“They flew to Taos.”
Albritton blanched at the news, but felt confused. Taos? His first reaction was that the judge would be retiring to Santa Fe and the women could be meeting up with him. Taos was but ninety minutes away, but why fly there? If the young woman had something, knew something, and had convinced Mitchell to meet Judge Hoglund, why not just fly to Santa Fe itself? Even Albuquerque was a little closer. Taos made no sense, unless she meant to throw Dewey off the track. Had she made Dewey? Did she know she was being followed?
“Get there! Now! Whatever it takes, do not let these women meet with Judge Hoglund. He shouldn’t be too hard to find. He’s moved in with his son.”
“Whoa there, Senator. We need to talk about money. This is gonna cost you more than we talked about. Also, I might not get there before tomorrow afternoon. Doubt I’m gonna be a favored customer of the only private charter to fly to Taos from here regular-like. Might convince another charter to take me, if the money’s right, but the first two I called were booked and unwilling to abandon regular customers. I can get there by tomorrow on a commercial flight if it comes to that.”
Albritton cursed under his breath.
“Do whatever. I’ll cover it. I’ve never cheated you before. If those women even look like they’re heading to Santa Fe, stop them!”
Myra awoke to incessant pounding on the cottage’s front door. Her watch revealed the time at nearly noon. How in the world had she slept so long? Despite thirteen hours of sleep, she dragged herself out of bed. She looked into the second bedroom to find it empty. Alexia had found it easier to use the Convention Center classroom to spread out and organize the notes Myra had left in her charge. Myra had no doubt she would find the girl there, but who was at the door?
She engaged the peephole of the door and her heart began to race. Ricardo! How had he learned she was staying there, or that she was even in town, for that matter?
No, this was not a confrontation she needed right now. Or ever, if she was honest with herself.
She stole back into the bedroom and quietly closed its door. Ricardo would go away, she hoped.
She heard him yelling her name at one point and the assault on the door became so violent she feared its collapse. Then, quiet. She eased the bedroom door open, half expecting to find the man standing there. The front door remained intact and she heard voices outside. She peered around the edge of the curtain to see a patrol car and an officer leading Ricardo away. Myra sighed in relief. The staff had called the cavalry. Maybe the man would eventually forget the ten thousand dollars she had taken from his bank account before leaving him. Repaying him had never been an issue. Not wanting to see him transform those dollar bills into liquid entertainment had been her excuse.
She still cared, but maybe it was time to accept him as an adult, give him back his money, and let the bottles fall where they might. Yes, she decided. She needed to make amends before it was too late. Just not in person.
A few minutes later, a softer knock rattled the door. This time Myra’s peep revealed Diana and she opened the door to her friend.
“Sorry about that. From what I picked up in his slurred words, he saw you riding in the convertible. I’m surprised he had the mental acumen to figure out you were here. You okay?”
Myra nodded. “Is Alexia in the classroom?”
“I think so. I can call over there to check.”
“Would you, please? Tell her to pack everything up for traveling. We’re leaving now.”
“Now? Your lab tests –”
“Now. I’d love to stay, but … you know. I’ll stop at the lab on the way out.”
Diana raised both eyebrows and rolled her eyes.
“You need to practice. Alexia does a much better job with that gesture.”
Myra walked up to her friend and hugged her. “Diana, if anything happens before I see you again, I want you to know that I love you like a sister. I’ll be in your debt forever for all of the kindnesses you’ve shown me over the years.” She wiped the tears from her eye, while a whitewater torrent flowed down Diana’s cheeks.
“I-I don’t want to think about that. You’re going to get better. That’s all there is to it.” She wiped her cheeks. “I will see you again.”
Myra hugged her again, released her, and walked into the bedroom where she retrieved her checkbook from her purse. Back in the sitting area, she wrote out a check and handed it to Diana.
“Make sure Ricardo gets this, please. There’s even a little extra for interest. Oh, and tell him if he comes near me again, I’ll do more than get a restraining order against him. I’ll make his life miserable.”
Diana, her composure regained, shook her head. “That last part he’ll understand. What’s this for?” Diana held up the check. “Aren’t you just enabling him?”
“He’s a big boy. I’ve given up trying to help, and I didn’t make his life miserable, thank you very much.”
Diana shrugged. “Semantics. I’ll go track down Alexia now.”
Myra watched her friend cross the dusty yard and parking lot. She returned to the bedroom and began to pack. A stop at the lab, then Taos to Eureka Springs, Arkansas. Due east. One long day’s drive along U.S. Routes 64 and 412 until they hit the Razorback’s state line, and then a few zigzags to finish the trip. Myra had done the trip nonstop before. This time, though, fatigue sapped her. Maybe they’d take it in two, or even three, days, and she was probably going to need a cervical collar with Alexia driving.
Albritton watched the sunset from his deck, three fingers of Scotch in hand. He resisted pacing the wooden planks, afraid of stirring Misty’s suspicions that something was dramatically wrong. However, leaning on the deck rail, elbows resting on top, was as natural for him as kissing babies while on the stump or grabbing photo ops with soldiers returning from the Middle East. She might comment on the amount of Laphroaig single malt in his glass, but he’d consumed more at other times.
