Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense

by Luana Ehrlich

  A tear formed in Myra’s eye. A tear. She thought she’d been drained of those nearly a decade earlier when she discovered husband number two in bed with someone else – the delivery guy. Until then, the UPS slogan, “What can Brown do for you?” had carried a completely different meaning.

  Two days later, Myra sat in a chair looking out her hospital room window toward the UCLA campus and the Santa Monica Mountains beyond. She’d required assistance getting there, but for the first time since her arrival, she could sit up and the Richter scale shakes no longer threatened to propel the chair around the room like a child’s wind-up toy. Even her skin color had improved, to something akin to a pastel ocher.

  She turned at a knock at her door. “Good morning, Doctor Kennison. At least, I’m hoping for the good part.”

  He didn’t smile. “Good to see you up in the chair. We’ll try a little assisted walking later today. Eating okay? The green Jell-O is a favorite.”

  Myra’s mood fell at his less-than-encouraging greeting. She pointed to an adjacent chair. “Please. Have a seat and give me the bad news.”

  He looked at her with a subtle tilt of his head and raised brow, as if saying “Bad news? Who said I have bad news?”

  “You look like you downed a pint of sour milk,” she continued. “So I assume …”

  The doctor sat down next to her, knees together, holding her medical record in his lap. “Sorry I’m so obvious. Guile was not part of my medical training.”

  Myra watched his body language as confirmation of that statement. She’d spent several hours with this man over the previous 48 hours and liked him, despite his being frumpy, fidgety, and familiar to the point of being boring. What she liked in him was his compassion and integrity, and she discovered that she trusted his medical judgment.

  “Okay then,” he sighed. “The fair news is that some of your tests have improved with hydration and medication, as you’ve no doubt noticed by your skin color. However, any alcohol at all, or even some meds like acetaminophen will tilt things back the wrong way.” He paused and watched her reaction, so she made a point of remaining as flat as possible. “Have you ever come across the MELD Score in researching a book?”

  Myra shook her head.

  “The acronym stands for Model for End-stage Liver Disease. The score ranks people for liver transplant. The score ranges from six to 40, and anyone having a score of 25 or higher gets ranked a level one priority for transplant.”

  Transplant? Myra wondered. Did I hear him right? The look on her face must have given her thoughts away.

  “Yes, I said transplant. The bad news is, you have a score of 30. Your cirrhosis is so severe that statistics only give you a 20 percent chance of life three months from now without a transplant. However, the alcohol really worsens the problem. The worse news is that because this is alcoholic cirrhosis, and although you have no other medical problems, even with surgery, you have only a 50-50 chance of living one more year, and that year isn’t likely to be pleasant. The worst news, however, is the catch-22. Many transplant centers won’t consider you a candidate until you’ve been off alcohol at least six months.”

  Myra zoned out as the hepatologist droned on, hearing only smidgens and smatters. Weekly tests. Miss a test and your score drops. Living donors versus deceased donors. Then more about the transplant process itself. Her thoughts roiled along with her emotions. He said six months. That couldn’t be right. She had too much to do. Her heart refused to accept his words, but her mind knew better. Six months was an educated guess. She could die any day, or live for years. She wasn’t ready for the former.

  When she came around and realized he was finished and sitting there staring at her, she responded, “Thanks for sugar-coating that news.”

  “I’ll ask again, any questions?”

  She hadn’t heard him the first time. Questions. Surely she had some, but none teetered on the tip of her tongue at the moment. One thing rolled around in her head – Samuel’s last request for her to write one more book, one for posterity. One to take its place among American classics. One that college students a century from now would find on their required reading list. He knew she had it in her.

  She needed a life preserver to cling to, to avoid slipping beneath the chilly waters of Dr. Kennison’s news. One more book. A book to occupy her mind, to take her focus away from the questions of eternal destiny. Yes, if she could focus on writing that book for Sam, she would prevail.

  Her problem? That book might be in her, but she hadn’t the foggiest idea where to look for it. Was it filed between broken, battered women and cheating husbands? Maybe it hid between psychopaths and serial killers. She was a genre writer – popular fiction, mysteries and thrillers, the books folks read on vacation or in front of a fire on a snowy evening – not a literary great. Such a story was as lost as she felt at this turn in her life. And the time frame for this beast? Three months at the worst, a year at best. Even if she found the hidden story, could she flesh it out in such a short time?

  Probably not, but she had put dear Samuel through so much over her career she knew she owed him at least the effort of trying. The result might not pass his litmus test, but he’d have one more book of hers to sell. Maybe.

  In her head, though, a still, small voice kept repeating that only one story might just be that book. It had the right elements – a cross-country epic of rags to riches, love abandoned, and more. The happy ending? That remained to be seen. She realized that until this story was told, she might find no other in the creative well of her mind.

  “Can I travel? I mean, are there any limitations besides the alcohol? These tests, can they be done wherever I am at the time, or am I tethered to the medical center here?”

  Questions poured forth until the doctor had to raise his hands to stop her.

  “Whoa. How about one at a time.”

  Myra pieced together the idea forming in her mind and outlined her needs to the doctor.

