The senator glanced at his bookcase. Nestled among the requisite state tomes were numerous titles of fiction, including hardcover copies of every Myra Mitchell novel. She held her own on his top-five list of personal favorite authors.
“Get back to our young grad student. I need to be certain she’s just out there to get that PhD and nothing more. Let me know if she contacts the Mitchell woman again.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Dewey Hastings could be trusted only so far, but Albritton held his chain in a chokehold. He would do anything the legislator requested. He had done everything Albritton had asked. Therein lay the rub. Hastings held the senator’s chain mutually tight. They were joined at the neck. A noose around one meant a noose around the other. Albritton’s only advantage: he held the purse strings.
Whether she knew it or not, young Miss Hamilton had almost stumbled onto what could have been the biggest story of her short journalistic writing career. His problem was two-fold. He couldn’t simply have Dewey remove her as a threat. He was guilty of much, but never murder. Plus, her unexpected demise might draw scrutiny by the professional investigators at Project Innocence. They wouldn’t fail where she left off.
So, his second problem? He didn’t know exactly what she knew and what she didn’t, or whether she’d connected any of the dots she had uncovered. Had she turned over her work to the professionals? Dewey had not found any notes or reports in her apartment. On the flip side, he’d found correspondence with a PI and it made no mention of her research. Now that she was out of state, what Albritton didn’t need was her piquing the interest of someone like Myra Mitchell, someone whose experience could form a high-def, three-dimensional picture from those dots, someone with the resources to dig deeper, someone who could cause trouble for him, his twenty-plus-year career in public service, and his bid for the U.S. Senate.
Nine
**********
Myra awoke to the UCLA Marching Band strutting across her bedroom, the clamorous snare drums competing with the thunderous bass drum for her attention. She rolled over and missed the snooze button three times before falling out of bed onto the plush carpeted floor.
“Owww,” she moaned, rubbing the shoulder that became the focus of her one-point landing. “Oh no, it can’t be nine o’clock already.”
She stood up only to promptly fall back onto her butt as her head performed a dreidel imitation and her eyes channeled John Lennon’s “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” Back on the floor, Myra waited for the kaleidoscopic merry-go-round to end and then sat up slowly, moving to use the bed as back support.
“I’m never going to make that brunch meeting on time at this rate,” she muttered. “Why? Why do I do this to myself?” She refused to answer.
She eased up onto the edge of the bed and, with eyes closed, turned on the lamp. One among the many advantages of luxury hotels was their excellent ability to darken a room at any time of day. Her eyes weren’t yet ready for the explosion of light she knew existed beyond the heavy drapes. As she opened her lids to slits, she realized they weren’t quite ready for the lamp either, but she pushed ahead.
With improved visual orientation to the dimly lit room, she stood up and waited for the spin to recur. It didn’t and she took baby steps to the bathroom where she found another advantage of luxury hotels – complimentary ibuprofen. She gulped down two of the over-the-counter strength tablets with a full glass of Evian, also “free.” Her tongue thanked her for that and soon her head would show its gratitude as well.
She looked up and found a stranger, an alien of sorts, staring back at her from “Alice’s mirror.” This alien from beyond the looking glass bore a vague resemblance to her, but its eyes were matte orange in color, its hair outdid Medusa on a windy day, and the skin of its face looked oddly bulldog-like with a strange pumpkin coloring. Should have soaked in the wine after all, she thought, instead of drinking it. Her mind filled with the image of the Queen of Hearts crowing, “Off with her head. Off with her head.”
She thought also about calling to postpone the meeting until lunch to give her time to “tone up” at the spa first. Unfortunately, she did not recollect the spa’s brochure mentioning “miracles” in its service listing. She also vaguely recalled her agent, Samuel DeMoss, saying he had a mid-afternoon flight to catch.
Myra grabbed the coffeepot and a small filter pack containing some foreign brand that promised “all the richness of the Ethiopian countryside where coffee was first discovered.” Somehow, the idea of Ethiopia producing fine coffee didn’t jive with her mental image of Juan Valdez and his donkey carrying the world’s richest coffee beans. The label said “medium roast” and she wondered if that would be enough. A lighter roast would contain more caffeine and a stronger taste. She picked up another filter pack to find a dark roast. The medium would have to do.
