by Chacon, Iris
Miranda put on the Smile of the Professional Librarian and waited to be ignored by the newcomer.
Black glasses seemed to stare through her, exactly as she expected, when the man stopped in front of her and clumped his large purse onto the counter. He sniffed the air. He leaned closer to Miranda and sniffed again. He stood tall and broke into the grin children wear on Christmas morning.
“Castor Bean!?” he guessed.
“Mr. Krausse?” she exhaled in disbelief.
“What are you doing here?” they both asked at once, then chuckled.
“I work here,” she said.
“Of course. You would,” he said.
“Just like Aunt Phyllis!” they said together, and she laughed.
“And you?” asked Miranda.
“Got books to check in,” Shep answered. He stacked the books from the tote bag onto the counter. “Almost didn’t know you with your clothes on,” he teased.
“I had clothes on the last time. And you said you couldn’t see me!”
“Didn’t. You still smell the same, though. I was confused there for a second with what’s-her-name’s perfume still in the air, but I’d know your scent anywhere.”
Miranda began scanning the books and placing them on a re-shelving cart. “You prefer audio books.”
“Yeah. Long commute to work. We listen to books in the car.”
Miranda nodded. “I had an even longer commute in Miami than I have here. My aunt used to send me a new foreign language course for my birthday every year. I’ve learned Spanish, French, German, and Italian in the traffic on South Dixie Highway.”
He laughed. In German, he said, “We’ll have to get together and talk some time.”
She answered in French, “Are you trying to lure me to your bachelor pad?”
In Italian, he asked, “Could you be lured so easily, signorina?”
“I don’t play hard to get,” was her reply in Spanish. “I am hard to get. Impossible, practically.” Then she spoiled her feigned hauteur with a giggle.
He chuckled, enjoying the game.
Miranda switched to English. “Your accent is better than mine. I’m guessing you didn’t learn those languages in your car.”
“Boarding school in Switzerland. Survival skills, really. We had to speak French to the professor of humanities, Italian to the chef, Spanish to the riding instructor, and German to the science teacher. The curse of the rich kid.” His open smile and self-deprecating manner were endearing.
“Sounds miserable,” she joked. “I’m so glad you escaped with your life.” She turned to place the last of his books onto the re-shelving cart. “I see you read a lot of Dean Koontz novels.”
“Dave loves the ones with dogs, especially dogs that are smarter than humans.”
“So these are really Dave’s books.”
“Busted. He’s waiting in the car.”
“Well, tell him I like Dean Koontz, too. Has Dave read the book written by Koontz’s dog, Trixie?”
Shepard faked dire alarm and faux-whispered, “Oh, heavens! He had such a crush on her! Don’t mention that book in front of Dave! He didn’t get out of bed for two days when Trixie passed away.”
“I checked outta da books from the holding shelf,” announced Pietro, plunking four audio books onto the counter alongside the flowered bag. In the same instant, an avalanche of books tumbled from the re-shelving cart to the floor with a clatter. When Pietro raised his eyes from his books to where Miranda had been standing, she was gone.
She had dropped to her hands and knees, scrambling after fallen audio books—some of the packages had popped open, spinning silver discs in all directions.
“Pietro, this is Miranda. Miranda, this is my old friend, Pietro. He and I actually went to boarding school together. Pietro, Miranda just moved into Phyllis’ house.”
Pietro, seeing no one, but hearing noises, leaned over the counter to where he glimpsed a bit of Miranda’s backside. “Ciao, bella!” he said, admiring the parts he could see.
“Enchanté,” called Miranda from the floor. Pietro loaded the new books into the flowery tote bag and placed it in Shepard’s hand.
“We need-a to go, sweetheart,” Pietro said loudly, glancing about in search of Annabelle.
“Yes, dear,” Shep boomed, then said quietly in Miranda’s direction, “It was great talking with you, Bean. See ya around.”
“Yeah, see ya,” called Miranda from the floor, and waved one hand above the counter’s edge.
Annabelle sashayed to the counter just as Miranda stood up with books and discs in her arms. Annabelle did not reach to help, of course. Instead she watched the two men walking arm-in-arm down the steps toward the parking lot. “Such a waste,” she said with a sigh.