  “Look, Dr. Kennison, if I sit here, or at my home, with nothing to do but wait and wonder if I’ll ever get a donor, I’ll go crazy. I have to stay busy to keep my mind from dwelling on all of this, to keep my sanity. I have to start a new project and to do that I need to travel for research. Nothing major or out of the country, but it would take me to New Mexico and points east. Can I do that?”

  The doctor appeared reflective. “I don’t see why not, if you’re up to it. You’re not tied to the medical center here, but I hope we can continue to provide your care. I can set up testing just about anywhere in the country, I guess. Can’t say as we’ve ever tried that before, but I can’t see any reason we couldn’t coordinate such a thing.”

  Myra smiled, for the first time in days. In her innermost being, she was a writer. Despite the potential death sentence she’d just been given, she was determined to keep writing, perhaps even literally to die writing.

  “We would want you to keep a beeper or cell phone at all times because we could get a call about a donor at any time and have to be able to reach you 24/7. There’s also the factor of transportation. You would have to be able to get back here within hours.”

  “I can do that. I could arrange a private jet at a moment’s notice if I have to.”

  The doctor nodded. “You are fortunate that way. Most of our patients would never have that luxury.”

  “One last question. You mentioned living donors. I have no immediate family, so can a friend be a donor.”

  “Sure, if they pass the necessary tests for compatibility.” He went on to give a brief summary of what that meant, and of the tests that friend would have to undergo.

  Myra felt a surge of energy. Maybe her muse had returned. Ideas and memories galloped through her mind waiting only to be lassoed and corralled. For years, she had speculated on what should be her last story. She had approached each novel she wrote as if it was the second-to-last because one idea led the herd to claim the role of “alpha story.” She had resisted previous urges to write it for a plethora of re
asons, but largely the time wasn’t right and its ending was so uncertain. No longer did that uncertainty surround her. “The Death of a Diva” would be her final book, classic-to-be or not. Whatever the case, she had only months to finish it.

  Fourteen

  (Spring – 1969)

  **********

  Betsy took heart from her meeting with Mr. Mathews, but the two days were up and she still hadn’t heard from him. She had bought a local newspaper and scoured the want ads, circling potential jobs. She had taken on the chore of calling each employer starting first thing that previous morning, after securing a roll of quarters from the bank and staking her claim on the phone booth. She wondered when she might get a call from the lawyer’s office and debated about calling him before the end of the day if not sooner.

  While out, she’d also visited every store she came across that sold greeting cards. She scanned the displays and scrutinized dozens of cards from half a dozen companies. With the help of her map, she found the nearest library, where she investigated each company, its size, location, and annual sales. She bought a pad of drawing paper and some sketching pencils and made her first attempt to draw and write a card. By that morning she had three “cards” she thought were okay.

  At noon, Jennie and Billie knocked on the door, encouraged her to join them for lunch again, and sealed the invitation with the enticement of Godiva chocolate. After Mr. Mathews’ comments, she’d been more comfortable in accepting their invitations.

  “What’s that?” Billie asked, pointing to the papers on the small table.

  “Somethin’ I’m trying to learn. Mebbe a way of earnin’ some money.”

  Billie picked up the “cards” and as she scanned each one, a smile stretched across her face. “You’re a fast learner. These are good.” She showed them to Jennie, who quickly agreed.

  “Hey, could you draw us? Make us into a card?” asked Jennie.

  Betsy thought about that for a moment. She’d drawn a few cartoons in school and had made some money at the school fall fair doing character sketches. “Sure.”

  The two girls took up a funny pose, but Betsy frowned. “Not that. Here, try this.” She posed the pair as two spies, back to back, pointing their fingers like guns as in one of those “James Bond 007” movies. She’d only seen “Thunderball” but had heard a new one was at the movie theaters. Fifteen minutes later, her sketch, complete with caption, was done. She showed the girls, who giggled with glee.

  “Do another. So we both have one,” said Jennie.

  During lunch, she learned more about each one’s backgrounds, as well as those of several of the other ladies. After lunch, she “entertained” the women by doing sketches of them and began to feel confident in her ability. Maybe the greeting card industry was her calling.

  Later in the afternoon, the girls began to prepare for the evening. Jennie opened a small package that came in that day’s mail and pulled out several small bottles.

  “What’s that?” asked Betsy.

  “Some cosmetics from Elizabeth Arden. Can’t get it locally.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “What’s it for?” mimicked Billie. “Girl, don’t you know anything about makeup?”

  Betsy responded with a blank stare. “Had a couple of friends who used lipstick but we didn’t need much else at home.”

  The other two looked at each other wide-eyed and grinned. Jennie grabbed Betsy by the elbow and led her to a room just off the living room opposite the kitchen. Together, Jennie and Billie pushed Betsy into a styling chair and started jabbering so that Betsy had difficulty following either one alone. Jennie started doing something to her face, while Billie began to attack her hair. Within thirty minutes, they announced their task complete.

  “Ready?” asked Billie.

  Betsy’s heart raced in anticipation. The whole thing seemed to her like a fantasy. They spun the chair around so that Betsy could see her image in the large plate mirror.

