Betsy sighed inside. This was one question she had already anticipated. “Sir, do you like country music?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s all about those life experiences you mention, and Johnny Cash and Loretta Lynn could write gold records about my life. My momma died of cancer when I was ten. My pa was an alcoholic. My boyfriend went off to Viet Nam and died a month later.”
She started to bring up having a son and losing him, but could feel the emotion welling up and knew she had to remain professional.
“I left the only home I know, on my own. Left all my friends behind to find a better life. The first week after I left, I made two new friends who were murdered two weeks later. I’ve seen tragedy, yet discovered sympathy in unexpected places. And like most folks, I’ve experienced my share of happiness and joy, too.” She felt a tear warm a path down her cheek, and made no effort to hide it. “Tell me, Sir. Do you think I have the experience you talk about?”
Mr. Gordon stared at her without answering. After a moment, he picked up the phone and dialed a number. There weren’t enough numbers for an outside call, so Betsy figured he had dialed an internal line.
“Jacob. Hi. That young woman I talked to you about is in my office. Do you have time to stop in? … Great.”
He made small talk with Betsy for the next few minute until interrupted by a knock on the door. A short wiry man, early-forties, longish black hair swept back over his ears, wearing tailored slacks and open collar shirt, entered the office.
“Miss Weston, this is Jacob Meyer, our creative director. I gave him the samples you gave my wife the other day.”
Betsy looked up in anticipation and then reached down toward her purse. She’d learned a lesson two days earlier and this time her samples sat neatly organized in a manila folder that sat under her purse. She lifted the folder to her lap.
“I have some more. I used the time waiting for this interview to make some new ones.”
Meyer looked at her. “How many do you have?”
“Another dozen, but to be honest there’s only a few I really like. The others need some work.”
Meyer smiled as he took the folder from her. “Still, you came up with a dozen ideas in just over a day. Some of our most experienced guys can’t do that.”
He thumbed through the papers, placing two at the top of the pile as he went. When he finished he removed those two and took three from a folder he’d carried into the office with him. He then showed his selection to her. He had picked the same ones she thought the best of the bunch. Of the five, he lifted two and held them up.
“These two I’d approve right now. The other three need better artwork, but I have to say, your artistic skills are excellent, especially for someone actually applying for a writing job. You have a fantastic way of displaying the sentiment of your words. The humor in this one is very whimsical. We don’t often find someone who can draw and write.” He grinned. “Maybe I should reverse that order since you’re applying for a writing slot.”
Betsy felt her anxiety lift and hope buoyed her spirit. “I can apply for something else if that’ll help.”
The two men smiled, but briefly. Mr. Gordon spoke first.
“We’ve seen your talent, and you are correct, Miss Weston, quality does count, but other factors play in as well. Tell me, what do see as your biggest weakness?”
Betsy didn’t hesitate. “Chocolate, Sir.”
Mr. Gordon guffawed. “Th-that’s not quite what I meant, but, never mind.” He calmed down and an all-business seriousness came over him. “Miss Weston, would you excuse us for a minute?”
He led Mr. Meyer to the outer office and the ebullience Betsy had felt a moment earlier faded. The men’s absence from the room lasted only minutes and Mr. Gordon alone returned to the office. He sat down at his desk and made a notation on Betsy’s application form, followed by a sigh that Betsy found disheartening. He looked right at her.
“As I said earlier, you have talent and that counts for a whole lot. Unfortunately, it doesn’t overcome everything, such as budgets. The reality of the situation is that we don’t have a job opening, and to create a new job position would require approval by the executive committee. I can’t offer you a job at this time and I can’t honestly say when I might be able to make an offer.” He took a deep breath and continued, “That said, Mr. Meyer likes what he sees and is willing to look at your work on a freelance basis. He’s also offering you the usual freelance fee for the five cards he selected.”
Betsy wasn’t quite sure what this offer meant and her confusion must have been apparent.
“Do you understand what freelancing is?”
“Um, not quite, Sir.”
He nodded. “In a nutshell, you work for free. You come up with ideas on your own, like you did with these samples, and when you have something you really like, you make an appointment to see Jacob and show him what you have. If he likes it, he buys it from you for a flat fee of one hundred dollars per card with both artwork and verse. Verse or ideas only get $15 to $20 each.”
Betsy’s demeanor fell. “So, there’s no job.”
Mr. Gordon stood up and returned to the corner of his desk. “Sorry, no job, but I don’t think you quite get this. He’s just offered to buy five of your samples. You sign a few papers releasing your rights to these pieces and you’ll walk out of here with a check for five hundred dollars. That’s never happened here before with someone like you, as young as you are, walking in off the street as you did.”
He smiled and paused to watch her reaction. In a flash, she realized the potential in what he didn’t say. As a freelancer, she could submit ideas to more than one company, and have total freedom to create what she wanted.
“Just realize that it’s hard work, but it can be fun, too,” he added. “And you have to be smart with your money because there can be times when you don’t sell a single idea.”
The headline in The Sylva Herald said it all, “Frampton Corner Man Charged with Murder.” Emory Albritton read the article, filling in the blanks with the inside information from his brother. He knew the defense attorney, a competent young man, but lacking the experience to go against the District Attorney, who had announced he was handling this case personally. With an election coming up, that came as no surprise.
