Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense

by Luana Ehrlich

  She paused and Myra caught her watching, waiting for Myra’s reaction, which was one of subtle resistance outwardly while inside she wondered what she had done to Samuel to make him inflict this girl on her. Never mind. She knew what she had done, repeatedly. Still, something in Alexia’s story touched her. Alexia had been given something special. Few people, including Myra, ever experienced such love.

  “Sorry, I know a lot of people hate preachy Christians, so I’ll stop. I don’t want to overstep any bounds here, but I do want you to know I’m praying for you, for you to have peace and for God’s gift of healing for you. There, I’m done. What can I do for you?”

  Myra, too, had read the Bible as a literary source but certainly had not come away from the experience with anything more than a collection of stories and allegorical phrases that all writers needed to connect with Western culture. Nevertheless, something in Alexia’s statement filled her with hope that God, if He existed as described by Judeo-Christian tradition, offered healing as a gift. Myra wanted to know more, but hesitated to ask in fear of being overwhelmed by zealotry.

  “I’d like a little time to myself, please.”

  Alexia nodded and returned inside. A few minutes later, Myra watched her new assistant walk toward the office. She remained outside until sunset and the nocturnal chill of the desert forced her inside to the kiva fireplace. She held a vague recollection of Alexia returning, helping her to bed, tucking her in as a mother would her child, and kneeling silently at her bedside.

  The next morning, Myra found Alexia sitting on the patio gazing at the mountains as the sun rose over them. The pastel pinks of the sky backlit the Taos Range of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

  “Did you see them last night?” Myra asked.

  “Them?”

  “The mountains.”

  “I guess not. I was busy trying to locate someone.”

  “They were gorgeous. You know they got their name from the Spanish because the snowcaps of the higher mountains glow red with the setting sun. Thus, Sangre de Cristo, the ‘blood of Christ.’ I, uh …” Myra wanted to ask her question from the previous night but stopped. Not now. “Umm, no never mind.”

  She turned away to head to the Big House for breakfast, although she had no appetite. She stopped about ten feet away and turned back to Alexia.

  “Ready for breakfast? I have a task for you when you’re done.”

  Alexia looked up again, closed the book she held in her lap and replied, “Sure. I’ll be ready in a wink.”

  Myra started to comment about the cliché but noticed a glint of mischief in Alexia’s eye. Alexia was baiting her. She let it ride but noted the book was a well-read, make that a worn, copy of the Bible. Alexia walked into the cottage and exited a moment later without it. Myra waited as Alexia caught up to her.

  “I guess I should thank you.”

  “For what?” asked Alexia.

  “For your prayers. I’ve never had anyone tell me that before. But, to be honest, I’m not sure I believe it will do anything. Still, I thank you for your sincerity and concern.”

  Alexia shrugged. “Then I guess I should say you’re welcome. I can’t say I’ve ever had anyone thank me for that.” She smiled. “What’s the chore you have for me?”

  “Nothing much, really. I want you to return the rental car. We won’t be needing it.”

  “What? Dewey, tell me that again!” Albritton nearly screamed into the phone.

  “I couldn’t actually get into the Tehama community through the front door. The residents even clear deliveries to get ‘em past the gate, so I couldn’t fake one. I managed to find a way through the wooded hillsides to an overlook where I could watch the Mitchell lady’s house. No one. Nada. No sign of life there.”

  “So, find out where they went.”

  “I’m working on it. Alright? I managed to learn that floral deliveries is bein’ turfed to two nearby nursin’ homes. That means the lady didn’t want any more, or she was leavin’ town and knew to expect more flowers. I also learnt a car service picked up two women at that residence two days ago. I expect all this bribe money to be reimbursed, by the way.”

  “And the car took them where?”

  “Monterey Peninsula Airport, and that’s as far as I got.”

  Albritton rapped his knuckles in four-quarter time on the desk as he thought, but stopped before they might bruise. He had run over his opponents in the senate primary, but his Republican rival was a savvy foe who wouldn’t hesitate to use any dirt he could come with to win. He needed to know what the Hamilton girl had. “Find them!”

