by Glenna Mason
“Anyway, if it were not Minerva, it was you or some other vixen,” Claire rambled on. “When I found out about the assignation with this Minerva bitch, you were off the hook, at least temporarily. And then that audacious insulting offer—in my kitchen—in my own kitchen.” Claire was screaming now.
“She's going to blow,” Elizabeth worried. “What does that portend for me?”
“. . . offering me your novel—me a great poet—a purveyor of words of beauty—offered a piece of pulp by an incompetent nobody like you. The ultimate insult! Your death knell, but only stroke one. I might have gotten over it in time.”
Elizabeth's breath caught. She could not suppress it.
“I'm the genius. I intend to prove it. My art is worth more than a few measly lives. My new novel is brilliant. It will win prizes, sell millions, become a motion picture,” Claire railed. “I am tired of being second fiddle to the Camerons and the Carstairs of this world, when I am the gifted one. I NEED FAME! I CRAVE IT! I WILL HAVE MY DUE!”
Silence.
“And you are one of them, Elizabeth. The undeserving appreciated! I heard those horsemen sing your praises at that party of Sir William's. When Sir William took Darcy into the library, I waited for my chance and cracked the door—might be a good chapter there somewhere I presumed, and what was I greeted with for my efforts? Horsemen saying 'You married the most illustrious and beautiful woman in the Kentucky horse business' or some such nonsense. That was stroke number two.”
Silence, but Elizabeth was grateful that Claire hadn't opened that door sooner, or she would certainly have found her chapter—perhaps a whole short story.
The frenzy persisted. “I am the one who should be acknowledged as illustrious and beautiful, not some backwoods nobody. I will be too. You'll see! Well, no, you won't.
“I'm still vacillating between you and my first husband as my second novel, but you will be in the first three, Elizabeth. My novel will be so poignant. The middle-aged woman finally finds love, but that love is swept away, after only a few short months. It will be so heartrending.
Of course the husband will be suspected. They always are.”
Gasp.
“Somehow I'll see to it when they question me; I'll hint to the police that you let it slip that Darcy has a violent temper. I'm still working on that creation, but never doubt it, Elizabeth, it will be good. I am a master at invention.
“In my novel at least and probably in real life the police will never prove anything—they never do—they are such boobs. But the mysteriously disappeared wife, who just happens to drive over the bluff into the Kentucky River, is a highly suspicious scenario, don't you think?”
Claire coughed. She had yelled herself hoarse. Elizabeth was glad that her hands were free, and right now she was very grateful that she was three stories high.
Below Claire was droning on. Elizabeth had missed part of the rant. “ . . . the woman across the road will be there to console the husband in his sorrow and disgrace. I know I will be. He admires my poetry. He is extraordinarily handsome, the quintessential Southern gentleman. He would have asked me to dance that night at Sir William's,” Claire's anger escalated to almost hysteria, “if not for you. When he and Sir William—oh, Sir William, another gentleman with the features and manners of a prince—anyway a little while after the two came out of the library, I caught Darcy's eye. He was taken aback. Darcy knows the courtesies. He would have asked for my hand and led me to the dance floor, if not for fear of you.
“I'd have been swept around the room in those elegant arms. I could see it in his eyes. Men like Darcy cannot dissemble, but he quickly turned away, afraid of your disapproval. I dream of those arms around me. That was your final death knell, Elizabeth. One! Two! Three!”
Elizabeth was appalled at the rancor, which poured from Claire. She concentrated on steady breathing to escape her growing horror.
“Now, my dear, I must leave you, but have no fear I will be back as soon as I am sure no one will be snooping around my place tonight. Oh, they'll be here, I've no doubt. There will be a massive search, probably beginning at daybreak tomorrow morning—Sir William and that brat sister of yours will see to that. Since this is your last known whereabouts, my property will ground-zero. It'll be exciting, dramatic, a future chapter.”
Silence.
“Don't get your hopes up. You, your car and that murder weapon truck will be long gone by then, and this barn burned to the ground.”
Elizabeth gasped again. She could not help it. “That is why I am up here!”
