The Complete Honey Huckleberry Box Set

by Margaret Moseley

  Never stopping, I plunged straight into the water and on about three feet before the breaking waves grabbed the bottom of my skirt. I gathered it with the hand that held the keys and raised it above my knees. “I’m back. I made it again,” I shouted, feeling like Esmeralda must have when she reached Notre Dame.

  NINE

  I slipped quietly into the Sandscript Bookstore, but the clear tinkle of the bell above the door announced to the proprietor that I was there. It was exactly four o’clock.

  “Hi,” I said shyly.

  “Hi, yourself,” he said.

  I could see his red hair above the middle paperback rack at the front of the shop, and then I knew he was standing on tiptoe to peer over the top.

  “You arrived early, I see. You’ve already had communion.” His brown eyes indicated my sandy toes and the wet scalloped hem of my dress.

  “You mean baptism,” I said as I watched him navigate the racks to where I was standing.

  “No, communion … with the sea. I’ll take care of the baptism,” he said, and he kissed me.

  Before I let go and kissed him back, I said, “Are we alone?”

  He threw his head back and laughed while he drew me into his arms, snuggling my wild curls under his chin, a good fit for both of us as he was just that much taller than me.

  “Yes, we’re alone.”

  So I kissed him then, and when he raised his head, he licked his lips, tasting the salt left by the wind and said, “Umm … honey,” and I didn’t know if he was saying my name or talking about my taste.

  “Umm … Harry.” And I kissed him again and then buried my face in his neck, his own personal smell of suntan lotion, sun, and warm skin welcoming me home as much as the lacy waves had an hour ago.

  Harry sighed. “I’d be mad because you did not come here as soon as you crossed the bridge, but I know by now that it wouldn’t do any good. Oh, Honey, I wish you’d trust me.”

  I pulled back so he could see my cocked eyebrow.

  He laughed again and said, “Well, at least enough to give me credit for the sense to remember what day—and what hour—you’re arriving. Honestly, now, Honey, have you ever caught me when I’ve not been ready for you? Or with someone else?”

  Struggling out of his arms, I reached down to pick up my briefcase from where I had dropped it when I had reached to return his embrace. “Honestly, now, Harry.” I mocked his indignant tone. “No, I haven’t. Not since … well, you know.”

  “Not since the Marines landed, you mean?”

  I blushed but grinned. “Well, you’ve got to admit there are fewer customers in bikinis in here today.”

  “There’re no customers at all,” but he, too, grinned at the recollection of how I had found him the first time I had added the island bookstore to my client list: sun-bronzed blondes, brunettes, and redheads draped over the counter and draped over Harry with books in one hand and cold beers in the other.

  I had stood in the doorway, staring up first at the brass bell above the door and then at the indoor beach blanket bingo game I seemed to have interrupted. I must have looked like someone’s lost child come in out of the sun to those body beautifuls. Harry had met my stare and said, “Hello, luv, can we help you?”

  About that time, a cold wet sensation pressed against my left shin. I looked down and gasped. There stood the biggest dog I have ever seen. Yellow-brown and slobbering. On me. I’d never had a dog; Mother was allergic. But I knew you didn’t own them … you had them. Or they had you. I told myself I wasn’t scared, but I was. He was a full-grown Labrador retriever with a head as big as mine.

  Harry sensed my fear. “That’s Bailey. He’s friendly.”

  Right.

  “I’m your new book rep from Constant Books,” I’d croaked. “Honey Huckleberry. Are you Harry Armstead? I have an appointment. This is Thursday, isn’t it?” I knew it was. I never miss an appointment. I rattled on, “But if you’re busy, and you seem to be, then I’ll just call you after I’ve settled in and maybe we can get together later when you’ve not so busy. And can you tell your Bailey to move?”

