Kansas 66209
www.brash-books.com
FOR MARY LOU AND DONNA
Also by Margaret Moseley from Brash Books
Bonita Faye
Milicent Le Sueur
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I’ve never heard of a successful person who made it on their own. For my measure of achievement I credit the family, friends and professionals who have bent over backwards to give me encouragement and a helping hand. Their names are etched on my heart, but here a few names I utter every day…With thanks.
Always my sisters, Mary Lou and Donna. Always my daughters Dixie and Charlotte and my step-daughters Natalie and Sonya.
And always Ronal.
Darwin and Annie hold special places. As do the Hey, Watcha Reading Book Club, The Paschal Girls Who Lunch Group, the Birthday group (Louise Swain, Mary Kruger, Sandy Holloway, and Paula Brady) with continued shout outs to the Fort Smith Little Theatre gang and the Sistahs who were there when the paper was bare (Karen, Jennifer, Susan, Sandra, Robin, Deni, and Janice) from the AOL Writers Café.
To Harlan for help, advice, and insight.
There are special clouds in heaven for publishers and editors who are truly the “good guys,” so thanks to the best: BRASH BOOKS’ Lee Goldberg, Joel Goldman and Denise Fields.
A special thank you to the Mystery Book Stores across the nation. Long may your independent banners wave.
HOW FAR IS IT CALLED TO THE GRAVE?
How far is it called to the grave?
The child looked up from its play.
The grave? I have not heard of the grave.
It must be far away.
How far is it called to the grave?
The lover looked up with a smile.
How far? From the golden land of love
It must be many a mile.
He could not see that his darling
With the bridal flowers in her hair,
As he gave her the wedding token,
Was almost there.
How far is it called to the grave?
The mother looked up with a tear,
The rose in her cheek grew pale and white,
Her heart stood still with fear.
How far? O ’tis close to the hearthstone;
Alas for the baby feet,
The little bare feet that all unled,
Are going with step so fleet,
And they are almost there.
How far is it called to the grave?
It is only a life, dear friend,
And the longest life is short at last,
And soon our lives must end.
But there is One who arose from the grave,
Who ascended triumphant on high,
With our trust in Him, we’ll know no sting,
Though low in the grave we lie,
And we’re almost there.
–UNKNOWN
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY–ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY–TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY–THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY–FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY–FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY–SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY–SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY–EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY–NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY–ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY–TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY–THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY–FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY–FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY–SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY–SEVEN
ONE
I knew three Stevens.
But I’d never thought of it that way.
I mean there was Steven Miller who ran the Texaco station and worked on my car. He was about sixty, thin, with his still-black hair balding at the back and even sparser on top. Steven was my rock, every single woman should have one. I could always depend on him to either come and get me when the car broke down, or to tell me, “Don’t get back in it until I can get a wrecker for you,” even if the car had disappointed me in the middle of freeway traffic during rush hour in a city three hundred miles away from his station.
Then there was Steven Bondesky, who kept my accounts, and who I needed like life’s blood because he was the one who throughout my twenty-eight years of saying, “Yes, I do understand numbers,” who continually told me, “No, Honey, you don’t.” Bondesky looked as if he were the garage owner Steven Miller really was. His beefy fingers were always as black stained as Miller’s, only with ink instead of oil.
Steven Bondesky didn’t call me Honey because we were on intimate terms, but because that’s my name. I’ve been trying to figure it out all my life. Was I that cute? Sweet as honey? What? My name is a burden, and in my darker moments, I’ve wondered if I wasn’t important enough to be named a real name. So, when I was about eight or twelve, I named myself Lydia. Only I never told anyone.
Except my other Steven.
My only friend on this earth is Steven Hyatt. We’ve been friends since high school, ever since the first day of our first class in radio-TV speech when Miss Mott stood up and right there in front of our freshman selves recited “Patterns” by Amy Lowell. It was to die for. And since then—since Miss Mott’s chilling finish when her dramatic “Christ, what are patterns for …” had faded into the room—and I looked at my neighboring student across the scratched pine arms of our desks and saw the echo of my enthrallment in his eyes, we have never been apart in spirit—only in miles.
Steven Hyatt lives in Hollywood, directing movies that mean something to a loyal if bizarre and limited audience, but he’s really as close as the book of poems I carry in the glove compartment of my temperamental automobile.
I never mix the Stevens. In my mind, they don’t have anything in common. They are Steven Miller, Steven Bondesky, and Steven Hyatt, and when I am with one, I never think of the others.