  Twenty-two

  (Spring – 1969)

  **********

  Betsy awoke at first light in the back seat of her car. Her neck and low back ached as her stomach growled. She had left The Rest Stop by noon the day before, but she hadn’t gone far. The owner of the diner across from the brothel had allowed her to park in his shed behind the eatery. She heard a knock on the door. The owner opened it just wide enough to squeeze through.

  “You up in there?”

  Betsy opened her door and eased out of the car.

  “There ya are. Want the light on?”

  Betsy paused. She hadn’t used the light for fear of someone seeing it during the night. But now, it was unlikely anyone would notice. “Sure. What time is it?”

  “Almost eight. Figured you might be hungry. Brought your favorite.” He handed her a plate covered with a clean dishtowel.

  Steam and the most delicious aroma Betsy knew arose from the plate as she uncovered it. A garbage plate. Indeed, one of her favorites. Scrambled eggs, hash browns, red and green peppers, ham, cheese, onions, jalapeño, bacon, and anything the cook decided to throw in, all cooked together. Today, Betsy saw some mushrooms. She smiled.

  “Nice to see you smile again.”

  “Thanks, Cal. How much do I owe you?”

  He shook his head and waved his hand back and forth. “Nothin’. It’s on me today.”

  “You sure? I can pay for it.”

  “Nope. You’ll need the money. Besides, that cartoon you gave me last night is payment enough. It’ll be worth somethin’ someday. I know it and you can count on it.”

  Betsy smiled again and then took a bite, closing her eyes to savor the taste. “Thanks, Cal.” She had a long day ahead of her, provided Sally came through with the papers for the title transfer. The day marked a new day of exhilaration and anxiety for Betsy.

  “Hey, um, Betsy, I couldn’t help but overhear you talkin’ with the others a few days ago. You mentioned somethin’ when talkin’ about the home where you had your baby, a newspaper.”

  “The Mountain Press?”

  “That’s the one. I got a cousin in Sevierville that sent me some things last Christmas and they was wrapped in old copies of that paper. Were you near Sevierville somewhere? That’s where that newspaper’s printed.”

  Cal had Betsy’s full attention. Sevierville did ring a bell. Her pa’s cousin’s husband, Erby, had been gone for a day to pick up a new wood stove in that Tennessee town. She nodded. “Maybe so. They didn’t take me out much, but some of the men stopped by to get Erby saying they were going to a saloon called the Rebel Railroad.”

  Cal nodded. “Pigeon Forge. A couple a boys from Blowing Rock had what they called a theme park by name of ‘Tweetsie’ in Blowing Rock. Involved an old steam engine train up the mountain. They started up another in the Forge and they call it the ‘Rebel Railroad.’ Been to both of them personally. You want to find your family there, that’s the place to start, Pigeon Forge.”

  Cal provided driving directions along U.S. Highways 19 and 441. Once in Pigeon Forge, Betsy was on her own.

  Shortly after 10 a.m., Cal and Sally emerged from the back door of the diner and walked toward the shed. Betsy watched them through the window where she’d sat most of the morning trying to remember what she could about the area around Erby and Maisy Duncan’s home, entering those random thoughts in her journal. She would soon nee
d a second book. She also used her sketchpad to draw a picture of the house itself and was very satisfied with the result.

  Cal opened the door and allowed Sally to enter first.

  “Morning,” said Betsy.

  Sally looked ten years older than when Betsy had first arrived. The emotional strain of the previous forty-eight hours had taken its toll on them both, for different reasons. Today, though, Betsy felt a renewed energy surge. Thanks to Cal, she had a new focus, and the hope that she would find Maisy Cummings Duncan, and through her, Jimmy Bob.

  Sally handed Betsy some papers. “Here’s the paperwork you need to sign. I’ll make sure it gets mailed to Raleigh and will hold onto the new title until you let me know where to send it. You keep one copy to show as proof that the transfer is being processed. You’ll need to repeat this process in whatever state you end up in, to get it titled in that state.”