  Harry had laughed—he was always laughing—and had slapped one of the blondes on her tanned backside, his fingers sliding down her leg as if to lessen the blow and said, “Of course you are. Honey Huckleberry. Of course it is. Thursday. That’s it then, girls. Party’s over. Off with the lot of you.” And like a bevy of wicked witches, they just melted away and I’d never seen them since, but I always thought I would. And now, with Harry and me being … so close, I never took that chance. I always showed up at exactly the time I said and always left the same way. Whatever Harry did when I was not there was Harry’s business, and I didn’t want to know anything about it.

  Now I laid my briefcase on the wicker chair by the counter and said, “So, how have you been, Harry?”

  He went around the counter and leaned over it, placing his chin in his hands and resting his elbows on the wood. “Can’t complain, luv, and yourself?” His face was serious, but I knew that he was still grinning inside at what he called my “settling in ritual.” But I couldn’t help it. I just had to have a few minutes of transition before I could relax and remember that I was with Harry and it was all right for him to make me feel the way he made me feel.

  Bailey helped. With a rush and a woof, he came charging out of the back room, the one where Harry kept the duplicate stock. We were old friends now. Finally. All it had really taken was for me to look, really look, into his dark eyes. I hadn’t known that dogs were so intelligent. That you could actually see them thinking and making decisions. Bailey had decided I was an okay person. Okay for him. And Harry.

  Harry straightened up suddenly and said, “Be a luv and give me your keys. I know you’ve locked your car. I’ll get your bags; then I’ll lock up the shop and we’ll go up and have tea. It’s that time, you know?”

  “Yes, its four o’clock. Little after.” Damn, I was still being stiff as a board, but Harry had come to expect that when I first arrived. “I’m just going to call for my messages first. You don’t mind? I’ll punch in my credit card number, of course.”

  Harry took the keys, shook his head—we’d had this conversation before—and left to get the bags. I never could bring myself to just cart them in. That seemed so … I don’t know … like I expected something or took the situation for granted … or … I don’t know.

  There was a message from one of my neighbor doctors who said he was worried about me since the police had come to call and one from Janie Bridges who said, “Honey, Janie. Call me quick. The jig’s up. The game’s afoot.” I glanced at my watch and decided to call Janie first before she closed Pages for the day. Bailey snuffled at my feet, licking the salty sand from my toes as I punched buttons on the phone.

  “Janie? Honey. What’s up?”

  “Honey, I’m so excited. I’ve figured it out. I know where Steven is. Well, at least, I’m pretty sure I do. After she left, I thought about what she’d said and I know I’m right. I just know it.”

  Steven.

  I hadn’t thought about him for days. Not seriously anyway. And of course, not since I’d crossed over onto the island. More than an hour ago.

  “What are you talking about? Who is she? And where is Steven?”

  “A customer I had this afternoon. She was this nice lady who asked specifically for Cristie’s Murder on the Orient Express. You know, the one where every character turned out to be the murderer? It was one of her favorites, and we were talking murders, and she said she loved that one because of the train. That she missed train travel in the United States. That no one does it like the Europeans. And after she left, I got to thinking about what she’d said. And she’s right, you know, that’s where Steven is.”

  When Janie paused, not because she was finished but because she was gathering wind for her next verbal onslaught, I quickly interjected, “On a train? We know that, Janie.”

  “No, not just on a train. He’s in Europe.”

  “E
urope?”

  “Yes. Now, think about it, Honey. Like I did. Where else does someone tell someone that they’ve going to catch the next train out as if that was an everyday experience or the expected mode of transportation? Or the logical choice?”

  “New York, Philadelphia, Chicago.”

  “What?”

  “Commuter trains. They have schedules, and they’re the preferred method of travel if you’re a commuter.”

  “Well, maybe, but …” Janie would not let go of her brilliant deduction. “Tell me, Honey, did it sound like a commuter train to you?”

  Did it sound like a commuter train to me?

  I closed my eyes and again heard the sound of a train pulling into a station, the screeching and groaning of steel wheels as it was braked into silent submission. In my mind’s eye I saw a solitary figure clothed in a trench coat standing at a telephone booth, a hand held over one ear, the other pressed hard against a black receiver, pleading to the person on the other line. “I didn’t kill anyone, Lydia. Please believe me.”

