by E. Joan Sims
“Good morning, dear. How are you feeling?”
I turned back around and saw my mother’s anxious face hovering over me.
“Fine, I guess.”
“Oh, thank the good Lord!”
She sank back in the bedside chair. I looked closely and saw signs of exhaustion and worry in her eyes.
“It wasn’t a dream then?” I asked.
“No, dear, it was a nightmare.”
“What happened? All I remember is Bert Atkins shooting me. I thought I was dead.”
I saw the suspicious glint of tears on her cheeks. She pulled out one of her dainty lace handkerchiefs and dabbed at her nose. Then she laughed and shook her head.
“You’re not dead, Paisley. Except for a few bruises, you’re not even hurt. But I’d like to get my hands on that Atkins fellow.”
I sat up slowly and fluffed two pillows behind me. My arms and hands were covered with scratches. They were sore but nothing else hurt.
“What happened? Did Bert shoot me?”
I peeked under the covers and saw more scratches on my legs and ankles but no bullet holes.
“That crazy man fired at you, but fortunately you fainted and he missed.” She shivered involuntarily. “Danny said Bert realized it was you at the last minute and pulled the muzzle up, otherwise he would have gotten you right between the eyes.”
“Then how come the ambulance, and the shot they gave me to knock me out?”
“I’m surprised you remember that. Hypothermia,” she explained. “You were suffering from exposure. That foolish man had you traipsing around in the cold for hours.”
“To be fair, Mother, Burt told me to stay at the cabin. The traipsing was all my idea.”
“Humpf! Well, he’s no gentleman, that’s all I have to say. And I hope you refuse to have anything more to do with him.”
She gave me a tired little smile.
“I heard your tummy growling earlier. How about some nice homemade chicken noodle soup?”
“Sounds great,” I sighed contentedly.
Mother and I sat in front of the fire in the library and ate our supper. The snow had fallen all day and the ground was covered with a soft white counterpane. Inside where it was cozy and warm I almost forgot the discomfort of my night in the woods.
After my second bowl of soup and a slice of chocolate cake I called Cassie to tell her I was all right. She was blessed, or maybe cursed, with a remarkable sixth sense. She would know something was wrong sooner or later.
“I felt it! I knew you were in trouble. Last night, right? Around seven or eight? Well, that would be eight or nine here in Atlanta. I knew it! Are you really okay, Mom?”
And then she started crying.
“Oh, Cassie, honey, I promise. I’m fit as a fiddle. I have some scratches and my hair looks like hell, but other than that…”
After I reassured her for ten more minutes, I said goodnight and handed the phone to Mother. I snuggled back against the soft cushions of the sofa and gazed into the fire. Aggie was sleeping on top of my feet and her little doggie warmth felt good. I winced as I remembered the sight of Murphy’s decapitated body.
“Are you in pain, dear?” asked Mother anxiously.
I smiled to reassure her like I had Cassie. There was no point in telling her that part of the story. I had told her almost everything else. No point in telling her I got kissed, either. Especially when she was so mad at Bert. I had even hesitated to ask how he was, but she had finally volunteered that he was staying with Danny.
I dozed off, passing in and out of that wonderful state of total comfort the body feels when it’s healing from mental or physical stress. All my cares drifted away and a warm sense of well-being washed over me. I smiled contentedly and shifted my legs slightly to another position. Aggie woke up and bit my big toe with all her might.
“Damn dog!” I shouted.
“Paisley, dear, please watch your language.”
“Damn my language!”
“I should think you would be reconsidering your use of foul words after such a miraculous escape.”
“And damn that piss ant little dog. What a spoiled rotten brat!”
“That makes two of you, dear.”
Chapter Thirteen
Two dozen roses with my name on them arrived shortly after breakfast the next morning. In her own socially acceptable manner, Mother was telling the delivery boy what he could do with them when I grabbed the long white box out of his hands. It had been a very long time since a man had sent me flowers. I was determined to enjoy them no matter what the circumstances.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but the card read simply, “Bert.”