He ran his fingers across the smooth wood. He’d had this home built for Misty as her wedding present. Their kids had been raised here. One grandchild’s birth took place unexpectedly in the guest room. They’d hosted parties of all flavors here. Their church held an annual potluck luncheon there. And he could lose it all.
He noticed his heart beating fast and could feel the pulse in his neck without putting a finger to it. Where was his man at this moment? The guy should have called before now. Had he arrived in Taos? Or had another obstacle dropped into their way? Where were the Judge and the Mitchell woman? Was his world on the edge of that ever-deepening abyss or was he simply paranoid?
He heard the sliding door behind him grate as it opened. His wife walked toward him, holding out his cell phone to him. He quickly patted his back pocket and felt a void where his phone should have been.
“Thought you might want this. I heard it ring a few times while I had my hands messy in the kitchen.”
He took the phone and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks, Hon.” He’d been so preoccupied he’d forgotten his phone in the den.
“Mike and Emily should be here in half an hour and then we need to leave for the club.”
Emory had been like a father to Mike after Mike Sr.’s death. Despite Emory’s concerns, Mike had gone into law enforcement, like his father. With Emory’s influence, however, he had been accepted by the State Highway Patrol and fast-tracked to the State Bureau of Investigation. In an ironic twist, Mike had accepted an assignment to the Professional Standards Division, the unit responsible for investigating financial crimes and political corruption.
“I’m ready.”
She raised her eyebrows and nodded toward his glass.
“Will I need to drive? Wouldn’t want Mike arresting you.”
He had tried so hard not to arouse Misty’s suspicion only to raise her concern over his sobriety.
“Is there something we need to talk about?”
“No, no. I’m fine. Just thinking through some numbers for a proposed road project, and no mor
e Scotch after this one. I’ll be okay to drive. Honest.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” She turned to enter the house, pausing at the door. “Please. No more after that glass. You’ve been drinking a lot lately and it worries me. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were having an affair.”
She gave him an icy stare that unsettled him further, but she said no more and turned back toward the house. He watched her disappear into the interior shadows and leaned back against the deck rail. He checked the last missed call, and pressed a key to recall the number.
“’bout time. I’ve been trying to reach you for half an hour.”
“Sorry. Tied up. Where are you?”
“Santa Fe, headin’ for Taos. Like I said I’d be. Good news. That judge ain’t in town yet. You were right that his son would be easy to find. I managed to find a gabby neighbor who was more than willing to tell me the whole story. Seems the whole family’s happy as a bear in a berry patch that dad’s coming to town, but he’s not due in for another week.”
Albritton sighed in relief. Life as he knew it had been granted another respite.
“What about Mitchell and the girl?”
“I don’t got any exact whereabouts for them yet, but I done some readin’ on my flight over here. Learned that Mitchell wrote at least two of her books here and the blurbs in those books mention a place, a Mabel somebody house. I got it written down in my notepad. I’ll be asking around about that after I get off the phone. If I find ’em, whadayou want me to do?”
Albritton tired of the stress. Despite his best efforts to look normal, Misty had noticed his obsession with this problem and the result – his increased drinking. He didn’t like her misinterpretation of the events. He’d never cheat on her, but what if she discovered what was really going on.
He had no way of knowing what the girl knew, or if she had connected the pieces of a puzzle she might not even know she had. Nevertheless, he couldn’t risk that she might stumble upon the key piece that could start a cascade of discovery and recognition that could destroy him. And what about the author? The tabloids placed her on death’s doorstep, yet here she was traveling. Was she really that ill? What might she now know?
Didn’t Dr. Phil teach that you had to accept what you couldn’t change and deal head-on with the things you could? Desperation weighed on him. He took a step he might forever regret.
“Make the girl vanish, but not before learning what she might have told the Mitchell woman. On second thought, just make them both vanish. Do your usual good work. Nothing left behind. No evidence to find.”
Twenty-five
(Summer – 1969)
**********
The truth of those final words from Mr. Gordon rang so true two months later, with no additional cards sold in the interval. Betsy’s first, and only, check from Gibson had covered her deposit and first month’s rent on a furnished apartment just a half mile from the company. She cut back on her driving as the cost of gasoline rose from twenty-five to over thirty cents a gallon. Instead of the long drives, she found walking through the wooded trails of nearby French Park a relaxing respite to her occasional writer’s block.
Much of her time that first two weeks after meeting Jacob Meyer had been spent finding the apartment and settling in. Since then, she’d had three more meetings where she’d shown him a dozen new cards each time, but nothing clicked. She spent hours at local grocery and drug stores poring over the racks of cards, looking at new styles, watching other people at the racks to see what they laughed at, what they held onto and contemplated, and ultimately what they purchased. She even got up the nerve to ask a number of women what they liked about the cards they chose. From her “research,” she developed an idea of what local women wanted, but she also realized that such tastes didn’t necessarily translate to national sales.