“Oh, don't worry, dearie,” Claire said, pleased by the gasp. “I won't burn you with the barn. Remains, even charred ones, are too easily identified. The old truck will burn, eliminating any evidence of its complicity in Jimmy Joyce's death, but you and your vehicle will go into the river. I've picked a perfect spot, Elizabeth. I found it before I took my New York trip, and today when you called, I took my motor scooter—I've had it awhile—needed it for Carl, you know—and stashed it there.
“I'm going to knock you out, Elizabeth, but just enough to move you. I hope you revive for the plunge. Drowning must be a frightening way to go, don't you think, dear?
“Just contemplate your dastardly demise, Elizabeth, while you wait aloft for me. Contemplation of the subject will do you good. You are arrogant and spoiled and willful.”
Claire headed back to the side door, but she turned, as she reached it for a final taunt. “Oh, don't you love the artistic touch of the saddle on the ceiling? That took some doing, but it was worth it. I wanted to see if it was possible, for reality in my novel, you know—the creative mind at work—well, you wouldn't know about that would you?” Claire said, slamming the door.
For a full two minutes, Elizabeth waited motionless. She listened intently. Claire was so devious; she could be outside the door. Elizabeth even pondered whether Claire had tied the knots so poorly as a perverted trap.
Eventually convinced Claire was truly gone, Elizabeth tried to plan. Her head was throbbing and her arm was pulsing with pain, but she had to hurry. Claire had a lot to do tonight. She would be back in an hour or two.
“Oh, my darling Fitz, do not go to Claire's too precipitously. Give me some time, Fitzwilliam.”
Hammers striking anvils in her skull, Elizabeth willed herself to ignore the anguish. “What are my options?” she asked, looking around. “If I were not pregnant, there would be no problem. In a worst case scenario I'd just drop three stories. It isn't high enough to kill me, but that is not an option under the circumstances.
“If I didn't have the broken arm, I could go arm over arm to a cross beam and work my way to a window sill, lower myself with the rope to its edge and work my way to the next level and on down, but I do have a broken arm. My left arm is useless.
“Can I do that anyway, scooting, with or without the saddle? I might try it or scoot along underneath the rail, using one arm and my legs.” She bounced on the plank. It creaked! Elizabeth figured that it was not only old, but also designed to hold hanging tobacco stalks, not a bouncing woman. A picture crossed Elizabeth's vision. It terrified her. She envisioned herself falling three stories onto her back. Lying there helpless with a broken back until Claire came for her. “No!” she shouted out loud.
Elizabeth was suspended in the middle of the barn, the worst possible location for escape. Elizabeth peered around. She observed that for maximum hanging space for the stakes of tobacco, the boards directly beneath her were two stories down. Those, which were one story down, seemed too far to the left and the right. Elizabeth unwrapped the rope from around her body to test its length. If she tied it to the rail and hung from it, she might lower herself approximately one story. That was not enough to reach the rails directly beneath her. Could she swing far enough to grab a rail to the right or left? With one arm? It was a real outside chance and not worth it. She could lose the baby, if she missed the rail. The same was true for dropping two stories. There had to be a better way.
“What else can I do?” she wondered. “What is on the floor?” Elizabeth squinted. The darkness had deepened. However, a faint light from the moon and stars squeezed through the slits and windows. Elizabeth saw tobacco and hay scattered around the floor, but in miniscule quantities. Not nearly enough to break a fall.
“I have to do something.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, no, it is after eight. Fitzwilliam will be frantic by now.” Her heart broke at the thought of the agony her misadventure was causing her beloved husband. “He'll be at Claire's soon. I must hurry!” she said. “As soon as Fitzwilliam leaves, Claire will be back for me.
“Well, at least I am free of bonds. Unless Claire brings a gun I might be able to overpower her. Surprise will be on my side. Let her be the one to plunge three stories.
“That is not a plan to count on, Elizabeth Francine, especially with a broken arm,” she reminded herself.
A thought streaked through her mind. “How did Claire get me up here? A ladder? A pulley? Of course that is it. There was a pulley complete with a ladder the day I rode Gypsy over here. It has to still be here.”