Andy Joiner drove up in his cruiser, and while I was putting my roses in water, Aggie welcomed him in her charming little way. Outsiders always marveled at her sweet and cuddly demeanor. Naturally, they liked her. She never bit strangers, just the people who loved and cared for her.
I showed Andy into the kitchen while Mother fussed over a fresh pot of coffee and some of her feather-light cinnamon raisin buns. Aggie finally stopped dancing, curled adoringly at Andy’s feet, and rested her fuzzy little head on his boot.
“Connie’s been wanting us to get a dog,” he confided as he scratched Aggie’s ears. I watched with growing apprehension.
“What breed is your puppy?” he asked. “She’s really sweet. A cute little dog like this wouldn’t be so bad.”
“Aggie’s a Lhasa Apso,” I answered as I watched her carefully for signs of aggression.
Aggie turned quickly.
“Watch out!” I warned.
But the puppy was just rolling over on her back so Andy could rub her stomach. I breathed a sigh of relief when Andy came away with all five fingers and put another spoonful of sugar in my coffee.
“What brings you out here this morning, Andy?” asked Mother. “You never come just to visit. You need to relax more. All work and no play…”
“Thank you, Miz Sterling. I appreciate that.”
I looked him in the eye and asked, “You came about my little adventure at Jackson Lake, didn’t you?”
His long face grew serious. “Yes, Paisley, I did. You really are beginning to concern me.”
“Why on earth?” I was astonished. “I haven’t done anything.”
“You haven’t exactly done anything, but you can’t let well enough alone, either. You knew perfectly well that prior incident at Bert’s cabin was still under investigation, and yet you went running out there to poke around on your own. And for your trouble, you almost got yourself killed.”
“By the intended victim himself, don’t forget.”
He looked at me even more seriously. “And what makes you so sure of that?”
“Wha…what do you mean?” I stammered.
“I told you. The first incident is still under investigation. We don’t know what happened. And we don’t really know what happened last night, either, do we?”
“Well, of course we do,” I insisted. “Someone broke into Bert’s cabin and tried to kill him, then he almost shot me by accident.”
“Okay, let’s address the first part of that statement.” He took a small dog-eared notepad out of his uniform pocket and turned over a few pages until he found what he was looking for. “There were no signs of forced entry to the cabin. The locks on the windows and doors were intact and unforced. Even though the ground was soft and muddy along the drive, the only tire marks we found were from your Jeep Cherokee. And after a thorough search of the woods, the only spent bullet we found was from Atkin’s own revolver.”
“But that’s crazy,” I protested. “Somebody shot at me while I was still in Watson. They shattered the windscreen. Isn’t that’s proof enough? And somebody shot at us while we were trying to hide down by the lake. You didn’t look very hard there, or you would have found something,” I accused.
Andy shrugged his shoulders and stuck the notebook back in his pocket. He stood up and put on his parka. As he zipped i
t up he turned back to me.
“All I’m saying is, be careful, Paisley. I’ve known Bert Atkins a long time; but things change—people change—and sometimes it’s not for the best. Just remember that next time you want to go digging around for answers to questions you shouldn’t be asking.”
I was furious. For a very long time I had managed to get along without a man telling me what to do or how to live my life. I wanted to tell him so in no uncertain terms, but this was Mother’s kitchen—the heart of her home. She would never forgive me if I threw Andy down on top of her starched Irish linen tablecloth and strangled him with one of her monogrammed napkins. So, I smiled tightly and thanked him as I opened the door and ushered him quickly outside.
Once he was gone, I slammed the door and plopped back down in my chair.
“What a nerve. Who does he think he is?”
“A friend,” answered Mother softly.
“Humfp!”
I stormed out of the kitchen and back to the library. I turned on the gas logs and got a big yellow pad from the desk. I drew two long lines for columns down the sides of the paper and numbered the lines from one to ten. I sat back on the sofa with my pad and pencil to think.