9 THE CONSPIRACY
Governor Reginald Jackson Montgomery looked like a man who could be president someday: designer hairstyle, golden Florida tan, photogenic blue eyes, blinding white smile, leading-man looks, billionaire wardrobe. Reginald could actually trace his family line back to the first governor of Florida, Andrew Jackson—who, himself, had gone on to become president.
Unlike Andrew Jackson, Reginald Jackson Montgomery did not plan to become president. Frankly, it was too much stress and too much danger, with too little fun and way too little privacy. No, Reginald was going to be vice president, which would entail almost as many photo ops, but fewer sleepless nights on the brink of global catastrophes.
There was one way in which Reginald emulated his ancestor, Andrew: they were both foul-mouthed and corrupt. Allegedly corrupt in Reggie’s case, since he had avoided arrest, indictment, or conviction thus far.
Of course, Reginald was not stupid. In this era of sound bites, ubiquitous cameras, and long-range microphones, Reginald kept his bad language private. Andrew had taken no such precautions with his verbiage back in the 19th century, and he had suffered for it. Reginald and his image-advisers had taken that lesson to heart.
Following a prestigious charity luncheon at a swank Tallahassee hotel, Reginald left his security detail outside the men’s room door and, being assured the room was clear, ducked in for a few moments of solitude. He touched up his perfect hair, carefully flicking a few strands so they drooped toward his eyebrow in calculated disarray. He cultivated the image of a hardworking servant of the people, showing the strain of his selfless devotion to duty.
Women who thronged to shake his hand as he left the hotel in a few minutes would have the urge to smooth his hair; he would remind them of an adorable little boy in need of their mothering. His image consultant had coached him specifically on the hair trick, and he enjoyed using it.
The restroom door squeaked just as Reginald was leaning closer to the mirror to examine what surely could not be a gray hair. Reginald turned with rehearsed, regal posture to see who dared to enter. It was the man who had been an uninvited visitor to Shepard Krausse’s living room earlier in the week. Reginald went back to studying his hair in the mirror.
“Make it quick,” the governor said. “I want to get out of the hotel and into my limo before the afternoon thunderstorm opens up on us.”
The henchman’s haircut was imperfect, his teeth were yellow, his suit was off the rack at a men’s clothing warehouse. He didn’t have Paul Newman blue eyes. His eyes were an eerie gray so otherworldly that people were chilled by them and remembered them. Sometimes he didn’t want to be remembered, so he did what he had to do to make it so. “Saw your nephew,” he said.
“What did you think?”
“Impossible to tell. He may have the pictures and he may not. He could be just blowing smoke to keep the late-night radio nuts happy.”
“Is he going to keep on blowing this smoke?” asked the governor, turning from the mirror to look into the gray eyes.
The henchman shrugged.
“Of course he will,” Reginald said. “He was a good kid, but he’s grown up too much like his grandparents: stubborn, self-righteous, and short-sighted. Shep just won’t look at t
he bigger picture.”
“At least he’s not naming names,” the henchman said. “He’s given enough hints that everybody knows who the builder probably is, but I don’t see anybody pointing fingers at particular government employees.”
“Well, see that they don’t! If anybody even whispers the name of anyone on my staff, you stop it cold. My plans are right on track for that vice presidential nomination, and nothing—no rumor, no scandal, no pictures in the paper—nothing can be allowed to connect me with Shepard Krausse’s conspiracy fairy tale. You make sure of it. I’m paying you well, and I’ll be holding you personally responsible.”
The henchman nodded. “I plan to be proactive. Can’t sit around hoping that old Audubon lady didn’t have the proof she claimed. Could be she passed it along to Krausse and he’s just waiting for the right time to spring it. Big ratings. Local hero. Y’know?”
The governor turned and washed his hands at the sink. He thought while he crossed to the towel dispenser and dried off. “You’re right. I need Shepard to realize there will be serious consequences if he keeps stirring the pot on this bid-fixing thing. Do whatever you have to do to get his attention—just don’t kill anybody this time!”