  Before my vision faded, I caught a glimpse of high, blackened ceilings, crisscrossed with a system of intricately webbed metal supports forming a symmetrical pattern against the higher skylights of what? A train station. A European train station. Janie was right. It felt right.

  I shook my head like a dog does after being held upside down.

  “Honey. Honey? Are you there?”

  What was happening to me? Why was it that, every time I picked up a phone, I experienced a vision, a feeling of Steven? Where did I go into myself when I held a phone now? Why were people always asking me if I was there?

  “I’m here. I’m sorry, Janie. I was thinking about what you’ve said. You might be right. In fact, I think you’re definitely on to something. All those mysteries are paying off for you. You’ll earn your Sherlock Holmes badge yet.” My words sounded patronizing to my ears, but to Janie they were exactly what she wanted to hear.

  “Thanks, Honey. I’ll keep on thinking about the case. Steven and you and the poems. And, of course, the train.”

  We hung up, and as I was dialing again, I realized Harry had returned with my bags and was standing beside me. How long had he stood there? And what had he heard? Both he and Bailey had their heads cocked toward me.

  “Are you almost through?”

  “Yes, just one more call.”

  “To Steven?”

  “What?”

  “Honey, you were standing there muttering, ‘Steven, Steven, Steven’ to yourself, so I assumed you were calling someone named Steven.”

  “No, no,” I denied. “Ralph. Dr. Ralph Ketchum. He’s one of my neighbors, and he probably won’t be available, so I’ll just be a minute more.”

  Harry put down the smaller bag to pat my shoulder. “It’s all right, Honey. I didn’t mean to upset you. Or was it Steven that’s upset you? Remember, Honey, our arrangement works two ways. I don’t know what you do when you’re not with me, either.” With that and with an unusual look for him, Harry picked up my bag and started up the stairs.

  Ralph was in—and available—so it took an additional five minutes to assure him that I was fine, just fine, and that the police all thought it was a crank call. And not to worry. Not that my admonishment would do any good. Ralph was the nervous type who worried about everything, and I guess he had a right to. After all, he was responsible for the success of the clinic, and if he thought a real garden—his latest idea—would enhance the much-needed revenue that fed the clinic, then who was I to argue.

  Bailey had chosen to stay downstairs with me, patiently waiting—like Harry—for me to finish my calls. He padded behind me, his wet nose nudging me up the wooden steps.

  Harry had poured me a glass of scotch and left it on the bar. He’d taken his with him to stand on the concrete-and-wood deck that provided him with a clear view of the Gulf; the waves almost seemed as if they were going to rush into the carpeted living area. I picked up my drink and followed him outside. “Ralph’s going to add to my garden. He’s advertising for a full-time gardener. Seems like overkill to me for such a small area, but … Harry? What’s wrong?”

  “I just got tired waiting for you. I’ve been waiting all day. I’ve missed you, Honey.” This was more of an admission of caring than he’d ever expressed, and it caught both of us off guard. Harry laughed, and to cover the unusual sentiment, he added, “And … we’ve missed our tea time.”

  “Tea time”—four o’clock in his native England—was the euphemism we’d used for years, once we had discovered that our libidos were more acute at this time of day than at any other hour.

  “Oh, well,” I said as I took his drink away from him. “Like drinking and the yardarm, I’m sure it’s still four o’clock somewhere.”

  This time, Harry cocked his eyebrow. “Honey, just when I think … You never cease to … Oh, hell, let’s have tea.”

  Bailey smiled. That’s another thing I’ve learned about dogs. They smile.

  TEN

  Harry was my only customer who didn’t care about books. When he’d wound up in South Padre eight years before, he’d been casually touring the states, recovering from an injury received while serving as an officer of Her Majesty’s Navy. He’d liked Padre despite his complaints about the building boom that was under way then and had looked around for a business to buy. The retired couple who owned the bookstore were looking for the profitable way out Harry offered them, and gradually he had remodeled and changed the store so that it “pays the rent, luv, and that’s all I’m looking for.”

