Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense

by Luana Ehrlich

  “I-I owe you,” stammered Lester.

  Betsy tried to look brave, for him, and shrugged her shoulders. “I just got a lucky hit on the guy, that’s all. Coulda turned out different.”

  “But … but it didn’t.” Lester paused for a painful breath, his face grimacing as he tried to ease the air into his lungs. “I need to warn you. A man, surly and rough … came to the bus stop … in Frampton Corner tonight.” He struggled for another breath. “Late forties, early fifties. By name of Amos.”

  Betsy could feel her throat constricting. Lester worked to continue.

  “Lookin’ for his girl, Alice.”

  Betsy wondered if the sweat she felt building actually showed. ‘Bad things in threes’ echoed in her head. Her pa was waiting out there somewhere. She just knew it. Was Dewey with him? She felt her bravado plummet.

  “Told him … I don’t usually get … to know passengers’ names.” He looked as if he would pass out at any moment. “Offered me a hundred bucks … if I could help him … locate ...” He closed his eyes for a moment, his next breath appearing more laborious than the previous ones. “I took it. Told him a young girl … took the bus … from Cashiers … a couple a weeks ago.”

  Betsy couldn’t breathe any easier than Lester at that point. She held no doubt her fear was evident.

  “Didn’t give him your name … but I mentioned …” The agony in Lester’s face magnified as his voice slurred over the last few words. “Shouldn’t … have …”

  “Mentioned what, Lester? What did you tell him?” Betsy pleaded.

  “Rest …” The man lost consciousness again as the ambulance driver and attendant approached.

  “Lester, what? Please! Wake up! What did you tell him?” She gently prodded his good shoulder, but the ambulance attendant pushed her aside to set the stretcher next to the man.

  “Will he make it?” she asked.

  “Can’t tell you, but the surgeon on call tonight’s a good one. We gotta get him to the hospital fast.”

  A minute later, with Lester strapped into the stretcher in the back of the boxy vehicle, the ambulance left with lights ablaze and sirens disrupting the night’s silence one more time. Betsy watched as the rig moved beyond sight, her gut twisting. Had he mentioned the Rest Stop to her pa? Or was he simply saying he needed rest? Could she return to her room with enough time to clear out? Where would she go?

  ”Can you go through it one more time,” asked the detective.

  She had already told her story to the man once, and turned over the pistol, although she would have preferred keeping it. Her pa was out there somewhere.

  “Hilda met me at the gate and we talked. She offered me that piece of cake over there.” She pointed to the file cabinet. “I was just getting …” She continued in detail with what had happened.

  “And why did you have the gun?”

  “Like I said, I was afraid there was someone else out there. I didn’t want to run to the house without some weapon. I didn’t think I’d get so lucky with the mop again.” The last phrase came out more sarcastically than she wanted, but she was exhausted, emotionally and physically.

  “Do you know the man?”

  That was a question she had hoped he wouldn’t ask. What did she answer? The truth? That would lead to more questions. And if her pa wasn’t in town, he would be soon if she told the truth because the authorities would be heading to Jackson County and her pa knew everything that happened there. He was already here though, wasn’t he? Why else would Ned Hastings have been there, if not looking for her? But could she lie? She did know the man by name, nothing more. And if her pa was already in town looking for her, what would lying gain? Real trouble, with the law.

  “I used to live in Jackson County. He looks like a moonshiner from down there. Ned Hastings. But I can’t be totally certain.”

  “Why would he be up here? Was he known for whorin’?”

  That one Betsy could honestly answer. “Beats me.” She had her suspicions and worries, but she honestly did not know why he was there. The second question actually gave her a glimmer of hope. Maybe that’s why he was here. Maybe he wasn’t looking for her. No, that would be too much to ask.

  “Okay. Well, thank you, Miss Weston. We might need you to come into the station tomorrow, so please stay in town.”

  He said that with a gravity that Betsy could not ignore. She had told him they could contact her through Hilda and did not mention the Rest Stop. Lester’s confession gnawed at her as Hilda walked up to her.