“How about the dog? Krausse sets a lotta store by that dog,” said the henchman.
“You can do anything you like with that vicious mongrel,” Reginald told him, and the governor left the room.
The henchman would not emerge until the governor’s motorcade had left the hotel.
10 THE SNAKE
The Magnolia Street porch ladies, now increased by a factor of one, carried on the tradition of coffee sipped in front-porch rocking chairs in the misty, gray-green dawn. What got their hearts started each day was not the caffeine in the coffee, however. It was the whhp-whhp-whhp of sneakers on asphalt and the cheery greeting for each lady in turn from a passing Adonis.
Miranda sometimes felt that bibs would make perfect gifts for her fellow Shep-worshipers, so that their drool wouldn’t damage their clothing. She made a mental note to Google some patterns and construct the bibs herself, maybe even embroidering them with each lady’s name for a personal touch.
In Florida there are two seasons: wet season and dry season. June 1 through December 1 was the wet season. July steamed in the mornings and poured in the afternoons. Hanging laundry outside to dry became a calculated risk, and more than one set of bed linens got an unscheduled rinse in rainwater when its owner lost the race with a fast-moving cloudburst. Miranda was saving up for an electric clothes dryer.
On this particular July morning, Miranda had taken a break from completing the daily crossword puzzle—in ink, a secret source of pride for her—and she was perusing the classified ads for used appliances. Beside her on a fern stand was her mug of coffee.
At any moment, Martha would raise the alarm and all the ladies would sit forward for the best possible view of the Shep and Dave Parade. After her morning fix of beefcake, Miranda would shower, dress, and drive into Live Oak for a quiet day in the library.
“Here they come!” Martha announced, looking through her binoculars. Then with new alarm in her voice she cried, “Holy mother of pearl! Rattler! Rattler in the road!”
“Shoot it, Martha!” Bernice shrieked.
“Bernice, ya idjit! This pea shooter is fine for rabbits in the front yard, but it won’t make a dent in a monster that size from this distance!”
“Can’t they just go around it?” called Wyneen.
“Don’t seem like they see it!” Charlotte said. “Looks like they’ll run right up on it before they even know it’s there!”
In the distance Shep and Dave loped toward them at an easy, regular pace. They didn’t appear to angle left or right to avoid the dangerous reptile lying full-length across their path.
The snake was aware of them, however, no doubt sensing the vibration of the asphalt as they drew closer. Six feet of diamond-backed reptile began coiling in on itself in the road, head raised and tongue flicking toward the unwary man and his dog.
Miranda realized that she was standing at her gate, unaware that she had even risen from the rocking chair on the porch. She stared in horror at the snake. Two sounds assaulted her simultaneously: the whhp-whhp-whhp of running shoes and the warning rattle of the serpent’s tail.
A hand touched Miranda’s shoulder, and she screamed. She hadn’t seen Martha cross the street to stand beside her.
“Phyllis kept a twelve-gauge in the hall closet. Is it still there?” said Martha.
Miranda gasped and mentally raced through the house recalling what Phyllis had left and where. “Yes!” she cried, and sprinted into the house.
Miranda threw open the hall closet, fumbled in the dark for the heavy shotgun and hauled it toward the light.
Outside, a dog began barking. The Magnolia Street ladies screeched in alarm. Miranda knocked shoe boxes and photo albums off the closet shelf and found a box of twelve-gauge shotgun shells.
She was already running through the front door and across the porch as she wrested two shells from the box, dropping the rest behind her without a second look.
In the street, Dave and the snake were only a few yards apart. Dave had blocked Shep’s forward motion with his own shaggy flank.
Miranda broke open the shotgun over her forearm as she hurried through the low iron gate held open by Martha.
Shep pulled at Dave’s bandanna and shouted “Leave it!” and “Back! Dave, back!” But Dave and the snake were battle-crazed and poised to attack.
Slamming shells into the two barrels, Miranda snapped the gun closed at the same time she was raising it to her shoulder.