  “Omigod,” she replied as she saw herself. “Th-that’s really me?” The image in the mirror mouthed the words as she spoke. That had to be her, but it didn’t look like her.

  “Wow, you clean up nice,” said a voice behind them. Sally walked into the room. “But I wouldn’t walk out of here like that or some of my clients might get the wrong impression.” She paused. “And I sure wouldn’t walk to Lester’s like that. If you survived the neighborhood bad boys, you probably wouldn’t survive Hilda.”

  “I believe that,” answered Betsy. “’Course, if’n I started singin’ ‘All Shook Up,’ Roscoe might come to my aid.”

  Sally laughed. “You got that dog all figured out already, do you? Good for you.” She looked at the other two. “You better get ready. Busy night scheduled, and don’t forget, doctor’s appointments tomorrow.”

  “Yes’m,” replied the two girls.

  Betsy examined herself in the mirror, not wanting to wash away the image she saw. “Can you show me how to do this myself?”

  “Sure” said Jennie, as she worked on her own face. “Start tomorrow if you got time in the afternoon.”

  Betsy sat in a nearby chair and watched the two primp and color. She realized in amazement that here she sat, in a brothel, watching two women prepare to sell their bodies, an action she’d always thought immoral, and yet she felt accepted and comfortable. In fact, she felt that these two young prostitutes had become, in a way, the best friends she’d ever had. Two days earlier, that thought would have been as foreign to her as thinking her dad would one day sober up and realize how wrong he had been.

  Billie stood up first, walked up to Jennie and whispered something in the young woman’s ear. Jennie nodded, and Billie approached Betsy.

  “We weren’t sure if we should do this, but now we are. We have a little secret we’d like to share with you.”

  Billie whispered into Betsy’s ear and stepped away once done. Betsy’s eyes widened and her heart felt the lightest it had felt since running from home. She was now not just a step closer, but a whole triple jump and pole vault closer to searching for her son.

  “Really? You’d do that for me?”

  “Yep, and Sally’s cleared it for us if we’re late getting back.”

  Mondays were always slow nights for the ladies, so Sally had given Jennie and Billie the night off. First thing that morning, they pulled Betsy from her room, literally.

  “C’mon, we got a lot to do,” said Jennie.

  “I-I don’t know if I can do this,” replied Betsy. She felt sure the fear showed in her eyes. She hadn’t realized that when the women had told her they were going to spend the day helping her look for her son, that they meant going back to Frampton Corner as the first step.

  “Don’t you worry. We got your back,” answered Billie. “First things first. In here.”

  “What? Why in here?” Betsy was bewildered when they dragged her into the salon area.

  “Girl, you can’t go back there looking like you. When we’re done, no one will ever suspect you’re, well, you.” Jennie giggled.

  An hour later, Betsy’s hair was cut, colored and styled. She loved the rich, new, deep auburn color they had chosen. The change from her dirty blond locks was amazing. Thirty minutes later, her make-up completed, they handed her new clothes as well.

  “Here, go change into this outfit and meet us back here. We’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”

  Ten minutes later, Betsy stood in front of the large mirror in the salon and stared at the woman looking back at her. Had the image not followed her every move, she wouldn’t have believed that was really her. Tears welled up in her eyes.

  “Careful. You’ll mess up your make-up,” said Jennie as the two friends entered the room. “Ready?”

  Betsy nodded hesitantly. Was she ready? Really? Her head ached at the thought of possibly running into her pa, or worse, Dewey Hastings. If that man saw her looking like this, and recognized her, she’d be in major trouble. Yet, her heart raced in giddy anticipation of reclaiming her
inheritance and proof. On Monday, her pa spent most of the day away from home preparing his hooch for the upcoming weekend demand. With the three of them, they actually stood a chance of finally having something to show the authorities to verify her claim.

  Of course, she hadn’t yet told the women what she needed to retrieve nor of the potential dangers. It was best they didn’t know, in case she was recognized and they were stopped.

  “Let’s go,” called out Billie.

  Outside, they approached the driveway where the dumpster sat and Betsy stopped in her tracks. A bright yellow 1965 Mustang convertible sat outside the garage doors. The day was warm and the sun bright, so the top was down. Billie hopped into the back seat and motioned for Betsy to be navigator. Jennie always drove, or so Billie complained as Betsy took to the passenger seat.

  Betsy directed Jennie along the route taken by the bus through Brevard, past Lake Toxaway, to Cashiers and then north to Frampton Corner. Over the course of the 90-minute drive, the girls got to know each other, superficially at first and more intimately as they neared their destination.

  Finally, they entered the outskirts of the town and Betsy’s anxiety ratcheted up ten levels. She was crazy to come back here, but at least there was some strength in numbers. The warm day had brought the townspeople outside and all of them watched the bright convertible with three stylish young women inside pass by. A few children waved, but Betsy’s fears seemed to wane. She passed by school classmates and while they all watched the car go by, no one gave any sign of recognizing her. And, she realized, why should they? Her new look, new friends, and a classy car placed her so far out of the context in which they knew her that they could probably rent a room at the small no-tell motel and no one would ever suspect it was her.