It was hard. Trying to force the truth to fit the pattern of your wishes is always difficult. And there’s nothing quite like having a potential lover nearly kill you to cool a growing sense of ardor. When I finally allowed myself to remember the exciting touch of Bert’s lips on mine, I was also forced to recall the ugliness of the gun he had pointed at me and fired point blank.
I let the pad and pencil slide off to the floor and hugged my knees. Chin on hand, I stared into the flames and remembered Bert’s gentleness when he cared for me. I had so desperately wanted him to be a knight in shining armor. He didn’t even have to be my knight—I just wanted to know that they still existed. But maybe I was wrong. There weren’t many windmills anymore. Dragons had disappeared. Why should knights have fared any better? And if there weren’t any knights, what was a poor damsel like me to do?
“Do what you have always done, you silly fool,” I answered myself roughly. “Take care of business.”
Mother brought me a luncheon tray a couple of hours later. She had to nudge me awake before my food got cold.
“Umm, Mother, this is wonderful. Thanks. I’m sorry I’ve been acting like such a bitch.”
“Language, dear. And I understand. You’ve been somewhat under the influence.”
“Under the influence? I haven’t had a thing to drink since New Year’s Eve.”
“Love, dear, not alcohol.”
“Nonsense!” I wiped my mouth with the napkin and responded more truthfully. “Well, maybe for a while there I was somewhat infatuated, but I have my feet back on the ground now. I won’t be acting impulsively anymore.”
“My,” she considered dryly. “That will be a first.”
“Whatever do you mean?” I asked wide eyed.
“Paisley, my dear, you have always been a trifle impetuous. And living in South America only made you more so.”
“Okay, so Rafe was a bit of a loose cannon, but I’ve always had a good head on my shoulders. I’ve never been one to act on impulse. Cassie can vouch for that even if you don’t agree,” I responded heatedly.
“Umm,” she mused as she eyed me over tented fingers. “Which one of my darlings is the kettle and which the pot?”
Chapter Fourteen
Horatio picked Mother up a little before eight. They were participating in a bridge tournament at the country club. Aggie and I remained in front of the fire in the library where she slept and I stared at the blank yellow pad.
I finally wrote “reasons to kill Bert” in one of my columns, and “reasons to kill Leonard” in the other. I thought briefly about one entitled “reasons to kill Paisley,” but that was just way too morbid for my taste. Besides, I couldn’t think of a single one. Andy Joiner was just trying to scare me so I wouldn’t muck up his investigation by getting in the way.
Under the first column I wrote “bank robber, other enemies from the past,” and “source of mysterious income.” The Leonard column was more difficult. After all, Leonard wasn’t real. He didn’t even exist on paper until two years ago. How, I wondered, could anyone hate a fictitious man enough to want to murder him? That was easy. Maybe someone thought Leonard was real. I shivered slightly. The idea that I had created a man totally out of my imagination who could engender that much enmity was frightening.
I got up from the sofa and went to sit on the hearth. Aggie raised her bushy eyebrows to follow my movements. When she was sure that I was going nowhere, she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.
The fire soon warmed me and I moved back to the sofa and took up pad and pencil once more.
I remembered the day “Leonard” was born. It was Cassie who had suggested his name. She wanted him to be a tough guy, and that he was. I had created a background of violence and a long history of bloodshed for my nom de plume.
Like Bert, Leonard Paisley was an ex-cop. The difference was that Leonard had gotten kicked off the force because he had committed some sort of unforgivable “cop sin.” I had never been very specific about what it was, but it had earned him a lot of enemies. Of course, those enemies were not anymore real than he was. I shivered involuntarily again as I realized that somewhere along the line he had acquired a flesh and blood foe.
I wondered briefly if it could be a woman. Leonard had his share of women. I had always enjoyed writing about his “love ’em and leave ’em” romances. He respected women a great deal. He always told them up front he wouldn’t stay, that he could never be faithful, and they never seemed to mind, at least on paper. Apparently one night with Leonard was enough of a memory for a lifetime. It was a crock and I knew it, but it sold a lot of books.