“Get back, Shepard!” Miranda shrieked, then BAH-BOOM both barrels of the twelve-gauge spat fire and metal. The rattler’s head bloomed into a cloud of red mist as big as a car tire. Its headless body writhed and then was still.
Miranda was catapulted backward two steps by the recoil of the gun, which seemed far too heavy to her in the aftermath. She let it droop at her side and leaned against her stone fence.
Shep was on his knees in the road, running his hands over Dave’s forelegs and chest, head and belly.
“Did it get him?” Martha asked pragmatically, walking up to Shepard while looking intently at the dog.
“No, but it sure could have. Could’ve got us both,” exhaled Shep. “I didn’t even know it was there until Dave jumped in front of me. Nearly knocked me down, but he stopped me.” He ruffled the dog’s neck fur. “You stopped me, didn’t ya, buddy. Good dog! Good dog.”
Then Shep stood and turned in the direction of Miranda’s house. Putting one hand on the dog’s back, he said, “Let’s go say thanks to Annie Oakley for saving our lives, eh?”
Martha sent a knowing smile and a wink in Miranda’s direction then moved off to return home. “I’m gonna collect that skin afore some stupid car runs over it and ruins it,” she called over her shoulder.
“Yewchh!” Miranda said, shuddering. She stared at the headless corpse for a second, then was distracted by the man coming at her. The closer he came, the higher she had to raise her chin to look up into his face. She saw herself twice-reflected in his sunglasses.
She was still waiting for him to speak when he grasped her arms just above her elbows and simply lifted her off the ground and planted a quick, hard kiss on her lips. He followed it with a longer, softer kiss, then lowered her until her toes touched the ground. He still trapped her close, his arms now circling her waist. “Thank you, Castor Bean,” he whispered.
“Uh-huh.” She thought she might faint, but then she might miss something,
“Tell me, where did you get an elephant gun at this hour of the day?” he said, chuckling.
“Closet,” she sighed, trying to determine the color of his eyes behind the opaque glasses.
He rested his forehead against hers and nuzzled her nose with his own. He dislodged her black-rimmed spectacles, then gently re-settled them on her upraised face.
“You’re weari
ng glasses,” he said.
“I’m blind as a bat.”
“Are you really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Y’know, I have a lot of blind friends. Maybe we know some of the same people.”
What would be the odds of that? she thought. He's larger than life, and I'm not sure I even exist! Aloud, she told him, "Pretty sure we don't have the same circle of friends. I know I don’t have any 'blind friends.' ”
“You have me,” he said, and kissed her forehead.
Miranda watched her dual reflection become smaller in the mirrored lenses of his glasses as he stepped back from her.
She leaned, limp and wide-eyed, against her stone fence. Her eyes focused straight ahead, scarcely even blinking. Her arms hung slack at her sides—the right hand still holding the empty shotgun, its muzzle dangling toward the ground.
Miranda licked her lips and tried again to see his eyes. All she could see was his smile as he backed away then turned and jogged on his way, Dave padding close alongside.
Miranda was amazed that she remained standing when every cell in her body had melted like hot wax. Some monumental knowledge was tapping at the edge of her brain, but it slipped off the molten wax every time she tried to reach it. What did he say?
Miranda didn’t see or hear Martha approach, and when Martha took the shotgun, Miranda screamed.
“Good to know you’re still in there,” Martha said and chuckled. Miranda turned to look at her friend with more confusion than recognition. “I’ll stick this back in the closet fer ya,” Martha said, taking Miranda’s elbow and turning her around to return to the house. “You need to get showered and dressed and off to work, now. I suggest cold water. Help ya git some a’ yer wits a-workin’ agin.”
“Uh-huh,” breathed Miranda, moving like a sleepwalker toward the house. Martha followed her, carrying Phyllis’ old weapon.
11 THE WARNING
Miranda was still in a mild state of shock when she arrived for work at the library two and a half hours later. She locked her purse in her cubicle's bottom file drawer, straightened her calf-length skirt, and smoothed the sides of her hair, which hung in a plain, thick braid down her back. With one finger she shoved her eyeglasses up her nose, then she snagged the nearest cart of books and trundled out to lose herself in the stacks for most of the morning.