by Jane Elzey
The voice on the tape recorder sighed heavily. A male voice in the background urged him on.
“I spent every dollar that devil gave me on doctors, on medicines, on preachers who swore they could heal. I spent ten months watching her die. Life ain’t worth living when your girl’s gone. I couldn’t drink myself dead. I tried. I sure tried.”
He fell silent again. The white noise on the tape whirred on.
“He was handing me the check like he always done, and I told him it was his fault—Zack Carlisle of Carlisle Industries. I told him it was his cell tower that killed Penny and my dog. I told him he needed to pay me more or get that tower off my land. He grabbed the check from my hands, ripped it up, and laughed. When he threw it on the ground, I scrambled after it like a hungry dog. He shouldn’ta done that. He was stooped over at the tower when I walked up right behind him. I shoved my shotgun in his back before he even knew I was there. I pushed it hard so he would know I meant business.
“It should have ended right there.” He paused again and exhaled a rattling breath. “I couldn’t shoot a man in the back. Coward wouldn’t turn to face me. ‘Get out of my way old man,’ he said and laughed. ‘I get what I want and you can’t stop me. Shoot me or get out of my way.’
“When he left, I followed him. I rode his tail all the way to Hot Springs. I followed him to the liquor store, and the shopping mall, and then to that hotel. I don’t even remember driving. I do remember watching the back of his neck. I wanted to choke the life from him like he choked the life from me and mine. He knew I was following him. He got out of that truck and flipped me the bird. Dirty bird. Foul devil,” he said, his voice rising in anger. “That’s the last thing I remember before I woke up in my bed. The empty bottle was still in my hand.”
Again he paused. “He didn’t stay dead long, did he? He rose from his grave like the devil that he was. He drove up in my yard, drove up to taunt me because he knew I couldn’t get shed of him no matter what I did—haunting me like a haint.
“I followed him then, too. I followed him when he left the bar . . . up Highway 7. I kept my lights off, driving the road with his taillights leading the way. Then I blinded him with my brights at Blind Bat Pass. I hit him again and again, and then I watched that truck go down the hillside for good. It’s done now . . . He’s going to stay dead this time.”
Ben stopped the tape, and the table stayed silent. All that flowed were tears.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Victor was yowling when she reached the door to her apartment, key tumbling in the lock, then the fat, fluffy cat leaped into her arms when she opened the door. He nudged her cheek and purred, bit her gently on the chin, and then purred some more. Her penance for leaving him behind these last few days. She stroked his soft fur and rubbed noses while his purring grew louder.
His food and water bowls were dangerously close to empty, but he had not gone hungry or thirsty. Lonely, perhaps, his habit of lying in the sunshine at Tiddlywinks put on hold while his mistress saved the world.
She felt that way. As if a giant weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Like the famed Atlas and his burden of the weight of the world, she had carried more than she thought was possible. And yet, the weight had been of her own making, her punishment for what she thought her friends had done. She thought of Hercules, the demigod son of Zeus, and how he had conquered monsters to prove his worth. Hadn’t she, too, performed amazing feats and wrestled with monsters? She even felt like she had traveled to the underworld and back again.
Hercules was the hero in the mythological realm who proved that life is never perfect, that no one is free of flaws, that suffering falls on every life at one time or another. There was comfort in knowing all of that could be moved aside with one simple emotion.
Love.
Love was a powerful force. She was beginning to see that. Whether in friendship, marriage, family, or a cat, love could conquer anything. Emotions that looked like love could be duped, but the real thing—the real thing was powerful.
She hugged Victor tightly now, feeling that love, even as he squirmed in her arms. She had hugged Zelda, Genna, Rian, and Ben in turn, with the same feeling expanding in her heart as they parted ways. Ben had brought them back to Bluff Springs where they belonged, and the fact that she did belong never felt stronger than now. Nor had she ever felt so homesick as she had these past few days.
You don’t know what you have until it’s gone.
She wasn’t any Cinderella, but she knew to thank her lucky stars. She had been foolish, and she had been lucky. And that’s all there was to that.