  “Despite some flaws, Lester be a good man. I hope he not get you into any trouble.”

  “Maybe, maybe not, Hilda. If it’s okay with you, can I come back in the morning to finish the bus? I need the income.”

  “It not going anywhere. Tomorrow, next day, next week, be fine, but will not need cleaning again until it used again. Sorry.” She started to turn toward the house, but stopped. “You want maybe to stay here tonight?”

  “I, uh, I don’t know what to do, Ma’am. All my stuff’s in my room. I gotta go back to get it, at least.”

  “I wait.”

  Betsy thought for a minute. Her pa could easily track her to the bus company. Would he find her here easier than finding her at the Rest Stop?

  “Tell you what. If I’m not back in thirty minutes, I’ve decided to take my chances at the Rest Stop. Thirty minutes. Okay? If I’m not back, go ahead to bed.”

  “Not bed. I be headin’ for the hospital, but I wait thirty minutes. There won’t be news for me before that at the hospital.”

  “Ma’am, I wasn’t thinking. Sorry. No, you just go on to the hospital. I’ll manage. I can sleep on the bus if I need to come back here.”

  Betsy walked over to Roscoe’s body. The Elvis fan never had a chance. Tears welled up again. She had grown to love that dog. She felt Hilda’s hand on her shoulder.

  “I miss, too.”

  Betsy walked over to some shelves and found a blanket. She lifted the dog’s body onto it and then rolled it twice around the dog. She dragged the shroud over near the back door.

  “I can bury him behind the barn, tomorrow, if you like,” she said.

  Hilda nodded, turned, and returned to the house, her head hanging low. Betsy grabbed her bag from the barn and broke into a run. Without a weapon, she refused to become an easy target for whoever was out there waiting for her. Halfway to the motel, she stopped, winded, and walked for a block before returning to a fast jog for the remaining distance. As she came into view of the Rest Stop, she stopped. Half a dozen police cars filled the lot and blocked its entrances. Undulating red lights swirled about the dark sky. Anguish filled Betsy’s soul for the third time that day. “Threes. They come in threes,” she could hear her ma saying.

  Sixteen

  (Present Day)

  **********

  After a week in the Reagan Medical Center, Myra sat in the living room of her Carmel home overlooking the waves as they surged toward the rocky shoreline only to explode upon the plutonic granite outcroppings into a coarse spray. Had she been on the beach, she would have seen the sun cast prisms of light through the spray, but she wasn’t yet up to such activity. After a total count of eight units of blood, she would do nothing to risk losing that precious commodity. She did find one thing curious about it. Had one or more of those units been donated by someone of oriental ancestry? She’d had cravings for Chinese food since leaving the medical center. She’d never been fond of Chinese before. It had to be the blood.

  Her energy levels waxed and waned, but she awoke that morning to a good day. During the last two days in the hospital, she had developed a coarse outline for the new book. This morning, with the aid of her favorite travel agent, she had booked her next day flight via private charter to Albuquerque and made reservations at the Mabel Dodge Luhan House in Taos for what was to be the first leg of her final trip. She interrupted her packing to reheat and finish her chicken fried rice, while longing for General Tso’s chicken despite knowing the risk such
a spicy dish would have on her still-sensitive lower esophagus.

  As she rinsed her plate, the doorbell rang for the third time that morning. Who is it now? she wondered. She checked her security video feed of the front door to find the third flower deliveryman of the morning. Make that delivery crew because she saw a small cargo van in the drive and two more men unloading floral arrangements. Oh gawd, she thought. Having collapsed at the Polo Lounge patio had one distinct disadvantage, her collapse and sudden hospitalization had made it to the gossip rags as well as Publishers Weekly, Time Magazine, People, and US Weekly. While the public might not recognize her, her fans made sure she felt appreciated. She had dispersed over five dozen floral pieces to patients throughout the medical floor and ICU upon discharge.