So, when the phone rang that Saturday morning and a man’s voice said, “This is Steven,” after I said hello, it was the first time I’d ever realized I knew more than one.
“Steven?”
The car was running, the taxes were paid, Steven Hyatt was in Australia on location, and I didn’t know anyone else named Steven.
TWO
That was the beginning of Day One.
If I had owned a diary, I would have written it that way—Day One—in black ink, but I can’t de
cide whether it would have been on the left- or right-hand side of the page. Decisions like that are one of the reasons why I don’t own a diary. Also, should I have written Steven—Day One?
I am a nice person. One of the nicest anyone will ever meet. If I stumble on a curb, I apologize to the sidewalk. And I would never risk hurting the feelings of one of my Stevens by saying, “Steven who?”
So, after the first “Steven?” I said, “Oh, Steven,” the way it would sound it you put an extra “e” in the word. Not too strong though, just enough so that it sounded like “Oh, yes, of course, it’s you, and how stupid of me not to recognize your voice.”
“How far is it called to the grave?” Steven said.
I had been waiting for a clue and now knew it was Steven Hyatt playing our old game of Poem, Poem, Who Has the Next Line? The reason for the distortion in his voice must be the distance it had to travel—from Sydney to Fort Worth is more miles than Steven Bondesky tells me I can number.
Organizing my mind to this thought took only a heartbeat, so there was no perceptible gap between Steven’s line and my response: “ ‘It is only a life, dear friend.’ ” I’d even had time to decide which line I thought would be the most appropriate, discarding the other three possible answers for the one I thought would best fit our game.
It must have been the right rejoinder because Steven sighed and said, “Thank God, I thought I’d gotten the wrong number. Now, listen, I don’t have much time. Tell them its over. Our man is dead, and no one suspects a thing. I’ll be there soon, just as soon as I can catch the next train.”
“Steven?” I put the question mark back in my voice. Then, never wanting to be caught wrong but smart enough to know when I was, I sighed and said, “Okay, you jerk, you win. What is that drivel? Not your latest film script, I hope?”
The voice was shaken, and it was not Steven Hyatt’s. “Who are you? What number is this?”
I’ve been to classes on self-defense—every single woman should—and I’ve had hard-boiled policeman sneer at me and say, “Well, honey, if you can’t stand the thought of gouging their eyes out with your thumb, you might as well take a pillow along and enjoy it.” I didn’t learn much at that session except that once again someone was calling me by my name and didn’t know it. But I did know that rule number one was: Don’t ever, ever, ever give out information to a stranger on the telephone. I knew that, but the same instinct that made me apologize to cracks in the pavement led me to obediently give Steven my number.
And then, hoping it might just still be my friend Steven, I said, “Steven, stop it. This is Lydia.”
My caller wasn’t very cool. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it since, and what I would have said, had I been in his situation, would have been, “Oh, Lydia, I’m so sorry. I have dialed the wrong number. It’s just a silly game I play with my friend.” I would have understood and laughed and that would have been that, except for perhaps remembering to tell my Steven that someone else out there played games with the poems of unknown poets.
Or I would have just hung up.
This fourth Steven didn’t do either of the things I would have done and wished that he had. Instead, he drew in a deep breath that strangled him so that it sounded like he was swallowing air, and said, “Lydia? Well, Lydia, forget this conversation ever took place, or I’ll come and kill you, too.” Then he hung up.
I stood holding the receiver, listening to the neutral dial tone. I lowered the instrument and whispered, “I’m sorry,” before I placed it back in its cradle.
THREE
“I don’t understand about the poetry.”
“Oh, Peggy, the poetry doesn’t matter. It’s just a game. What matters is that he threatened me.”
“Because you didn’t know the right poem?”
I leaned over the counter, squashing the cellophane draped clothes I’d retrieved from Peggy while telling her of my morning phone call from Steven. I always told Peggy everything. She thought I had a glamorous life; traveling every day and eating out every night. And because she did, I always tried to remember little things that happened on the road to tell her when I picked up my next week’s clothes on Saturdays. Because of the fourth Steven’s phone call, I didn’t have to make up any stories from the previous dull week. “Peggy! I had a death threat over the telephone.”
“Call the police.”
“What?”
“Call the police. That’s what they do.” Peggy’s brown eyes slid across her round, smooth face to point at the thirteen-inch color TV that sat on the back counter. The set was never off, but I’d never heard any sound from it. I had decided that Peggy was a lip-reader. “Them. On the TV. When anyone gets a death threat, they call the police.” Now she could relate; now she was getting into my problem. “Only it won’t do any good. They won’t believe you.”