Albritton set down the newspaper and picked up the petition he’d prepared to gain the court’s approval as trustee of the Umfleet family trust and legal guardian of the children. He had already found a solid foster family to care for the children and a phone conversation with Judge Hoglund had been positive. He planned to file the petition in the morning, although there would be no action on it until Curt Umfleet stood convicted. The only potential roach in the soup would be his exoneration, which Albritton saw as unlikely based on the behind-the-scenes evidence presented to him.
The woman’s body fished from the lake appeared to be that of the missing girl, based on size and hair. The girl’s father said she’d never been to a doctor or dentist so they had no dental records or blood type to match. Amos Cummings had identified his daughter by the clothes she wore and a ring on her finger. The strongest point in the case was the blood stained clothing in Curt Umfleet’s burn pit, which he had readily admitted belonged to the girl. But that story died with the bus driver’s testimony that a different girl had gotten onto his bus that night, plus the legal documents proving the existence of that young woman. Alice Cummings had fallen off the face of the earth.
Within weeks, he would have control of the largest parcel of land in his end of the county. Land that held almost five miles of shoreline on the highest lake east of the Mississippi. Land that would become “home” to million dollar estates. Land that would make him a wealthy man.
Twenty-four
(Present Day)
**********
The first few days in the Luhan House proved to be a struggle for Myra. Her stamina continued to deteriorate. Her concentration flagged. The temptation for a bottle of merlot increased with each non
productive hour. By the end of the week, Myra had produced little more than a rough outline for that story she’d held inside for years. She wondered if maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe this wasn’t the story she had thought it to be off and on over the years. Maybe this wasn’t her “alpha story.” A story like that shouldn’t be so difficult to start.
Despite being dragged, pouting and silent, into using a laptop, she still preferred editing on hardcopy and modern technology would never change that. She had hoped to test Alexia’s skills with the first few chapters of the book, but that wasn’t going to happen in as timely a manner as she had imagined. She made a series of notes in the margins of an old short story, incorporated them into the story on her laptop, and reprinted it. Now, she stood next to Alexia and handed the sheets to her.
“Here you go. You say you can proofread, so now prove it. I’ll warn you upfront, I’ve actually left a few typos in on purpose just to test you.”
Alexia chuckled. “On purpose, uh? They won’t get past me.”
Myra laid her hand on the young woman’s shoulder and smiled. Alexia had spent the last few days winning her over. She did whatever Myra asked, without complaint, with a smile on her face, and at any time of day, a task made more miserable by what was becoming Myra’s irregular habit of writing. Once upon a time, she would write through the night, but her strength and stamina, or lack thereof, now had her writing, then napping. Sometimes the nap consumed more time than her writing.
When Myra commented on Alexia’s work ethic, the girl’s response was simple. “The Bible instructs us to work as if unto the Lord, so I’m working for Him as much as for you.”
Myra retrieved two bottles of spring water from the kitchenette and returned to the sitting area where they had been working.
Alexia silently handed back the first three pages, each littered with red correction marks.
“What? You couldn’t have found that many errors.”
Alexia grinned. “I didn’t, except the ones I assume you left for me to find. I just wanted to see if you’re paying attention.”
Myra laughed. “Okay, you got me.”
There was a quick rap at the door, and Diana popped her head through. “It’s good to hear you laugh. Been a while.”
Myra nodded. It had been a while.
“Ready for a break? I can take you over to the warehouse now. There’s no time like the present.”
“Cliché,” both women muttered in unison. Diana laughed as Myra gave Alexia a funny look.
“Perfect time for me,” replied Myra. “What about you, Alexia?”
“A warehouse? Umm, I guess so. If that’s what you want.” Her tone revealed her bewilderment.
Myra gave Diana an amused look at the girl’s reluctance. Going to a warehouse wouldn’t excite her either, except that this warehouse was hers.
“C’mon. It’s time to take a break. You’ll like this, I think. All girls like ponies.”
The look of bewilderment on Alexia’s face deepened.
Ten minutes later, Diana pulled the MDLH van up to the gate of a tall chain-link fence. Myra pressed the button on a remote switch and the gate rolled open, allowing Diana to pull into a dusty lot fronting a prefabricated metal structure on DEA Lane in the southern end of town. The adobe-colored building was fifty by one hundred feet with no discerning features except a doublewide vehicle door and a single man-door. No signage indicated its use or owner, but security appeared prominent.
“What is this place?” asked Alexia.
“Follow me,” answered Myra as she climbed out of the van and walked to the man door. Alexia, followed by Diana, entered behind Myra, who had moved to a circuit box and began flipping a number of circuit breakers. Bright lights now bathed the inside.
“Wow! Ponies, huh?”
“These are my diamonds, a girl’s best friend.”
Two rows of vintage Ford Mustangs lined both long walls of the warehouse with a mechanics bay holding two spaces at one end. A small office area filled the equivalent of one space and held a desk and several filing cabinets.