  She opened the door to the head deliveryman, keeping her emergency alert button in hand should anything untoward happen. She’d never had to use it at home and never hoped to. Needless to say, it would be the one time she answered the door alone without it that some psychopath would be there. There was nothing like a writer’s imagination to keep her on alert.

  “Hi, Ms. Mitchell. Back again.”

  She recognized the young man as the same man who’d delivered the first gifts that morning. That time, he’d been alone and had only three pieces.

  He laughed. “Got a whole truck load this time. Living room?”

  Myra sighed, nodded, and looked again at the name on his uniform shirt. “You know where to go, Greg. Have at it.” She opened the door wide to the men and fifteen minutes later, her living room looked like a conservatory during a holiday floral show. She couldn’t very well refuse them and alert three strangers that the place would be vacant in twenty-four hours. Security system or not, why tempt fate?

  As the last man exited her home, the phone rang. Caller ID listed a number she knew quite well.

  “Myra. How are you doing?”

  “Stephen, darling, it’s so good to hear your voice.” She cradled the phone on her shoulder as she signed the delivery receipt and then twiddled with her hair as she talked. “I’ve missed you, dear.” Her latest beau, of sorts, was a plastic surgeon, not that she’d ever made use of his services. Well, not his professional ones anyway.

  “Are you feeling well? I’m worried. I just got back in country yesterday and heard about your episode. Did you get my flowers? They promised delivery this morning.”

  She hesitated. Which was his? She started thumbing through gift cards, hoping for a quick discovery. “They’re absolutely gorgeous, Stephen. But then, you’ve always had exquisite tastes.” She still had not found his arrangement.

  “Let’s get together for dinner. You are up for that, aren’t you? How about L’Escargot in Carmel. I’ll pick you up at seven. Quiet dinner. Passionate night. Okay?”

  “Stephen, dear, you should know better. I’m afraid it’s bland foods, no wine, and no vigorous exercise for a while. Doctor’s orders.” Should she tell him the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but? Not on her life.

  “Then how about a cozy evening of snuggling and watching the sunset from your deck?”

  That was tempting, but she had no time.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to take a rain check on that offer as well, dear. I’m leaving in the morning for Taos.”

  “I’ll meet you there. Where would I find you?”

  Can’t this man take no for an answer? she thought. He was starting to sound a bit needy and that was one trait in a lover she found unappetizing. How might Sweetie put it? “Needy? If I want drama, I’ll rent a movie.” Still, he had performed well in satisfying her appetites in the past.

  “Not this time. Please, I’ll call you when I get back.” Call waiting beeped on her phone. “Stephen, I’ve got another call coming in. I’ll call. Promise. Ciao.”

  Myra heard the beginning of his “Bye” as she pulled the handset away from her ear and glanced at the caller ID – “Mobile Caller” and a number she did not recognize. She ignored the call at first, thanking its timing for getting her away from Stephen. However, she noticed the number carried a New York area code. Samuel? she wondered. She hurried off to her study where the answering machine had picked up the call on the sixth ring.

  “Myra? You there? Don’t scare me like this. I don’t wanna find you passed out or dead or something. Pick up the stupid receiver. Myra?”

  She picked up the phone. “Samuel, so nice of you to call.” She heard a not-so-subtle sigh of relief on the other end.

  “You okay? Don’t do that to me.”

  “I feel great today. Thanks for asking.” She chuckled. “And I didn’t do anything to you. After all these years, you should know I let the machine answer, particularly if I don’t recognize the caller or number.”

  “Okay, yeah, but ... Hey, look, I’m about ten minutes away and I’ve got someone you need to meet.”

  Samuel was in Carmel? “Oh? I didn’t expect you back here. I-I’m flying out tomorrow and now’s not really a good time to meet –”

  “I know, I know. You emailed me about the trip, remember? But …” He paused and Myra knew from his tone that she wasn’t going to like what came next. “Look, I know what you’re going to say, but I hired you an assistant. She’s going to accompany you on your trip, and –”

  “No, Samuel. I don’t need …” She realized what he was doing. “This person isn’t an assistant, is she, Samuel? You hired a babysitter, didn’t you? You don’t trust me to steer clear of the wine, do you?” From the blank air on the other end, she knew she’d caught him with his pants down. On second thought, that was a cliché she didn’t want to visualize. She stopped pacing the room and plopped into the chair at her writing table. She didn’t have the energy to get angry.

