As the car left his sight, a head popped up behind him. “Did that old bag call me nasty? “
“Quiet, Pryor. I’m sure if they’d seen you here they’d have found a better compliment.”
“Yeah, and a few for you, too.”
Albritton clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder and laughed. “Enough to make their Baptist preacher’s ears turn red, I’m sure.”
The two men returned to the lawyer’s office where a third man now sat. “Another client, another option. Do these folks have any idear at all what they’s signin?”
“If they did, they wouldn’t be giving me their John Hancocks now, would they?” Albritton gathered up the papers on his desk, placed them into a labeled manila folder, and filed them in a special drawer. “And with a little patience, two years, five, maybe ten, we’ll have a nice piece of land ripe for developing.” He went to his map with a red marker in hand and colored in another plot. He replaced the cap on the marker and used it to tap another spot on the map. “These folks are next.”
However, the key to his dream remained elusive. The marked areas surrounded nearly two thousand acres that, when combined with his other “conquests,” would make him a wealthy man.
“Middle of next week. Let’s give this couple time to talk it up with friends, at their church, whatever. There’s nothing like word-of-mouth advertising.”
“Just say where and when, and Charlie and me’ll go banging on some doors.” The two men exchanged glances. “So, what’s up with Dewey? We could use his help.”
“He’s busy with an important project, so don’t pay no mind to him right now. He’ll be back when he’s done.”
Gilmore started to say something, but stopped and stood up to join his partner. “Time fer supper.”
Albritton prepared to go out to eat in celebration. In the past week, he’d picked up a dozen new clients, five of which were the result of his ploy, and the phone rang regularly throughout the day now. After a few more weeks of growth like that, he’d need a secretary, preferably young, buxom, and blond.
As he locked up his files, the phone rang.
“Emory Albritton.”
“Well, little brother, told you I’d keep you informed and that’s what I’m doing. A young woman’s body washed up on shore near the dam on Thorpe Reservoir this afternoon. Been in the water awhile from what the coroner says, but Sheriff Connelly thought her size and hair matched the missing Cummings girl. So, we called Amos Cummings ‘bout her, described the clothing, good teeth, no dental work, and a couple of small birthmarks, and he says it’s her. Started cursin’ Curt Umfleet up, down, right and left for takin’ his little girl from him. Never was much good blood between the two men. Anyway, with the bloody clothes found at the Umfleet place, and now a body, the PA issued a warrant. The Sheriff’s on his way as we speak to arrest Umfleet for her murder. Folks from Social Services are with him to take the children.”
“What about Umfleet’s statement that he took the girl to the bus stop and she left town.”
“Yeah, well, I was with the Sheriff myself when we interviewed that driver. He’d been shot in Asheville and was still in the hospital. He told us he picked up a girl by name of Betsy Weston and, in fact, hired the girl to help him with the bus. She’d been in to visit him just the day before. He described her as about a hundred twenty-five pounds with shoulder-length, auburn hair. Wife backed that up outside the room. Seems the same girl was there when he was shot and she killed their attacker, so we talked with the detective. His description of the girl didn’t match Alice either. He also mentioned she had a valid driver’s license in the name of Betsy Weston and she’d just bought a Mustang convertible. DMV confirmed a pending title change for such a car to a Betsy Weston. So, that story don’t add up. Looks like ol’ Curt Umfleet will be in jail a mighty long time, if the jury don’t agree to execute him first.”
Emory Albritton hung up and returned to his map. He was tempted to color in that two thousand acre plot right then, but he knew better than to act prematurely. First, he needed to convince Umfleet to let him help. There were papers to be signed and a petition to be placed before the court to become trustee on behalf of the children. Each step held its chance to sideline his ambitions, but he remained confident. He’d finish his coloring soon enough. That land wasn’t going anywhere.
Twenty-one
(Present Day)
**********
As the Lear 60 XR reached cruising altitude, Myra glanced at Alexia who appeared to be savoring her first flight in a private jet. The fifty-eight foot fuselage could seat six as configured, so the two women had an abundance of room. Myra had flown with this company on more than one occasion so there was also an abundance of oenophilic temptation secured in the bar. Alexia had positioned herself between Myra and the libations, a move Samuel might reward with a bonus.