Forty-five minutes later, buttressed with two cups of coffee, her skin steamed back into shape by a hot shower, and her hair unbelievably tamed, she inspected her reflection in the cheval mirror and pronounced herself ready for the day, as soon as she found the right pair of shoes.
Myra stumbled a bit along the garden path to the main building, in pumps that weren’t quite a match to her outfit, but gained strength and walked into the “Pink Palace’s” lobby with her regal head up. Her plan? To meet Samuel as he entered the building and surprise him with newfound punctuality. She glanced at a clock behind the reception desk. Ten-twenty. He would arrive at any moment.
She meandered around the lush room filled with potted palms among the broad golden peach pillars and admired a magnificent floral piece on the round table under the central crystal chandelier. She kept her eye on the entrance and took deep breaths whenever her body shouted, “Sit down!” Impatient, she walked to the main door to look down the red carpet entrance. The porter tipped his cap and greeted her by name, another advantage of a five-star establishment like the Beverly Hills Hotel. She smiled back as she looked outside. No Sam.
As she turned, she heard a flurry of footsteps behind her and saw three twenty-something gals rushing toward her, waving. Her smile brightened, and then extinguished as they rushed past her. She sighed and shrugged her shoulders, and then returned to the lobby where she saw the women mob a young man who she recognized from his supporting role in “her” movie. Yes, she created and the actors only animated. Yet, they got all the glory. Just once, she thought. Maybe someone could start some kind of “red carpet” event for book releases.
The concierge approached her. “Ms. Mitchell, I’m sorry to interrupt, but Mr. DeMoss asked us to tell you he’s waiting on the Polo Patio for you. He asked us to hurry you along if we saw you.” He ended with a subtle bow of the head.
She turned and hurried along to the Polo Lounge patio, a garden spot of red brick terraces surrounded by colorful flowerbeds and shaded by trees and mushroom-shaped canopies of trailing fuchsia bougainvillea. The white wrought iron bistro tables and chairs lent an old English air to an otherwise Mediterranean atmosphere. As she walked through the doors to the patio, she found Samuel sitting in the shade of the lounge’s famous Brazilian pepper tree, a tree that had seen the likes of Bogart and Hepburn and was older than the hotel itself. He wiped his mouth and stood as she neared.
She noted that his plate was nearly empty. “Wow. Thanks for waiting.” Her irritation dripped from her tone.
“Whadayou mean?” Sam replied in a thick Brooklynese. “I should say ‘bout time. We were supposed to meet at nine o’clock. It’s after ten-thirty and I’ve got a plane to catch in just over two hours.” His irritation out-dripped hers. “I just figured you’d stood me up again.”
“No, I clearly remember our agreeing to ten-thirty.”
“Hell, Myra. When was the last time you clearly remembered anything?”
She raised a hand and started to answer, and then stopped. He had a point. Her shoulders sagged. “Sorry, Sam. I …”
“C’mon, c’mon. Have a seat.”
He pulled the chair o
ut for her and she eased down, hoping he wasn’t going to pull it out from under her as she deserved. In an instant, the waiter was at her side with a menu, but she already knew what she wanted. “I’d like to start with a screwdriver, then the sliced pink grapefruit, a Dutch apple pancake and an espresso. Thank you.”
The waiter moved off and she looked up to see Sam staring at her, one eyebrow raised.
“What?”
“A screwdriver?” he asked.
“A little hair of the dog never hurt.”
“Myra, when ya gonna learn? My Elizabeth, she’s got me eating so healthy my blood’s clear. From the looks of you, that would do you some good, too. Geez, you look like a pumpkin. You need to see a doctor.”
“Thanks. Love you, too, Sam. You know my motto, eat like a Goddess, drink like a fish.”