Elizabeth again checked her watch. It was eight fifteen, and Elizabeth had not moved an inch yet. There was the pulley in the corner, its lovely arm reaching well above the second level. “With the rope I should be able to reach it and climb down. Now how do I get over there?
Immediate action was required. “First I need a sling for my broken arm, or it will impede my progress with constant pain.” Elizabeth decided. “I need the rope, so what else is available?”
There was only one choice: her silk blouse. Cautiously clinging to the rail with her experienced riding legs, Elizabeth released her hold on the rail with her right hand. She unbuttoned the blouse, even using the hand of her fractured left arm to unbutton her right sleeve. Making a sling one handed was barely manageable, but she eventually secured the arm to her side somewhat.
Another precious fifteen minutes gone. It was now eight-thirty. “There is no way Fitz hasn't accosted Claire by now, if he has involved Jane,” Elizabeth thought. The notion that Jane might be accompanying Darcy heartened Elizabeth. “If Fitzwilliam accosts Claire alone, I am in trouble, but if he enlists Jane and takes her with him, my chances soar. jane has read Chapters Five and Six. And Jane is a match for Claire.
“Oh, please, Fitzwilliam, do not go storming over to Claire's alone. In your misery, you will be no match for that harridan.”
Elizabeth put all her energy into an escape plan. She could get down with the pulley and the rope, but the problem still existed, how could she get to it and quickly? There was no time to scoot over there and the rail was too weak anyway.
Elizabeth stared up. Sitting on the rail, the barn's roof was almost within arm's reach. “If I stand on the rail, I can easily attack the roof. Hallelujah!” Her plan was fixed. She would break through the roof and get on it to break through again and get back through it to the pulley and ladder.
For a precaution, Elizabeth, albeit clumsily, successfully tied one end of the rope around her waist and the other to the rail. She was now grateful to her dad for all those lessons he had given her on tying the houseboat to the dock during their summer outings to Cumberland Lake.
Finally confident in the rope and the knot, Elizabeth carefully rose to her knees and then to her feet. She loosened the rope from the rail with her foot, while holding securely onto a beam of the roof and balancing precariously on one leg. She then looped the freed rope over the beam.
Just as she had suspected it would be, the roof was rotten with age and neglect. Solidly positioning her feet a foot apart on the rail, Elizabeth punched the roof with all the strength that she could muster in her right fist. It gave slightly, a plethora of dust and mini-fragments falling onto Elizabeth's head and shoulders. The position proved awkward, because she had to bend over at the shoulders, but she knew could and would manage it.
In between strikes, Elizabeth latched onto the roof beam, repositioning herself and regaining a stable foothold each time. Soon her knuckles and fingers were severely bruised and bleeding. Elizabeth punched the roof anyway.
Larger pieces of roof plummeted, covering Elizabeth with debris; her mouth filled with dirt. She could scarcely breathe now, having to spit out pieces of wood and asphalt with each hit.
Nonetheless Elizabeth was content. She was doing something to free herself. Even if Claire returned before she escaped the barn, Elizabeth believed she would be better off on the roof than situated precariously on a creaking rail.
She decided the strikes worked better, when she imagined herself punching Claire. She recognized that by now Darcy must be devastated and frantic. “Why did I not confide in him? Why didn't I let him read Chapters Two through Six? If I had, the police would be here by now?”
Elizabeth remembered that Claire had called her arrogant. Batting the roof hard, Elizabeth said, “She is right. Why did I take such chances? How could I do this to Fitz and my baby?” She rammed the roof decisively, her right hand now streaming blood. “How could I march into a murderer's grasp?” She crashed her fist against the roof; a large chunk dropped the three stories. “How could I drive so arrogantly into the clutches of a woman I knew had murdered two men in cold blood?” She smashed this time, pretending it is her own face in the mirror. “Fool!”
Elizabeth now wished she had wrapped the blouse around her hand instead of her left arm. Her right hand looked like a piece of raw meat. She pulled this time instead of punching. Several enormous chunks gave way. Her head and shoulders finally fit through the opening.
Awe filled her senses. An almost full moon gazed down on her and the stars blinked hope. Elizabeth breathed deeply of the fresh night air. “I'm ready to be with you,” she told the moon and the stars. “Never more so.”
