She finished her drink and turned to enter her home. A glimpse of her reflection in the glass of the sliding door caught her off-guard. Was she a little yellow? No, she decided it was the light cast by the fading sunset. She looked just fine, for a woman in her early sixties. A little time worn, perhaps, but well preserved for her age. Why did the term “pickled” come to mind?
Alexia Hamilton stretched her shoulders and rolled her head to stay awake. The drive from Asheville back to her apartment near the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill was just a tad over three hours, but the hour was late. Her visit to her parents’ home had been brief and bittersweet. She still found it hard to think of it as her home, but it had been bequeathed to her after her mother’s death several months earlier. Six months before that, her father had died from a massive myocardial infarct. The year had not been good to her.
She had wandered the house remembering the good times, in particular the day she received her letter of acceptance into UNC’s Masters Program in Mass Communications. Her father had called her a “professional student” and spent the day ribbing her about getting a real job, finding the right guy, and giving him grandkids. None of that had happened, but she continued as that professional student.
The purpose of her trip had been to store her furniture and extra belongings at the house in preparation of moving to Los Angeles. She had been accepted into the doctoral program at USC to earn her Ph.D. in Literature and Creative Writing. She had been honored by their acceptance. Maybe the next two years would turn her life around.
She wanted nothing more than to be a writer. Maybe even the next Myra Mitchell, but that was just a dream. She knew she had the work ethic to put in the hours and do the hard work. Did she have the ability?
One longtime dream would be fulfilled. She would actually get to meet Ms. Mitchell, provided she showed up at the reception next week. She hoped to use that meeting to gain access to the author because she had decided that her thesis would be on modern female fiction authors. She had to get Ms. Mitchell’s attention somehow. To achieve that, one idea kept flitting through her mind, an idea straight out of a Mitchell novel.
She yawned for the hundredth time that night as she pulled off I-40 onto Durham-Chapel Hill Road. A quarter mile to home. Five minutes to a good night’s sleep.
Alexia found a parking spot near her apartment and pulled in. She grabbed her purse and a small box of family photos she had collected from the house, and climbed the steps to her apartment. The deadbolt on her door appeared broken and the door stood slightly ajar. Hesitantly, she opened the door and nearly dropped the box.
Her place lay in shambles. Ransacked. Boxes opened and dumped.
She stumbled over a pile of books and placed the box on an open spot on the floor. She moved into the bedroom and kitchenette. Only the kitchen appeared untouched, but then she discovered each box had been opened, just not dumped out.
She pulled out her cell phone and called 911. Fifteen minutes later, a patrol car appeared on the road below and she watched the officer climb to her doorway.
“Mornin’, Miss. I’m Officer Doane. What happened?”
Alexia nodded her acknowledgement to his greeting. “Thanks for coming. My name’s Alexia Hamilton. I took some things home to Asheville and just returned twenty minutes ago to find this.” She backed away from the door to allow the officer inside, but he stopped at the doorway and simply glanced around. “Have you touched anything?”
“Just a little, while I was waiting. I didn’t want to disturb things until you guys saw it.”
“Thanks. Could you tell if anything is missing?” The officer took out a small pad of paper and jotted some notes.
“Nothing obvious. I didn’t have any cash or jewelry here. My laptop and other electronics were with me and I gave my old TV to a friend because I didn’t want to move it.”
“Someone from EFIS will be here in a moment.”
“EFIS?”
“Our Evidence, Forensics and Identification Service. Could I get some information from you?”
Alexia nodded and replied, “Sure.” They stood in the breezeway outside her door as he took her name and other basic information. She was glad it was early morning. The heat and humidity of the day would have made that outside wait miserable. Five minutes later, another police car pulled up and a young woman with a rectangular satchel walked up to her place. After introductions, Alexia watched the woman take photos, first of the door and then of the room as she moved toward the bedroom door and kitchen.
Officer Doane regained her attention. “Where you headed?”
“I’ve been accepted into a doctoral program in Los Angeles. I’m supposed to leave day after next.” She continued to watch the evidence technician take photos. “Will she dust for fingerprints? I’m a writer and always interested in procedures.”
“Yes, and she’ll probably want yours, to rule out your prints here. Give me a couple more minutes of your time and I’ll finish up the police report.”
Alexia answered his questions, but wanted to see firsthand how the evidence tech did her work. A moment later, the woman retrieved fingerprinting dust and what looked like a make-up brush from her kit. She started at the door and methodically worked her way through the apartment. She scanned a handful of prints into a small palm-sized scanner and returned to Alexia. The patrolman took that opportunity to return to his car.
“I need your prints so we’ll know which ones are yours.”
“Sure. Hey, this is fascinating. So you found some different prints?” She paused. “Um, I had two friends help me pack. Will you need their prints, too?”
“That would help,” replied the tech.
“Okay, so how do we do this?” The woman used the scanner to record Alexia’s prints directly. “Do you think you’ll find out who did this?”