The Cardboard Cottage & Company would reopen tomorrow. The doors to all of its shops would swing open for the first time in weeks. The smell of cinnamon and yeast would once again drift up the stairs to her apartment in the early morning, and all would be right with the world.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Amy looked up as the man entered Tiddlywinks Players Club at the Cardboard Cottage & Company. She recognized him immediately. Apprehension rose in her mind.
“Hello,” she said warmly even though her heart was racing. “Can I help you?”
He approached her timidly, glancing around the room, which was empty of customers at the moment.
“I came to give you these,” he said quietly, his hand diving into his pants pocket to retrieve a fist full of a handkerchief.
He opened it slowly. Her eyes widened. “It was you!” she cried.
In the folds of the cotton handkerchief were the four Sulphide marbles that had been stolen from the locked case the night of the break-in. She looked at the marbles and then at the man. Her eyes were full of questions. He motioned for her to take them.
She looked at him and then again at what was in his hand.
The marbles, transparent except for their soft amber glow, were made in Germany in the 1800s. They were not as rare as the striped marbles made in China during those times, but they were more valuable than the vintage marbles made by machines in the US. These were collected because they had little figures embedded inside, mostly barnyard animals and household pets, each inserted by hand by the maker. They were treasured because of the way they made their way to America in the pockets of men looking to start a new life for their family, the German immigrants who flooded American soil long before World War I.
Embedded in this set were a wolf, a bird, a sheep, and a squirrel.
“Here, take them,” he said. “I can’t live with myself for stealing them.”
“Why did you take them?”
His eyes were gray behind the wire-rimmed glasses balanced on his thin nose. “These have been in my family for generations,” he answered after a long pause. “I used to play with them. My uncle Karl taught me how. He was the first of the brothers to come to America. These were his and they were always in his pocket.”
He rubbed them lightly with his fingers.
“My sister sold them in an estate sale, along with everything else our family left to us.” His tone suddenly turned bitter. “She had no right to do that.”
“Why did you break in?” Amy asked.
“I didn’t. Well, yes, I broke into the case, but the outside doors had already been destroyed. I saw him break the glass in the doors. I watched him from across the street. He tried to destroy your shop.”
“What? You were watching? Why didn’t you call the police?”
He hung his head, shaking it slowly. He glanced up once again, and she saw the regret in his eyes.
“I was wrong. It’s as simple as that. I was trying to get up enough courage to ask you to sell them for less because I didn’t have the price you were asking.”
“And you saw who broke in?”
He nodded again. “A man. He was here that day, too. I saw him storm outside.”
Zack Carlisle. She had known all along, hadn’t she? She took a deep breath an
d exhaled.
They were both silent for a long moment, standing in the quiet of the shop with no customers, just a bright ray of sunshine making a path and pattern across the ancient wood plank floors.
“You keep them,” she said finally. “They belong to you.”
“But . . .”
She shook her head. “No buts. The insurance company has paid me their value, so I am out nothing. And they belong to you. Rightfully, they do.”
“Thank you,” he said, a smile stretching his thin lips. “Thank you,” he said again. “This is unexpectedly generous.”
She could tell he was near tears as he turned to leave.
“Hey,” she called after him. “Did your nephew like his chemistry set?”
He turned and smiled at her, a crooked little smile on his face.
“I did,” he said and was gone.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Amy reached for a nibble from the tapas plate. She’d made dates stuffed with goat cheese wrapped with maple bacon and had eaten half of them right out of the oven.
“Back to the boneyard!” she complained, her mouth full, her pile of tiles growing on the table in front of her. “Who has all the twos?”
“My lips are sealed,” Genna said.
“That’s a first,” Rian countered.
“But probably the last,” Zelda added. “A freight train couldn’t stop Genna and her big words.”
“Don’t blame me because I’m smart.”
“Smart, fart,” Zelda said. “You and Noah Webster go way back.”
“Speaking of getting old, where are we going on your birthday cruise?” Amy asked, wiping the corners of her mouth with a freshly manicured fingernail.