“You got that last part down pat,” Sam muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. Look, I don’t have much time. I wanted to let you know that Lizbeth is leaving Penguin and you’ll be getting a new editor there. Ever worked with Donna LaPorte? I don’t think you have.”
Myra looked up at the waiter, who had arrived with her drink, and took the glass. “Thank you.” She took a sip and looked back at Sam. “Never heard of her. She okay?”
“Sure, I guess. But she’s already asking if you’ll have something for her next month as promised. You know, Myra, it’s been over a year since your last release—”
Myra, her hand poised over breakfast to snatch her first bite, held up her hand, fork and all, to stop him. “Sam, Sam, please. I’ve been pumping out a book a year for what, fifteen years? Maybe I just need a break.”
She couldn’t let Sam in on her current project. It was so far removed from her genre bestsellers that she knew without a doubt he’d think she’d lost it, needed commitment on a 96-hour hold and psychiatric assessment. As she thought about it, maybe he’d be right.
Sam sighed. “Fine, Myra. I understand that. I really do. But you signed a contract with them that commits you to one more book and you promised a rough outline, at the least, by the end of next month.” He paused, watched her slather her meal with maple syrup, and start to eat. After one bite, she put down her fork and looked up. “You do have an idea, don’t you? For the new book?”
Myra felt conflict in her gut unlike anything inflicted on her by previous indulgences. She stared toward the bougainvillea, trying to find that happy place, any happy place, hoping the sensation would disappear in a puff of mist.
“Myra? You okay?” He paused. “Look, maybe I can stall them a bit without risking a breach of contract. I mean, they don’t want to lose an author who outsells Brad Thor, Steve Berry, and James Patterson combined. Right?” He paused and waved his hand in front of her face. “Myra? You still with me?”
Myra’s gut became a wave pool rolling out nauseous whitecaps and her head regained its earlier psychedelic swirl. She saw Sam wave his hand, but couldn’t seem to react. This incident would seem surreal if only she didn’t feel so awful.
“Myra?”
Myra knew she was about to pass out and feared making a scene, but had not the strength to leave the patio or even to ask for help. She had no need to worry. The thud as her body hit the brick pavers caught no one’s immediate attention but that of one couple at the nearest table, who resumed talking fifteen seconds later.
Ten
(Spring – 1969)
**********
Counselor Albritton paced the wide planked pine floors of his new office and gazed out at Cashiers Lake more than once. He hadn’t expected business to flood through the door on his first day in practice, but he had anticipated at least a few inquiries. He hadn’t settled on Cashiers lightly. In fact, after discussions with several fellow county attorneys and more than a dozen area lawyers, he had become convinced that Cashiers was the right place to open shop. Yet, as the clock’s hands converged on noon, the phone had not rung once and the front door’s hinges produced nary a squeak.
Albritton left his office and walked down a short hall past the two small offices he hoped might one day hold junior associates and entered a small kitchenette equipped with a porcelain sink, a third-hand refrigerator, hot plate, electric percolator for coffee, and a small wooden table with four chairs. From a cabinet adjacent to the sink, he produced a small plate, a loaf of white bread and a jar of peanut butter. From the refrigerator, he claimed a half-full jar of Welch’s grape jelly. In due order, he assembled his lunch with potato chips and a Royal Crown Cola accompanying his sandwich.
He stood at the small window on the back wall of the room and watched the lake as he ate the sandwich and chips. A grey heron worked the eastern shallows looking for its own lunch. Albritton liked PB&J well enough, but today, lunch was more a means to break the monotony than something to savor. His custom as county attorney had been to lunch at the Franklin Golf Course clubhouse or Maggie’s Café, before a kitchen fire leveled the building. Now, until he had a steady income, frugality ruled his palate.
With the sandwich half-eaten, he turned back to the table and picked up his bottle of pop. He heard the front door open and prepared to greet whoever was there, when he heard a familiar voice.
“Hey, Counselor! You here?”
“Back here, Dewey.”
The man entered the break area and smiled.
“Another gourmet lunch, I see.”
Albritton nodded. “Help yourself.”