I was getting confused. “Which them won’t believe me?”
“The cops. They’ll send someone out. He’ll either be tall and good-looking or short and smart. The smart acting one will help you more than the handsome one. The smart one will believe you.”
Having already written the cleaning check—I’d dutifully filled out the stub for my accountant Steven Bondesky—I edged out of the shop, but Peggy was just getting warmed up. The last thing I heard her say was, “Maybe you ought to learn some real poetry … like ‘The Night Before Christmas’ or ‘Mary Had a Lit—’ ”
I shut the glass door behind me.
Next door, I resumed my Saturday routine by ordering two fresh croissants for right now and two to go for Sunday morning. I was not going to say a word to Judy about the Steven call, but when she brought two cups of coffee to the table and pulled out a chair to join me, I couldn’t resist.
To give her credit, she listened to every word, then said, “Honey, how exciting and a little dangerous.” Then the petite, dark-haired owner of the French Bistro asked, “Did you do it? Did you visit that bistro in Houston for me? What was their house wine? Is the butter flavored with lemon or orange?”
“Arsenic.”
“What?”
“Judy, Houston is this week.”
“Oh. Well, do you like this coffee … Chocolate Andes? I’m thinking about serving it on Wednesdays.”
By the time I reached the bookstore, my third Saturday chore, I was in no mood to talk to anyone, and thankfully, the shop was busy so I didn’t have to do anything but nod to the owner. Ordinarily we’d spend a few minutes talking books, but I picked up my New York Times book section from the rack and left. I never need any books. My suppliers keep me stocked with all the upcoming ones—reader’s copies they’re called—and I had more than I could read at home right now.
Having grocery shopped two weeks before, my Saturday pattern was finished for this week, so I headed for home—after dutifully dropping off the week’s expense receipts to Steven Bondesky. He didn’t seem interested in the Steven phone call, either, but then Bondesky is only into numbers. His office was not far from where I did my Saturday shopping; two freeways away, but not really inconvenient. There are no cute mini-malls on Fort Worth’s south side and I had been lucky several years ago to find the Riverwood one on the west side. From the small grocery to the Bistro, it had everything I needed to replenish myself for the week ahead, and since I had such few hours at home during the week, it was a blessing to take care of everything in one stop.
At home, I fixed a cup of tea and settled down in front of my marble fireplace to drink it and read about the new books in the Times. The trouble with having reader’s copies of books is that sometimes the editors change the endings before the book is published. So, I was not surprised to see a review of a book that I had particularly liked—had, in fact, cried my eyes out over its tormented, unresolved finish—read, “The warm, happy ending makes this one a must for sentimental story lovers.”
Disgusted, I wanted to burn the pages in the fireplace, but since it only burns gas from ceramic logs, it was a sentimental and fruitless aspiration.
Instead, I crumpled up the tabloid-sized pages and threw them up in the air. As they landed around my curled-up legs, I turned to pick them up and was struck by how dark the room had become. I got up and turned on the red Fosteria lamp with the yellow shade, which gave the room a warm glow, but didn’t brighten the corners or my mood.
While I was busy with my Saturday chores, I could forget about the phone call, but now, alone in the big house, with twilight falling on an overcast sky, I felt little and scared like I had when I’d hung up the phone after the strange call.
FOUR
They sent the wrong cop. Silas Sampson was tall, blond, and very handsome.
“No, ma’am, I mean your real name.”
“Honey is my real name, Officer.”
“Honey? Huckleberry?” He laughed and then was embarrassed that he had done so. “Do you have any identification with that name on it, something that says you’re a Honey Huckleberry?”
“Will my driver’s license do?” I sighed. This was not a new situation for me.
Officer Sampson looked at the identification picture on the license and then at me. At five-foot-two with lots of red wild hair, I matched my photo except for the expression. But that’s how I look when I have to wait two hours to have my picture taken for a driver’s license.
He was satisfied and handed it back to me. Maybe that’s how I looked today, too. “Tell me about this house.”
“The house is a house. What about the phone call?” I said and then added, “Officer.”
“It says on the report that somebody called and recited a dirty poem to you and when you recognized the caller as a …” he referred to his notes, “a Steven, that he threatened your life.”
“Hmmm. Not exactly, sir.”
“Detective Sampson.”
“Detective Sampson, sir, it’s a little more complicated than that. You see, I didn’t recognize the voice, I recognized the poem.”
“You knew the dirty poem?”
“It isn’t dirty, it’s just old.”
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