“So many choices!” Zelda exclaimed. “My dining room table is cluttered with travel brochures and cruise lines booklets. I have a dozen color-coded flags marking destinations and excursions that look like fun. What do you think? Should we sip champagne on the Seine or drink Ouzo on the Aegean between Athens and Istanbul?”
“We will go wherever you want to go,” Rian replied. “It’s your birthday cruise.”
“It is my birthday cruise,” Zelda said, the delight bright in her voice.
“The big five-oh,” Amy said. “You’re ancient history in the making. Maybe we should pilgrimage to some ancient ruin. You know—see if we can find your long-lost twin.”
“Don’t push your luck, Sparks. You’re not but a wrinkle or two behind me, and I’m a much better liar.”
“Fifteen!” Amy yelled, slapping the domino on the table.
“If you win again, I’m not playing anymore,” Genna complained. “I think you cheat.”
“You cheat,” Rian added.
Genna defended herself with a smirk. “I don’t believe you said that. I never cheat. Ever.”
“Always,” Zelda returned. “You always cheat, Genna.”
Amy smiled at her friends, her best friends, her sisters of the hood. Some things never changed, and she didn’t want them to. She wanted this little clutch of friends to go on forever, just as they were, bickering over nothing, defending blood against whatever they faced, whenever it mattered most.
If you want to belong, you have to believe you belong. If you want others to trust you, you have to trust them first. With your life. With all the vulnerable soft spots you hide from everyone else. No matter what happens, the game of life goes on. And wherever there was a game in play, there would be one winner and three sore losers.
“Cheaters,” Genna said. “All of us. We’re going to cheat old age if we die trying.”
“To forty-nine and holding,” Zelda said, raising her glass.
“To friendship at any age,” Rian added.
Amy smiled and raised her glass. “To Zelda!”
“To us!” Zelda replied.
“To us!” they all agreed.
She tipped her glass and drank.
The Cardboard Cottage & Company was back and booming with customers after its makeover and a perfectly timed spread in Belles & Bloom magazine. Sammie was cranking out crumpets and cones as fast as she could bake. All the plants in the Pot Shed were in full bloom and fragrant, and Zsa Zsa Galore Décor was overflowing with fun junk and household treasures. Tiddlywinks Players Club was again stocked full of games, with the Lock, Stock, and Barrel escape room close to a grand opening.
And Bonaparte was a contender in the Kentucky Derby.
THE END
Acknowedgements
The list of encouraging souls who have helped make this dream come true would fill a good old-fashioned phone book. Those who have gone above and beyond the duty of friendship know who you are because you have listened to me crow ad nauseam about what I want to be when I grow up. I am grateful to Carolyn Keene whose Nancy Drew had me hunting for clues in the old clock tower, thus planting the seed in my imagination. I cherish the friendships that led to the creation of this book, the adventure in Zihuantanejo that launched it all, and the undying embers of passion that kept me puffing along in a dream that felt too big to reach. Thank you to the Writers’ Colony at Dairy Hollow in enchanted Eureka Springs, Arkansas, for giving me the space to be the writer I wanted to become and the opportunity to connect with others who truly appreciate the craft of wordsmithing. Thank you to the members of the Very Important Players Club for your trust in me. And finally, on the cusp of this new chapter of life, I must appreciate cozy author Tricia Sanders for being a sideline cheerleader and walking encyclopedia of all things cozy, my editor Cayce Berryman for being real, and Bailey McGinn, whose graphic design prowess turned an idea into art. I am endeared to you all.
About the Author
Jane Elzey is a mischief-maker, story-teller, and bender of the facts. A career journalist, she now writes modern-day, not-so-cozy mysteries without much regard for the truth. Born and raised a wild child on Florida’s sandy beaches, Jane now lives in the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas, happily trading sand spurs for sharp rocks underfoot and concrete for trees overhead. An insatiable world traveler, Jane turns her bucket list travels into backdrop settings for her books, sharing destinations with armchair readers on the hunt for whodunnit. Jane Elzey writes about four mature women who love to play games … while the husbands die trying. The husband always dies. Dying for Dominoes is book one in the Cardboard Cottage Mystery series. For more information or to join the VIP Club, visit JaneElzey.com.