The pair went back to elementary school on through high school, where Albritton was a stellar student and Hastings, not so much. At least, not when it came to books. The man was street-smart and had shown Albritton how to skirt the rules when necessary. Now, although Dewey had his less-than-savory side businesses, he continued to help Albritton get an edge on the competition, so to speak.
Albritton resumed eating as Dewey made his own sandwich of PB&J plus potato chips. As the lip of the glass bottle neared his own lips, he heard his phone ring down the hall. Bottle in hand, he rushed back to his office and caught the caller on the fifth ring.
“Albritton Law Office.”
He watched Dewey enter the office and make himself at home.
“Hey little brother, how’s the day going? Beating off the hordes of real estate speculators with their multi-million dollar deals?”
Albritton’s adrenalin level dropped and he sighed as he placed the soda pop on his desk. “Well, big brother, they’re about as common as a first degree murder in Tuckasegee.”
“Man, that’d cut the population there by what, ten, fifteen percent? So, slow day, huh?”
“Didn’t expect throngs of needy clients, but slow is a hyperbole.”
“Look, you didn’t hear this from me, but …”
Albritton heard a sense of giddiness in his brother’s tone
“… we got this young girl missing from Frampton Corner. She was last seen with a neighbor. That man’s wife died early this morning. That was kinda expected, cancer. Jake Fischer took the call and went to meet the coroner there. They had to wheel the body out the back, and ends up, he saw a pile of bloody clothes in the trash pit, ready for burnin’. Wasn’t the wife’s. The guy admits to them being the girl’s and says he stitched up her arm before taking her to the bus. He says he don’t know where the girl is, just that he drove her to Cashiers last night.”
“You saying he did something to the girl?”
“Mebbe. Need more than bloody clothes to go on, though. You know that. We did ask the bus driver and he said several young women were on that bus. Since we don’t have a picture of the girl, we couldn’t confirm she was one of them.”
“So, clue me in. You thought I’d be interested in this because …”
“Because, Emory, I think you’ve mentioned the guy’s name to me a hundred times if you’ve said it once.”
“Curt Umfleet?”
“You got it, little brother. You do the math.”
The neurons in Albritton’s mind began firing like a turbocharge
d GTO. The Umfleet Family Trust owned nearly two thousand acres of real estate bordering the southwest shores of the reservoir. Curt remained the sole trustee and his family the last remaining beneficiaries. His children were minors and his wife gone. Should he be charged and convicted of a felony, the courts would be moved to name a new trustee. If that happened, Emory Albritton would do whatever it took to make sure he would be the one, the only one, to answer the court’s call.
“Umfleet?” asked Dewey as the attorney hung up the phone. “What’s up? Heard the wife finally died.”
Albritton repeated what his older brother had told him.
“Want me to just make him disappear? Believe me, nothin’ better I’d like to do after what he done to my boys and me, gettin’ the feds to bust up our stills and all. And I kinda favored Alice Cummings. If he helped her get away, I look at that as a second strike.”
“Don’t say any more, Dewey. I’m an officer of the court and I won’t be a party to your schemes.” Dewey grinned at the “officer of the court” bit. “Seriously.”
Albritton used Dewey and “his boys” on occasion to play bad guy to his good guy, but they were ordered to stop short of anything physical, and he certainly wanted no part of a murder. That’s all he needed to derail his career.
“You can’t just kill the man, Dewey. That’s not the right way to settle anything. Besides, if he dies, then the kids go into state custody and folks from Asheville to Raleigh get involved. The trust’s custodianship would likely go to someone appointed out of Raleigh. I need the case to stay local, in the district court.”
Dewey finished his sandwich with one final bite and rose from the chair. “Whatever you say, Counselor. Whatever you say.” He paused. “So, just stopped by to see if you had any work for us.” Albritton shook his head. “Well, just let me know when you do.”
Albritton watched the man leave the building and felt uncertain. The thug had a certain look whenever he came up with an idea, particularly ideas Albritton didn’t want any part of. Hastings had that look now.
Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense Page 58