The young woman sat with a well-worn Bible in her lap. As she opened the book and began to read, Myra thought, “Oh gawd, I hope she’s not a Bible thumper.” She watched Alexia as she read. After a few minutes, the woman glanced up and noticed Myra looking at her. She closed her Bible and said, “I think I could get accustomed to this.” She ran her fingers along the soft leather upholstery.
“Not on a doctorate’s salary,” quipped Myra.
Alexia smiled. “So, how many books did it take to get to this level?”
“Too many.”
“No, seriously, how long did it take to be able to afford this type of luxury?”
“After my third movie option, I chose to travel this way, but it was a stretch for my bank account. The next book and movie option made it much easier. But, remember, I’m single. My expenses, short of the mortgage, are minimal.”
“Yeah, right.”
Myra watched Alexia roll her eyes again. “Exaggerate the eyes a little more and we might make a diva out of you, too.”
Alexia smiled and repeated her gesture with more passion.
“Better. I guess if there was such a thing as a physical cliché, rolling the eyes would be near the top of the list. So, to answer you, I realize ‘minimal’ is a relative term.”
Alexia put her Bible into her satchel, pulled out a steno pad, and jotted down a few notes. Myra nodded her head toward the notebook.
“About me?” She pointed to the steno pad. “Your notes.”
“Sometimes. Sometimes an idea for a plot twist, or a character trait, comes into my head and I note it.”
“Good discipline to have. And?” Myra nodded toward the pad again.
“And what? Oh. A character trait, definitely a character trait.”
Myra chuckled, wondering what kind of trait that might be, modeled after her. Samuel was right. She might find this girl likeable after all, but she held on to her reservations about that.
“Are you working on a book?”
“Kinda. I have an idea, but I’ve been so preoccupied with school and moving, I don’t have much right now.”
“What about short stories? Anything. I need something to read.”
Alexia sat upright in her seat. “Seriously? You’d be willing to read some of my stuff and brainstorm with me?” The young woman’s countenance brightened.
“We have an hour to go on this flight. Go for it. I’m willing, if you can take the heat.”
Alexia dug into her laptop case and pulled out a short sheaf of paper that Myra saw consisted of several works stapled at their top-left corners. Alexia handed her the second from the top, smiling.
“I, um, kinda hoped you would, so I came prepared. Samuel told me you like to read hardcopy, so I took the liberty.”
Myra chuckled. “Maybe you should have been a Boy Scout.”
Alexia gave her a sheepish grin. “Actually, I kinda was. Honorary. My dad was a Scoutmaster before he passed away.”
Myra saw her fight to keep the tears at bay. She had been told about the relatively recent deaths of Alexia’s parents. “I’m sorry about your parents.”
Alexia wiped t
he tears from her cheek. “Thanks. It’s been a rough year.” She sniffed and sat upright. “Okay, so this is a short story I wrote in college and was among the several I submitted with my application for the doctorate program. My college prof really liked this one.”
Myra didn’t make it past the first page before commenting. “So, where’s the hook, that first paragraph that grabs the reader and obligates her to continue? Nothing here says ‘read on.’”
Alexia looked flustered. “I, uh … it’s more of a literary piece than a thriller or mystery.”
“Doesn’t matter. All books need that hook to push the reader into the story.”
Myra sped through the rest of the story and agreed with Alexia’s assessment of the genre, as the piece was primarily character driven. The girl showed good command of structure and characterization, but her pacing was off and her prose needed tightening. What did they teach wannabe writers in college these days?
Within twenty minutes, Myra had Alexia near tears, until she admonished the young woman to grow thicker skin and shared her early life experience with rejection after rejection of her first books. Then, as if some switch turned on, Alexia began to grasp the core of Myra’s criticisms. For the next hour, Myra gave Alexia a writing lesson every aspiring author in the country would donate their right arm to have, except they might need it to write.