“Maybe, but I gotta be honest. If nothing’s missing, this isn’t going to be high on the service’s priority list. Plus, with you moving, well, I can’t say much will come of this. I don’t make that final decision, but that’s been my experience with these kinds of breakins. Sorry.”
Alexia frowned, but she understood her response. “Thanks for the honesty. You know, I did find one thing unusual, to my thinking anyway.”
Officer Doane returned in time to hear her comment.
“What’s that?” asked the tech.
“Well, if someone was looking for valuables, why would they seem to focus on boxes that were obviously packed with books and papers? Every one of those boxes was dumped but a lot of the boxes with personal items were just opened and barely rifled through.”
The technician appeared contemplative. “Don’t know that I can answer that one. Could be just teens wanting to make a mess. Maybe whoever was pissed off they didn’t find anything. Maybe they’re literature buffs.”
Alexia didn’t smile at the attempted joke. The tech gave her a subtle shrug, as if to say, “Sorry,” and picked up her satchel. “Good luck with the move.” She turned and headed for her car.
Officer Doane said, “I called this in and they told me to let you go ahead and start cleaning up. If you find anything missing, call this number …” He handed her a card. “… and ask for Investigative Services. Use this police report number.” He pointed to the number at the top of the paper he gave Alexia.
“Okay. Thanks.”
The officer nodded and returned to his car. Alexia turned back into her apartment, closed the door and secured it with the secondary sliding bolt. At 2 a.m. she wasn’t about to call any friends to help. Yet, she wouldn’t fall asleep under the circumstances, so she made herself busy by starting to pick up her things and repack her boxes. She would need a new roll of packing tape to secure them, but at least she could make a dent in the task ahead. So much for a leisurely day visiting friends and saying goodbyes.
Myra awoke to bright sunshine flooding her bedroom. She glanced at the clock and felt shocked to see she had slept a full twelve hours. She couldn’t reca
ll the last time she’d slept that long. She also had no recollection of the last time she’d felt rested, truly rested, upon waking. Today, she did. She stretched and smiled as she looked out the picture window overlooking the ocean. It would be a good day, a productive day.
As she prepared for that day, she studied herself in the mirror while brushing her hair and applying a light dusting of make-up. Had something happened to her powdered foundation? It cast an orangish pall to her skin. Maybe it was the bright sun reflecting off the ocher wall nearby.
Myra walked to her kitchen where she prepared a light plate of fresh fruit and a bagel. She sliced the bagel and placed it in the toaster. Returning to the refrigerator, she pulled out the cream cheese and tomato juice. While waiting on the toaster, she added a shot of vodka to a glass, then a dash of Worcestershire sauce and pepper, and filled it with tomato juice. She hadn’t found a commercial Bloody Mary mix that she liked more than her own recipe. After preparing the bagel, she took food and drink to the deck and enjoyed the sunshine while she ate.
Half an hour later, she entered her study, sat down and picked up her legal pad. An idea had come to her in that twilight sleep just before fully waking. She would run with that and see if it had the legs to reach the finish line.
Four
(Spring 1969)
**********
“Good evening there, young lady. Watch yer step.” The bus driver took Alice’s suitcase as she tried to hand him her ticket and board the bus. “We’ll just put this in the luggage compartment. No room inside.”
Alice reluctantly gave up the worn hard-shell suitcase but clutched her backpack tightly in her arms. With her valuables in the pack, she would not allow it out of her sight for even a minute.
“Backpack’s okay to go on board with you,” the driver added. “But you’ll find more room for it in the first seat right behind me.”
She watched where he placed her suitcase and then climbed the steps into the old bus. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of diesel and stale food. Her shoes stuck slightly to the floor as if walking through spilled soda pop partially dried on the rubber mat. She swung her body into the aisle seat behind the driver and tucked her pack onto the adjacent window seat, keeping her body between it and anyone with wrong intentions.
She gazed around the old bus, its seats half-full. Placards advertising stores and restaurants in Brevard and Asheville formed a static marquee over the windows on both sides. The people were of various ages, but generally, all appeared older than she was. Some slept, despite the earliness of the evening, while others occupied their time with various distractions. All seemed preoccupied and focused on themselves.
Only one additional passenger boarded after her, and the driver quickly hopped into the bus and stood surveying his freight, making sure the final passenger found seating before taking his own seat behind the wheel. A minute later, the bus pulled away. She would never forget the Umfleet’s kindness and generosity.
A sense of excitement mixed with trepidation filled her. The farthest she’d ever been from Frampton Corner was Brevard. She had been eight years old then, accompanying her parents on a visit to a doctor there. That was the day her mom learned she had cancer, a disease she fought heroically for two years before passing away and leaving Alice to the moods of her father. After that, her father’s drinking problem no longer felt the restraint of her mom and he dove deeper into the bottle to fight his own emotional fallen angels. He had no preparation for raising a daughter, much less a teenage daughter, by himself and the alcohol deprived him of any motivation to perform that duty well. Emotionally isolated and rejected by him, Alice raised herself.
Lost in reflection, Alice started when the driver asked her a question.
“So, headin’ to Asheville to visit kin?”