She reached back inside and untied the rope from her waist and slid it off the beam. She leaned down and tried to assess as closely as possible the location of the pulley in relation to the rooftop. Elizabeth slung the rope onto the roof. Then with a powerful push from her strong legs, she propelled the top half of her body onto the roof. Her legs temporarily dangled in midair, but then she achieved the purchase of a roof beam and pushed herself most of the way through. She wriggled her body the rest of the way out onto the roof top. Her broken arm wracking her with unbearable pain, Elizabeth maneuvered onto her back, panting, yet ecstatic.
Soon Elizabeth rolled over and stood. She scurried across the roof to the spot under which she presumed the pulley rested. She had to break through the roof a second time. But for now she felt such freedom. She waited, drinking in the night
Elizabeth scarcely wanted to go back into that oppressive cage. She decided that it was circumspect to sit just a moment and revitalize her spirits. Her breath came in gulps. She took a closer look at her lower left arm. It was clearly in two pieces, one sticking through the skin. She pulled on it, aligning it somewhat. A shock of pain convulsed her body, bringing her to the point of nausea.
Elizabeth remembered Darcy. Tears fell from her eyes. “He loves me so very much,” Elizabeth said quietly. “I almost brought his fears to fruition with my egotistic sleuthing. Fitzwilliam will be devastated, if I do not get home to him. I must. I will.”
The thought motivated Elizabeth. “Get up! Get going!” she demanded. “It is almost nine fifteen. Claire will be here soon. I need to be in my car and long gone.”
She peered over the edge of the roof. “If only I didn't have to go back in,” Elizabeth moaned. “It is too far down,” she decided.
Elizabeth punched back through the roof with her feet. “Thank Goodness!” she said, examining her battered hand.
Within minutes, she was tying the rope to a beam and swinging to the pulley ladder. Miraculously only fifteen minutes later, Elizabeth was on the barn's dirt floor. She rushed to her car. The keys were in the ignition.
“Marvelous! I do not have to jump start it with one hand.”
Elizabeth raced quickly to the barn door. The jeopar
dy was not over. She already knew that the door was a monumental task to open, as it dragged the ground with unwieldy weight due to its loose, rusty hinges. Worried about Claire's imminent return, Elizabeth threw her whole body and her unyielding desire to see Darcy behind a thrust and moved the door enough to ease the coupe through. “Glad I do not have a sedan,” she thought, smiling for the first time in hours.
On the way back to the coupe, Elizabeth grabbed two tobacco stakes, just in case she needed a weapon. She raised and latched the convertible top and locked the automatic door locks. For the first time in five hours, Elizabeth was in her own element. But she realized the danger was not past. “Get going, slacker,” she said.
The engine turned over, and she flipped on the lights. “I don't want to run over something and blow a tire in the barn.”
She cautiously maneuvered through the doorway, which was only marginally wider than her car. Outside, Elizabeth flipped the lights off and drove the few yards to the gate, steering by the moonlight.
Claire had shut the gate. Was she ever to be free? Elizabeth surveyed carefully all around her, jammed on the emergency brake, left the car on, in neutral, and reached across to open the door with her right hand. When she exited the car, she looked again in every direction. Then she darted the short distance to the gate and slung it open and returned to the safety of the locked convertible. “Almost home!” she cheered.
Slamming the car into first gear and releasing the brake, Elizabeth careened through the gate and veered left onto the gravel drive. Switching on the headlights, she noticed the clock on the dashboard read nine-fifty. “I probably just made it,” she guessed. But only seconds later Elizabeth was horrified to view a pair of headlights coming toward her.
“Claire,” she screamed in heartbreak. “Of course Claire would drive over this time. She'd need the car later when she sets fire to the barn. Just toss the scooter in the trunk and drive home quickly before anyone notices a middle of the night conflagration.”
Elizabeth screeched to a halt. “I can't try to pass her. She is crazy; she'll just run me off the road. I'm her ruination, if I escape. Besides I have a broken arm, and so I am no match for Claire right now, one on one, even with my tobacco sticks. Claire may have a gun!”