By the time they landed, the young woman had filled of her steno pad, and Myra knew Alexia would be up to the task, should Myra not survive to finish the story.
Two hours later, Myra’s rental car pulled up the secluded drive at the Mabel Dodge Luhan House, its classic Pueblo Revival architecture in harmony with the surrounding sagebrush desert of the Taos Plateau. Built from an existing four-room, adobe structure by a crew from the Taos Pueblo around 1920, the house became a center for the arts and counterculture of that era. Willa Cather and D.H. Lawrence were among Mable’s famous guests, a fact that had drawn Myra to the center early in her literary quest.
Alexia climbed out of the driver’s seat and stared at the historic home.
“So, this is it, the place mentioned so much by the Utopian writers of the early 20th century.”
“The one and only. Rustic, comfortable, and inspiring. Dennis Hopper edited ‘Easy Rider’ while staying here. I arrived here for the first time about fifteen years later, but slept in the same room as I looked for a cottage to rent while I wrote ‘Rebecca’s Bargain.’ I’ve been back several times, once a year actually, always in the same room, the Ansel Adams Room.”
Alexia examined the herringbone vigas supporting the roof and the traditional arched doorways of adobe construction on their way to the front desk.
“A reservation for Mitchell,” Myra told the girl at the desk.
“Rustic is the word for this place, alright. I’ve, um, heard there’re bugs in adobe homes.”
Myra laughed. “True. Adobe bugs, but they don’t eat much.”
The young clerk inspected the reservation and announced, “Here we are. We have you booked together in Auntie’s House.”
Myra furrowed her brow. “What? I asked for and confirmed the Ansel Adams Room for myself.”
An older woman stepped out from a nearby office.
“Myra, I thought I recognized your voice. It’s good to have you back.”
“Hello, Diana. I thought I had my usual room.”
Alexia stepped up. “Sorry, it’s my fault. I changed your reservation so we’d be together. I, uh …”
Alexia withered at Myra’s stern look, yet Myra knew Samuel was behind it all. She looked at Diana.
“I’d like my usual room, please.”
Diana scanned the computer screen and pressed a few keys, before scrunching up her lip and nose. “I don’t think we can switch it now, Myra. I’m sorry. That room is tied up ‘til the first of next week, maybe later. I could give you the Gate House Cottage, if you want more room.”
“Can I bribe the occupant?”
“Actually, it’s not occupied. We’re repainting and putting in a new bed. The adobe bugs finally ate the old one.” She winked at Myra while watching Alexia squirm.
Myra smiled. “Can I bribe the painters and pest control guy?”
“Sure, if you don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”
Myra gave a quick nod. “It’s settled then. We have Auntie’s House.” She walked around behind the desk and gave Diana a hug. “Good to see you, too. I’m looking forward to a little peaceful solitude. Life threw a hard ball at me last week.”
She heard Alexia whisper, “Cliché.” As she turned toward the young woman, Alexia raised her brow and glanced away, as if saying, “Did I say that? Gotcha.”
“So I heard.” The manager looked Myra up and down and then addressed Alexia. “In Mabel’s own words, she envisioned this house as a retreat for the movers and shakers of the earth, as a place to relax and recover their energy. Many come here for solitude and a time of peaceful contemplation. So, one of our main rules here is ‘No divas allowed.’ I hope you’ll keep her in line.” She smiled. “Again, welcome. If I can do anything for you, please, let me know. And, Myra, I have your lab visit all set up. End of the week, as requested.”
“Thank you, dear.”
After Alexia left the reception area to move the car and retrieve their luggage, Diana motioned Myra to join her in the back office.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Myra plopped down into a chair, unsure if she had the energy to stand again. They’d known each other for almost two decades and Diana knew more about Myra’s past than all but one other friend.
“We all have to die sometime,” said Myra.
“Wow, that’s not something I ever thought I’d hear you say.”
“Well, it’s true. I’ve come to accept it and if I ever begin to dwell on how much that scares me, I-I don’t know what I’d do.”
Diana sat down next to her and took her hand. “What can I do?”