  Betsy signed the form and Sally took the copies she needed to mail. “I’m gonna miss you, Betsy Weston, but I ain’t gonna try to talk you into staying. I wouldn’t want to lose you, too.” Sally looked over to Cal. “Tell her, Cal.”

  “Man came in for breakfast this morning, ‘bout half hour after I brought your food out here. Rough lookin’ man. Started askin’ questions about The Rest Stop and if any new girls had started there. Told him ‘no’ ‘cause, in truth, you never actually worked there. But he kept eyein’ your cartoon. He’d look at it, then at me and back and forth while he drank his coffee.” Cal paused and glanced down. “He finally asks ‘bout the cartoon, says he knew a girl what could draw like that. I told him a famous artist from out East stopped in for lunch, and enjoyed it so much she drew the cartoon in about ten minutes and gave it to me. Lord forgive me for lying but I sure wasn’t about to tell him the truth.”

  Dread filled Betsy from the top of her scalp to the tip of her toes.

  “Uh, w-what did this man look like?”

  “About my height, but wiry. Strong. Mean. Dark haired. Mostly though, what really stands out is the scar along the left side of his face, from here to here.” Cal demonstrated on his face.

  “D-did this man ask any more questions? Did you see where he went when he left?”

  Cal shook his head. “Sorry. Had customers to wait on. From the look on your face right now, though, I wish I had. I’m real sorry, Betsy.”

  Betsy nodded and stepped forward to give the man a hug. He’d done nothing wrong. “Cal, you had no way of knowing, but I have to leave right now. I can’t stick around any longer.”

  Sally nodded and tears formed in her eyes. She moved toward Betsy and took both of Betsy’s hands. “You have a gift in these hands, and in that head of yours. Don’t waste it. Will we see you again?”

  Tears welled up in Betsy’s eyes as well. “Can’t say as I know. I’d like to say ‘yes,’ but how can I promise such a thing?” She hugged Sally and then briefly placed a hand on Cal’s arm. “Cal, if that man comes back and asks any more questions, tell him you heard the artist was in town to tour the Biltmore and then would be heading back to New York. I think you’ll be forgiven that little lie, too.”

  Betsy moved toward the car, but Cal stopped her. “Here.” He held out a wicker basket lined with another dish towel and covered by the same one he’d used at breakfast to cover her plate. “Some sandwiches. Fried chicken. Apples and sweet tea. Should last you a couple of days.”

  She stepped back toward him, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and took the basket. She placed it on the back seat and climbed behind the wheel. A soon as Cal had fully opened the door, she eased out of the shed and turned down the alley away from the diner and The Rest Stop. She kept glancing into her mirrors and between buildings, looking for any sign of the man with the scar, Dewey Hastings. She moved slowly, with the car at a near idle, hoping to avoid any engine noise that could draw attention to her. Three blocks down, she turned onto a back road heading west and gunned it.

  “Are you sure there’s no family by name of Duncan?” Betsy’s heart sank at the clerk’s denial of their Post Office branch delivering to such a family. She pulled her drawing from her purse and showed it to the man. “Does this house look familiar?”

  “Sorry, Miss. Lotsa houses ‘round here look like that but, again, we don’t deliver to any Duncans.”

  Betsy had arrived in Pigeon Forge around 1 p.m. and found her way to the Post Office. She had figured that they would know of the family, if anyone in town knew of them. Why had she convinced herself that this would be easy?

  “Are there any other Post Offices nearby?”

  “Well, sure. Sevierville has a few to our north. There’s Gatlinburg to the south and Townsend to the southwest. Further west is Walland, near Chilhowee Gap. Further east is Cocke.”

  Another memory came to Betsy. “There was a river flowing through the town.”

  The clerk rubbed his chin in contemplation. “Let’s see. Cocke and Gatlinburg don’t fit that bill, although the Little Pigeon River runs between ‘em. Townsend and Walland both got the Little River. That help any?”