With a loving pat, Myra showed off the nearest car. “Steve McQueen’s Mustang from the movie ‘Bullitt.’ This is the remaining original 1968 GT390 Fastback, not one of the limited-edition production models. I bought it in a hush-hush deal from a man in Ohio who had it stored in a hay barn. She’s all fixed up now.” She pointed to a car across the aisle. “And that one is the Shelby that Morgan Freeman drove in ‘The Bucket List.’ My only other movie Mustang is that one over there, from a bit part in ‘Back to the Future II.’ However, the ones I wanted to show you specifically are those two at the end.”
Myra walked to the last two cars on the far wall, a 1965 yellow Mustang convertible and a red 1975 Mustang Mach I. Both were in pristine condition, save one small dent in the convertible’s bumper, and both showed signs of a recent bath. Alexia remained standing where she had stopped upon entering the building and continued to gaze from car to car.
“C’mon. Over here,” Myra insisted.
Alexia dawdled toward Myra but stopped at a noise behind her. She turned to see Diana pulling a chain to open the large vehicle door, and then resumed her stroll to the end of the building.
“I’m thinking of making these two cars prominent in my story. Well, this one, the yellow convertible, was Betsy Weston’s first car. She sold it to the motel owner, a Jim Fleming, where I found the original ‘Sweetie’ print. On a lark, I bought it from him. I was collecting “Sweetie” memorabilia and prints, why not the artist’s car? Then he told me she had purchased a 1975 red Mustang Mach I from the local Ford dealer while she was in town. I found the dealer’s son, who described his father as a pack rat. Lucky for me, the pack rat kept records for every sale and the son hadn’t taken the time to clean out the file cabinets. We found the original sales papers for such a car but the dealer sold it to an Elise Kenwood, not Betsy Weston, and she paid cash. I was able to track down the car in Arkansas by its VIN, and I went there and bought that one, too. After that, I was hooked on old Mustangs, and you see the result here. But who was this Elise Kenwood and where did she end up? That’s a mystery you get to solve.”
The idea of an investigative task seemed to perk up Alexia.
“How am I going to do that here, in New Mexico? I’ll probably need to work back in Asheville or Arkansas, using the car as a starting point.”
Myra expected that response and nodded. “Yes, you will. That’s one of the reasons why we’re going on a little road trip after my lab tests. In the meantime, I’m going to keep writing, or trying to, anyway, and you’re going to start the research on this.”
Myra walked back to the office area and sat on the gray metal folding chair next to the matching metal office desk. She felt like she could lay her head on the desk and fall asleep right there. She pointed to the file cabinets. “Over there. Open that bottom drawer and pull out the dozen or so file folders in there.”
Alexia obeyed and placed them next to Myra, enough to create a foot-tall stack on the old wooden desk. Alexia opened the top folder and browsed a bit.
“There’s a box over there to put that in.”
While Alexia claimed the empty paper carton, Myra retrieved a set of keys from a lock box in the desk and tossed them to Alexia. “Here you go. Get the yellow Mustang. You can drive a stick, can’t you?”
“Um, no. I never needed to learn.”
“Well … this is …” Myra harrumphed.
Diana interrupted, “I’ll get it.” She took the keys from Alexia.
“… gonna be a long drive. Guess you’re going to learn today.”
Alexia piled the folders into the container as Diana drove up in the old convertible. Diana popped open the trunk so Alexia could deposit the box inside and then said, “You go on ahead. I’ll lock up for you. See you at dinner.”
Myra thanked her old friend and with Alexia in the driver’s seat, she began to give instructions. “Okay, left foot pushes in the clutch. First gear is
here, second here …” Alexia let out the clutch too quickly and the car stalled. A minute later, they lurched out through the door, only to stall outside the building. On her third attempt, Alexia managed to keep the car running, and in random jerks, drove off, back to the Luhan House.
“So, what do you have for me?” Albritton walked away from the three others in his foursome, toward a wooded area off the fairway, as he spoke into his cell phone. He chose his words carefully until out of earshot of the men, developers eager for more land in western Carolina.
A man in the foursome behind them yelled, “Hey there, Senator. You want my vote, then hurry up. We have a game to finish!”
Albritton smiled and waved, but his attention was on the phone call.
“Before I tell you, I want you to understand what it took to get the information.”
“I don’t want those details.”
“But you’re gonna get ‘em,” said Dewey. “If anything turns sour, I ain’t taking the heat alone while you talk up some, whadayou call it, plausible deniability bullcrap or whatever. See, I tracked the car service to a private airline company. Seems this author lady is a regular, and pays well, so bribe money wasn’t working. The owner and crew was ferrying some celebrity to Hawaii or someplace and were gone for a week. Broke into the office but couldn’t find anything helpful. After the plane came back, I couldn’t find the pilot or owner. I was finally able to track down the co-pilot. He eagerly complied after I broke a few fingers and threatened to shoot a kneecap. Ready for your answer?”
Albritton sighed. He preferred anything short of physical intimidation, which he’d found necessary only on one previous occasion. He turned a figurative blind eye to this information though, as he had more at stake now than ever before and the timetable for finding a resolution seemed to be shrinking.
Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense Page 70