Maybe that was it, I thought. Maybe some raging feminist with an estrogen overload was out for Leonard’s blood. Perhaps “Super Fem” saw herself as the avenging angel for all slighted women everywhere. But that made no sense, Leonard loved women. He left them, but he always left them smiling.
Perhaps Leonard had angered some other cross-section of humanity. I had never singled out any particular lot for ridicule except maybe pimps and drug dealers, but perhaps, unknowingly, I had incensed some other group with a hit man on their payroll.
I thought carefully through my plots for each of the three books and the villains I had created. The first was based on something that had actually happened. I had disguised the antiheroes but apparently not enough. They sued me. I won because they were guilty. Now one villain was dead and the other was serving a life term.
The second book was based on something I read in a medical journal. The villains in that story had suffered similar consequences. That left only Virtual Violence.
My last book had been in print about three months. As I had told Bert on the way to Nashville, it had an unusual provenance. Cassie’s gift to me of a used laptop computer had proven to be a treasure trove that sparked my imagination. The story I wove around the letters and notes left on the hard drive was full of excitement and violence. Leonard had barely escaped with his life. He’d fought with a drug dealer on a precipice overlooking Niagara Falls for sixteen pages before the evil villain fell to a watery death.
I had saved all of the information I found on the laptop hard drive to a disc. I still had it somewhere. I stood and stretched. Maybe, I thought, it wouldn’t hurt to look at it once more. I would have to be thorough with my investigation in order to go back to Bert and tell him it was not Leonard’s enemy who was after him, but one of his own. And that was exactly what I hoped to be able to do.
Before I put the disc in the computer and turned it on, I went to the kitchen and fixed a midnight snack for Aggie and me: two dog biscuits and a people biscuit with blackberry jam.
The computer disc hadn’t magically created any new information since the last time I looked at it. I scanned quickly down the file, pausing only to read the re
ally awful poem addressed “To Ronda, with love.” It hadn’t gotten any better either.
Besides the poem, the self-pitying narrative that I had used for my story line, and some financial statements, the file contained several letters. They were addressed to companies that sold such things as commercial linens, kitchen equipment, and heavy duty cleaners and disinfectants. In each case, the company was asked to submit a bid for a contract. In the same file with the query letter was another letter telling the unfortunate company they had been underbid and had therefore lost the sale.
I hadn’t paid much attention before because there was nothing very romantic or exciting about a bunch of business letters, but this time I noticed the rejection letters all had the same letterhead. They came from the army base outside of Morgantown. The office of the Quartermaster at Fort Morgan had asked for bids from at least forty different companies, only to reject each and every one.
Mother and Horatio arrived home at midnight. I had absolutely no knowledge of the military or business, but Horatio was well acquainted with both institutions.
“Odd, don’t you think?” I asked while Mother went to fix us some hot cocoa.
“Mmmn, perhaps, my dear Paisley.”
Horatio smiled gently. He was sitting under one of the soft recessed ceiling lights and the light reflected off his white hair and small Van Dyke beard, making him appear almost saintly. I knew that was far from the truth. Horatio Raleigh was shrewd and cautious, and even though he was almost seventy, some still thought him dangerous. I was certain he would gladly lay down his life for my mother and Cassie, and quite possibly for me.
“Why would this person, let’s call him “Bob” just for convenience, why would he have letters from the Quartermaster’s office on his own personal laptop? Looks to me like that would be illegal,” I mused.
“Perhaps Bob was a secretary. Maybe he simply took some of his work home,” suggested Mother as she set down the coffee tray.
“Can they do that, Horatio?”
“Paisley, my dear, in the dark ages when I was in the army, we were at war. Everything that came across my desk was sensitive. I was not allowed to even speak about it, much less carry it about with me. That is tantamount to what has happened here. This is a portable computer, is it not?”