She shook her head, watching him watch her in the inside rearview mirror. “No, Sir. Moving there, hoping to find a job.”
“Got a place to stay?”
Anxiety wormed into her mind, as she again shook her head. She had planned to get organized and research her options before leaving with Jimmy Bob. Her sudden departure from home had given her no time to do that and, in fact, she hadn’t given a thought to where she would go, what she would do when she reached the city, or just how she would go about searching for her son. She just would. Somehow.
The driver just nodded and launched into a history of the bus and of how he came to buy it directly from the Chicago Motor Coach Company a few years earlier. He gave a spirited, detailed account of how he had restored it just for the rural trips he made. The 1947 Ford Transit 9B was twenty-five feet, nine inches long, and ran on normal gasoline instead of diesel. It carried …
She tuned him out but kept nodding and saying “uh-huh” at various points in his monologue. She didn’t want to seem rude but her mind raced with worry over what awaited her at the end of the trip. She pulled a Hershey bar, which she’d bought from a vending machine at the bus stop, from her pocket. Where would she stay? She felt sure she could find a motel room, but for how much and would they rent a room if she answered honestly about her age. How long would her funds hold out? What kind of work could she find? How would she be able to get back and forth while trying to find Jimmy Bob?
About half way to Asheville, the driver stopped talking about his bus and how hard it was to build a new business and asked her a question, which shook her out of her mental state.
“So, what kind of work you lookin’ fer?”
“Don’t know. Whatever I can find to get started and I’ll take it from there, I guess.”
“What can you do? Any particular skills or training?”
“I can write. Maybe I could try the newspaper.”
He nodded. “Might work out. I had an army friend did that for a while here but soon found it boring. He wanted something more exciting but all the bigger city papers called for a college degree. Ever consider going to college?”
Alice shook her head. “Don’t know how I could ever afford it.”
She suddenly felt like a guppy leaving the estuary for open water. She’d never thought that having a high school degree would be inadequate. Her list of worries overflowed onto a new page. She wished the driver would stop talking and focus on his job. Every time he asked a question, she learned she had no answer and soon a third page of worries sat before her. She needed time to sort out answers for the issues he had already raised, not more of them.
The man finally stopped his inquisition and Alice turned to the window of the bus. By the lights and storefronts lining the road, she knew they were close to, if not already inside, the Asheville city limits. She had never seen so many shops, gas stations, and small businesses in one location before. She could scarcely imagine the likes of New York, Chicago, or Los Angeles.
The driver announced they would be arriving at the final stop in five minutes and Alice’s heart fluttered. Ready or not, here she was. She paid close attention to the places they passed, hoping to spot a place to stay. Within a minute, she noted two motels, but neither looked like a place she wanted to use. By the time they arrived at the small depot, she counted five motels within walking distance, but only one that appeared halfway clean.
The driver stood to open the door and assist elderly patrons down. He turned to address her as he opened the door.
“Young lady, could you wait until last? I have something to ask you.”
Alice wanted to get started. She needed to find a room and didn’t feel comfortable wandering a strange town after dark for one second longer than she had to. Still, she deferred to the man by sitting back in her seat while the other passengers disembarked. When the others had cleared the bus, she stood and emerged to the pavement below. She watched him move all of the luggage from the storage compartment to the sidewalk except her suitcase.
As the driver approached, she asked, “May I have my suitcase, please?”
“In just a minute, Miss.” He assisted another passenger and gazed around the area in a f
inal sweep looking for anyone else needing help. He then turned back to Alice.
“Miss, can I ask you a question? It’s none a my business, I know, but are you runnin’ away from home? I just get this feelin’ in ma gut you’re runnin’ and you’re gonna need help.”
“I, uh …”
“How old are you? Seventeen? Maybe eighteen?”
“I turned eighteen six months ago, and I’m not running away from home ‘cause I don’t have one anymore.” She realized that her answer was partially the truth.
“I see. Got folks somewhere?”
“No, Sir. Ma died when I was ten. Pa’s gone now, too. Got some cousins but I don’t even know where they live now.”
“Sorry, family’s ‘bout the best thing I got going for me.” He paused and scrutinized her. “Look, you seem like a nice kid. Let me do somethin’ for you. Get back on the bus and I’ll drop you off at a clean little motel near my bus yard and shop. The owners are good folks, in their own way. Known ‘em for years, in fact. There’s also a little café across the street with decent food at a good price. And, if you want, I’ll pay you six dollars a night to clean this thing. Takes a couple hours to do right, but that gives you the chance to find a day job, too.”
Alice was too stunned to say anything. She’d read about this thing called karma. She seemed to be reaping the good side of it. First the Umfleets, and now this guy.
“What’s your name?”
She paused a moment. If this marked the start of a new life, she needed a new name as well. Nothing that could connect her to her old man, or to Frampton Corner. “Betsy, Betsy Weston.”
“Well, Betsy Weston, I’m Lester Eaton. My wife goes by Hilda, but don’t ever ask her real name, ‘less you want a glare that’ll turn you to ice. Let’s get goin’.”
Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense Page 54