  It did. Erby Duncan had mentioned the Little River several times when he wanted to go fishing. “Thanks. That does help. How do I get to Townsend?” Betsy’s emotional roller coaster was on its way up again.

  After getting directions, Betsy stopped at a nearby filling station for gas and began the thirty-minute drive to Townsend. The other town was but ten minutes further down the road.

  At the Post Office in Townsend, she repeated her questions. They had Duncans in their delivery area, but no Erby or Maisy. Betsy felt confident. At least the family name was common there. There had to be Duncans just minutes away. She thanked the clerk and continued down the road. She had plenty of time before the office closed for the day. Just a minute into her drive, she passed an IGA store and recognized it as the one where she and Maisy had shopped for groceries a few times together. Yes! She was on the right track.

  In Walland, she approached the postal clerk after waiting behind two other customers.

  “Yes, Miss. How can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for an Erby and Maisy Duncan. I’ve been there once but can’t recall how to find their house.” She held up her drawing. She started to mention they were family, but stopped short.

  The clerk looked sad and shook his head. “Such a shame. Did you know them well?”

  Her pulse quickened. She wanted to say, “Yes, that she had lived with them for six months,” but something inside warned her to remain cautious. “Not real well.”

  “You knew that Erby had a bit of a drinking problem, right?”

  Betsy nodded. The man had been much like her pa, but limited his alcohol to weekends and holidays. The clerk started jotting something down on a piece of notepaper.

  “Sad, really,” the clerk said as he continued writing. “All they could guess was the man got drunk and accidentally started the fire. Place burned down around them as they slept. Poor souls. I hope they didn’t wake up in the middle of that one. Pretty near set the mountain on fire.”

  Betsy’s mind went blank as her heart went numb. Her final chance for finding a lead to her baby, gone. Too many deaths. Maisy had been so kind to her. The thought of dying like that made every nerve in her body rattle. She struggled to maintain her composure and to keep tears from her eyes.

  “I-I’m so sorry to hear that. I, uh, when did this happen?”

  “Saturday, a week ago.”

  Betsy realized her pa might have played an unwitting role in their deaths. He had provided Erby with an ample supply of white lightning in return for his “help.” Maisy did all the work, but Erby was “paid” for putting up with Amos’ problem child. If even just one of those Mason jars had broken near open flame, the result would have been like a gasoline bomb exploding.

  The man kept writing, glancing up at Betsy intermittently. “Funeral was five days ago. They’re buried over at the family plot in Miller’s Cove Cemetery. Here’s directions on getting’ there, if you want to pay your respe
cts.” He slid the note across the counter toward Betsy.

  She was about to ask about a midwife named Sue Ellen when one glance at the note made her grab it up and her adrenaline flow. “Thanks, I might do that,” she said before spinning around and darting from the building. She climbed into her car and sped east, the way she’d come into town. She kept a close eye on her rear view mirror and didn’t slow down until she reached the northern city limits of Sevierville, TN. Convinced that no one had followed her, she pulled over at a little park with picnic tables overlooking the Little Pigeon River, according to the plaque there.

  She unraveled the crumpled note and took this opportunity to read it in full for the first time. “Duncans died like I said. Don’t want no trouble.” His last words were the ones that caught her attention at the time. “Beware. Dewey Hastings in town.”

  Dewey Hastings sat in his pickup truck in the drive behind the Millers Cove Baptist Church. He had a good view of the adjacent cemetery and was convinced he’d be seeing a yellow Mustang drive up soon. From his one quick look in Asheville, the gal driving it looked nothing like Alice Cummings, but she knew where Alice was. Of that, he was sure. He figured her to be working for the lawyer who’d been asking around about Alice’s baby. A yellow Mustang had been seen in Frampton Corner on at least one occasion since Alice left. A car like that stands out in a small town.

  But he had no interest in the car, ‘cept of course should he “inherit” it by some unfortunate event. He smiled at that thought. Sure ‘nuff, that was a nice car. Classy. Suited to a man like him.