“Nothing, unless you can conjure up a close relative as a living donor.”
“I’m willing.”
Myra gave her friend a wan smile. “I know you are, but I already know we’re not a match. Different blood types. Remember?” Myra smiled at a memory. They had both volunteered to donate blood for a mutual friend. Both had been incompatible with the friend and with each other. As it ended up, Myra’s incompatibility with that “friend” extended beyond blood types. Marriage number three wasn’t meant to be.
A tear trickled down Diana’s cheek. She looked Myra straight in the eyes.
“He still asks about you, you know. Just last week, as a matter of fact.”
“Before or after I made the gossip rags?”
“Before. I haven’t seen him since I heard about your collapse at the hotel.”
“Probably drunk somewhere. Tell him you haven’t seen or heard from me. I want nothing to do with him.”
Diana sighed and nodded. “Ironic. You left him because of his alcoholism and now look at you.”
Myra felt as if she’d been slapped hard in the face, but the comment was true. Why did she always end up with the same type of guy? Wine had been only a social tool before meeting Ricardo, not a food group. However, she fell into his hard partying lifestyle until it merged into her own soul and became part of her. He might have become husband number three had she not grown tired of his late night binges, missed appointments, and frequent overnight stays in the Taos drunk tank. She left him sober, missed him terribly, and took up drinking to forget him. That hadn’t worked out.
By the time Myra entered the front door of Auntie’s House, Alexia had carried all of their bags into their respective bedrooms and unpacked one of her suitcases. Myra walked toward the kitchenette to find water near boiling on the stove.
“I thought you might like some tea,” said Alexia, poking her head out the doorway of her bedroom.
“That’s not exactly what I had in mind,” Myra replied as she poked around the cabinets. “But I have no choice, do I?�
�
A minute later, Myra sat outside on the small patio with a steeping mug of Earl Grey. She felt the warmth of the brew in her hands and stared northeast toward the Taos Mountain, popularized as a sacred site by Mabel Dodge Luhan who credited learning about the power of Mó-ha-loh from her husband Tony Luján of the Taos Pueblo. Myra had been privileged to make the trek to Blue Lake, but could make no claim to witnessing the “Faceless Ones,” the ancestral dead wrapped in blankets and standing by the trees watching over their mountain and their people.
She sat lost in thought as memories of past trips flitted through her mind. Maybe the Mountain did like her, but she never gave much credence to a mountain having “power” or that the dead could directly influence the living. Yet, as she sat there, she felt peaceful, as if none of the past week’s events had happened.
“You’re different here.”
Myra woke from her reverie and looked up to find Alexia standing next to her.
“As Diana said, no divas allowed.”
“Seriously.”
Myra thought about Alexia’s comment for a moment. “Maybe I am. I was just thinking about the history of this place – Taos, not the house – and the other pueblos for that matter. Each has its own sacred mountain. The Santa Clara Reservation has Chicoma Mountain. Here, they have Taos Mountain, or Pueblo Peak to some, about ten miles that way.” Myra pointed toward the mountain. “No matter what you believe in, for me, I’ve always found peace here – and inspiration.”
Alexia looked off toward the mountain and then back to Myra. “Christianity is my key to living. I grew up with two alcoholic parents and my mom died of liver cancer when I was in my early teens. That’s what I meant when I said I was no stranger to liver failure. My dad abandoned me and without any other family, I went into the foster system. The parents who just recently passed away were actually my adoptive parents. They saw something in me I never saw in myself and with a life centered on Christ, they offered me a home, gave me my education. Personally, I wasn’t sure about all that religion stuff. I withdrew, looking for answers in books. In college, I had a course that required reading the Bible as a literary source. I found more than that there. I saw the source of my new parents’ love. Something in Christ’s teachings just clicked for me and then I found a vibrant church with a young pastor who showed us that living for God was not the stuffy, “Thou shall not” kind of lifestyle portrayed by so many. After that, the bond between my parents and me just grew and grew. That’s why their deaths this past year hit me so hard.”
Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense Page 67