  “Myra, hey, I know what this sounds like, but honest, she’ll function as an assistant. She’s capable, and understands the needs of a writer. Wants to be a writer herself. You’ll like her; I just know it. I like her, and, I sure don’t like people as easily as you do. You know that. C’mon, be a sport. Do me this favor for once. I’m footin’ the bill.”

  Myra realized he had her best interest at heart, and that the book project staring her in the face was all because of him. Plus, he had no reason to trust her. Not one, based on recent history. Samuel had preceded her to the house and emptied it of all adult beverages. He’d found every last bottle. How, she had no idea because she often found bottles tucked away that even she didn’t recall hiding. He had even removed all traces of acetaminophen. Maybe, for this book, she could use an assistant – and a babysitter.

  “Okay, Samuel, I’m willing to meet her on the condition that if we don’t hit it off right away, she goes back with you.”

  “Thank you, Myra. I don’t think we’ll have a problem.”

  Myra placed the phone back in its charging cradle and started back toward the kitchen. She hadn’t made it to the main hall when the doorbell rang. She huffed. “Guess he knows better than to give me much warning,” she said to the empty hall.

  She answered the door to find Samuel, flowers in hand, and a young woman whose back was turned toward her. Something stirred in Myra’s gut. The back of that head looked oddly familiar.

  “We were closer than I thought. Myra, this is …” The young woman turned to face her and Myra’s color, jaundice and all, drained. “… Alexia Hamilton. She starts that doctorate program at USC in two months and has quite an impressive resume. We met at the USC reception, and, well, one thing led to another.”

  “Hi, Ms. Mitchell.”

  Myra stood there speechless. She had no doubts as to whose idea it was to become an assistant.

  “Thanks, Samuel, but this won’t work. You can take her home now.”

  Samuel’s mouth dropped. “What? That’s it? You’re not even gonna talk with her?”

  “We’ve met before, Samuel. It won’t work.”

  This time Samuel eyed the young woman with a steely gaze that made the woman uneasy.

  “Okay. Yes, we kind of met. I got h
er autograph at the movie premiere, but, we were going to meet at the USC reception and you couldn’t make it.”

  Samuel’s face reddened. He never had been one to accept being played, but all he said was, “Oh, really.”

  Myra hated putting Samuel in the middle of something she didn’t understand yet herself. She touched Samuel’s shoulder. “I didn’t exactly promise we’d talk, but I did say I’d try.” Myra stepped back through the doorway, and ushered a nervous girl and perplexed agent into her living room. Alexia gazed around the room, looking puzzled. Myra realized they had no place to sit.

  “My god, Myra, you got a regular botanical garden going here.” He started nosing around the flowers. “Geez, look at this one. Looks like a funeral director’s award winner.” He peeked at the card. “Stephen somebody. You sure he knows you’re still alive?”

  Myra ignored the comment and ushered them to a smaller parlor near the kitchen. She watched as Alexia studied the place, as if sizing up Myra’s worth from the décor. Myra steeled herself for what was to come.

  “Maybe I should step out,” said Samuel.

  “Nope, you’re in this through thick and thin. Besides, you complained you know nothing about me. Maybe you’ll learn something from this little blackmailer.”

  Alexia’s eyes widened. “Blackmailer? Why, I never –”

  “You did imply such. I believe your words at the movie premiere were, ‘Please make time for me. I know your secret.’” Myra sat down in a plush, modernistic, cream upholstered chair and crossed her legs defensively, arms folded as well. “Well, just what secret might that be and how much did you think it was worth to keep quiet?” Myra tried to keep secret the fact that her heart was racing and her palms sweating.

  “Zion’s Revenge,” replied Alexia.

  “What about it?” asked Myra.