  He actually lived off his disability pay from the service, and while I never noticed anything debilitating about him, he’d just grin and say they were paying him to stay away from the navy. He was about forty and a different kind of redhead than I was; his hair was dark auburn and mine, frankly, is orange, sometimes pink.

  As redheaded sun worshipers, we were both aware of the disparity between our passion and our tender skins and were constantly reminding one another to slather on the number thirty-two sunscreen. We enjoyed watching the water from Harry’s canopied deck, but most of our beach time was very early in the morning: long walks for me while Harry jogged back and forth. Bailey was in dog heaven, running first to walk sedately by me, then roaring off to nip Harry’s heels as he ran past us.

  My favorite walks were at night. Very late at night.

  We’d first made love that way. Late at night when the dark Gulf’s roar scared away the land-loving tourists with its age-old voice that enticed them during the day, but frightened them when the sun went down.

  It was my third visit to the island, and the second time Harry had asked me have dinner with him. We’d started late, just barely had settled onto Scampi’s bayside deck before the sun dipped beyond the liquid horizon, causing such an arrogant display that we spontaneously applauded its descent. Hungry and thirsty, we sat on the deck, peeling shrimp and downing scotches. I fussed at him for not knowing more about his merchandise, forgetting to be the daughter my mother raised and generally getting very drunk.

  When we finally rose to go, Harry wasn’t very steady himself and suggested a midnight walk along the beach to sober up. We drove over—I don’t like to remember how—and had clung to one another as we wandered the deserted shoreline, Harry redeeming himself in my eyes by reciting poems—although they were silly and dirty—about the sea and the sailors who called it home. There was almost an Irish quality to his memorized laments.

  And somewhere along the way, he’d called me lass. I’m not easy, but I have my moments, and that night, against the abandoned concrete foundation of an old beach house, I enjoyed one of the great ones in my life.

  I’d blushed and turned away from him the next morning when I’d bumped into him while walking on the beach. I’d hid my embarrassment from him by stooping to scratch Bailey’s ears. But he’d laughed in that way I loved, taken my arm, and steered me toward the spot where we’d lain the night before. There on the side of the foundation w
all of the hurricane-demolished structure was written in black paint, “The few, the proud, the Marines.”

  “Look, Honey,” he’d said proudly, “brother officers were here before us.” And he’d taken me back to his place and we tried it in the daylight on his waterbed, and I’d been coming back ever since, scheduling extra days for Harry on every visit.

  I thought this trip was no different, except for my secret about Steven. We enjoyed our walks, stopping to read the delicate script the sea oats endlessly scratched out on the sand, starting again with a blank slate when the wind blew away their hieroglyphics. We ran with Bailey on the beach. Laughed when the big yellow hunk chased a soaring Frisbee into the waves. We ate all our favorite foods at our favorite places: big kahunas at Blackbeard’s, breakfast at Ro-Van’s and nachos mariachis at Palmetto’s.

  I would have liked being with Harry even if we weren’t … you know. He knew things that were interesting, like the Lord Mayors of London only serve one-year terms or why ships have round windows or that you could stand behind the falls at Niagara Falls. And he liked old movies—he watched African Queen with me every time I visited—and he liked to stare out at the ocean for hours at a time, not talking. He read, but only the classics. I argued to him that he might be missing a classic in the making if he didn’t read some contemporary stuff, but he’d laugh and say he’d wait for the movie, and he’d reread a Balzac thing, which of course I loved, too, but not exclusively. That was all right with him. Like I said, he didn’t care about books in general, just his books in particular.

  I had fun with Harry. I had never had fun before—just plain fun. Bailey was my first dog, but Harry wasn’t my first lover. I learned the difference between making love and just having sex. There’s a very precious intimacy in being with someone you care about. From the almost smothering warmth of two bodies pressed against me at night—Bailey did like me—to an unabandoned joy in simple shared things, like watching the ubiquitous prop planes drag their colorful commercial banners behind them, sweeping back and forth along the open beach. I would squint to see their messages. Budweiser was a big believer in beach banners. Harry always said I misread them. He said they all said, “sweeter than Honey.”