Betsy figured she had the funds to last another month, maybe two if she ate only twice a day and used her car sparingly. Many might have called her first sale “beginner’s luck” but she felt a growing confidence in her ability to draw and write. She could do this. She could, and would, make a living doing this. Not just because she had the talent, but because she had discovered she loved being creative and seeing people appreciate her skills. She had found a new passion for her work as she defended it to Jacob.
Still, she had never been purely a dreamer. She had experienced too much “reality” in her short life. One more month. If she hadn’t sold more cards by then, she would force herself to find another source of income. Waitressing, babysitting, anything – anything legal anyway – that could add to her savings account. And when she had saved enough to have a surplus over her living expenses, she would consult a private eye about the realities of finding Jimmy Bob. She would never give up hope of reuniting with her son.
Betsy sat at her makeshift drawing board and drew a final addition on her latest creation before signing it. While the ink dried, she walked to a nearby gas station where she used the payphone to call Jacob. Having her own phone was a luxury she could not yet justify.
“Jacob Meyer.”
“Hi, it’s Betsy. Can I stop by this afternoon? I have some more ideas to show you.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
“Umm, you know, Betsy. We might want to, well, just set up a once-a-month regular meeting where you can show me what you’ve done. It’s hard for me to break free every time you call.”
Betsy felt the tug of disappointment. She knew deep down that she had some good cards this time, and she needed the paycheck. Another month’s rent would be due soon and everyday expenses slowly eroded her savings. She began to see that her first sale had been too easy. Reality now became the dragging foot that slowed her eager optimism.
“Okay, I understand. I, uh … When would be convenient for you?”
“Tell you what, we have weekly meetings with the writers, but our big monthly brainstorming session is on the tenth of the month, or the closest day to it if that’s a weekend. It would work best for me to see your stuff the following day, to see how it fits with what we’re thinking and doing.”
“The tenth is tomorrow.”
“Lucky for you, it is. So, come on over at 9 a.m. the following day. Take tomorrow to really critique your work and fine tune it for me, and we’ll see what works.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you. See you then.”
Her optimism took off at a full sprint to match her run home. She wanted to celebrate by opening her last Godiva bar, but restrained herself. I’ll save it for after I’ve sold some cards. She found a Hershey bar in the kitchen and sat down at the drawing board to review her proposed cards.
Betsy felt another surge of confidence as she packed up her portfolio. She knew she had some winners. She’d taken what was to her a bold step and, armed with half a dozen of her favorite cards, had driven to the local Kroger’s store and asked for opinions from the women shopping for cards. Emboldened further by their positive feedback, she’d even gone so far as to ask a few men -- the older, grandfatherly ones -- for their opinions. With their comments in mind, she returned to her apartment, made a handful of changes and “fine tuned” her cards for Jacob. Just as he’d asked her to.
At 9:05, she sat in the leather chair opposite Jacob’s drawing board and refrained from biting her nails as he surveyed her collection. At nine-fifteen, she remained sitting in that chair, without so much as a word, smile, frown, or nod from Jacob. Five more minutes and her nails would become fair game. This was awful.
With a minute to spare her cuticles, Jacob pulled out a card, and another. Then five more. He leafed through the folder one more time and pulled out three more. All of these he laid out on his drawing board before standing back and looking at them collectively. He raised his left hand to his chin while placing his right hand under his left elbow.
C’mon, say something, anything! Betsy wanted to scream.
He turned his gaze from the cards to her and said, “Can you do two more li
ke these? Maybe something for a ‘get well’ card or a ‘thinking of you’ card?”
Betsy’s jaw dropped. Did he want to buy twelve of her cards? A full dozen? She stood and joined him. “Sure. I guess. Why?” Only a couple of the cards in his selection were from her group of personal favorites. What did he see that she didn’t?
“Look at these together, as a group.”
Betsy complied but still didn’t see anything special.
Jacob smiled. “Okay, I can tell you still don’t see it.” He reached for her folder and pulled out two other cards, two of her favorites, and placed them on the board with the set. “Look again.”
Betsy could see that these last two seemed out of place in the group, but why? She couldn’t quite grasp it at first, but then she saw it. The lines, the somewhat abstract coloring, and the caricatures she had used all blended into a uniform style. As much as she liked them, the other two cards didn’t follow that style.
“Are you sure you want to be a writer? Don’t get me wrong, your prose is solid. You have a nice way of expressing the sentiment. But your artwork, this work, is unique. It’s catchy. Modern, to use a word that’s greatly overused. I can see a whole line of cards with this style. In fact, I even like the stylistic signature. It gives each piece the sense of being true art, like signed paintings. We could extend this to a whole line of products -- party supplies, balloons, ball caps and T-shirts.”
Now Betsy stood there, wordless.
Jacob stood there gazing at her. “How did we get so lucky that you popped into our door?”
Betsy gave a simple shrug. “Y’all were closest to my home.”
Jacob laughed. “Then we certainly did get lucky.” He pulled off the two last cards, leaving only the original ten he had chosen. “Look, I want to present these to my executive board, along with the two I asked you to do. I’ll buy the dozen. Also, I want to ask them to create a new job position for you. I’ll call you after I get their decision.”
Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense Page 71