Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense

by Luana Ehrlich

  “Um, I don’t have a phone.” Yet, she wanted to run right out and order one. And jump, shimmy, and sing in joy.

  “Then call me the first of next week. I’ll have a check for you as well. Does that work for you?”

  Betsy floated well above cloud nine. She settled at cloud twelve – for twelve hundred dollars! That was a whole lot more than her pa had ever made in one month. Twelve hundred. She could breathe a whole lot easier about paying her rent and covering her expenses. She could loosen up and buy real groceries for a change, although her frugality had enabled her to drop fifteen pounds and she liked the slimmer image in the mirror.

  Jacob escorted her to the reception area where Betsy saw a young man signing into the guest registry just as she had earlier. The man looked to Betsy to be about six foot tall, slim, and athletic, with longish, sandy brown hair swept back behind the ears. His profile appeared strong and when he looked up and toward them, the strength of that profile carried to his face with a rugged handsomeness that she found appealing.

  “Hey, Pop. I was just coming in to see you.”

  Betsy noticed Jacob’s face take on a stern demeanor.

  “Rod, aren’t you supposed to be in class? I’m not paying all that tuition money for you to skip out.”

  “We’re cool. No classes until after lunch.” Rod’s gaze settled on Betsy, which made her unsettled.

  “Sorry,” Jacob said. “My bad manners. Betsy, this is my son, Rod. This is Betsy Weston.”

  Betsy extended her hand, which Rod took gently to shake. His touch transmitted a tingle that extended up to her elbow.

  “Betsy is an artist and writer, and may be just the person to shake up this company and bring some new life to it.”

  Rod’s smile seemed to glow. “Wow, he doesn’t give compliments easily, Betsy. You must be good.”

  Betsy felt her face flush. “Beginner’s luck. Nice to meet you.” She turned to Jacob. “I’ll call you next week.”

  She left the building, listening as Rod began to talk with his father about some expense or another at school. She had walked halfway up the long drive toward the sidewalk, when she heard her name.”

  “Betsy! Betsy Weston! Hey, wait up!”

  She turned to see Rod running across the pavement and up the hill toward her. Despite the sprint, he showed no shortness of breath and his smile lit up again.

  “Hey, my dad says you’re new in town. Look, I don’t have class until one o’clock and it’s the last week of this old boring accounting class. Can I treat you to lunch? Ever had Skyline Chili? It’s a Cincinnati original.”

  As intriguing as Rod seemed, Betsy needed only a moment to decide she wasn’t ready for a relationship. Plus, she had work to do, a job to earn.

  “That’s mighty sweet of you, Rod, but I can’t right now. I’ve got other things I need to do.”

  “What about dinner then? You have to eat sometime, right?

  “Not today. Thanks.” She turned to resume her walk home, but he stepped in front of her and blocked the way.

  “Not today what? You don’t have to eat today? Or, you don’t want –”

  “I don’t have time to go with you today.” She eluded him and started to walk, but Rod raced in front of her and blocked her way again. Despite his physical appeal, his actions were inching toward an aggression that made her nervous. She didn’t want to be rude, but he wasn’t taking her ‘no’ for an answer.

  “Move, please. I’d like to go home.”

  “Walking? So, you live nearby.”

  Betsy realized she’d revealed too much. She didn’t want him following her to her apartment. Or did she? She found Rod attractive. Confident. Certainly bold. Not like the guys her age she knew back in North Carolina. She felt flattered by his invitation, yet also apprehensive at his insistence. She looked into his hazel-green eyes and saw … what? Desire? Well, that came across through more than his eyes. Laughter? Life? No, distraction. She could melt into those deep, dazzling wells. He could indeed become a disruption to her plans. The last thing she needed was for him to know where she lived.

  “My car’s down the street, for an oil change.”

  “C’mon, I’ll give you a lift.”

  “Thank you for the offer, but, no. I want to walk and think.”

  “About what? About where I can take you to dinner?”

  Betsy took in a deep breath and let out an exasperated sigh.

  “Rod, you seem like a nice guy, but we just met, and, I’m trying to get a job with your father. That means I have to show him I can meet a deadline. That means no distractions.”

  Rod’s smile broadened as well as brightened. “That’s a good sign. At least you’re interested enough to find me distracting. How about dinner Monday night? We can celebrate your new job.”

  Or commiserate not getting one, she thought. She weakened. “Okay. Monday night. I’ll meet you somewhere.”

  “I can pick you up, say, seven.”

  “No, I’d prefer meeting you someplace.”

  “Hmmm, okay. Right here, at seven.”

  “No. At the restaurant – or call it off.” She looked him straight in the eye. “And let’s keep it simple, like that chili place you mentioned.”

  Betsy watched as Rod’s eyes scrutinized her, but the smile never left his mouth.

  “I get it. You want to be able to dump me if the date doesn’t go well.”

  “Exactly.”

  Rod laughed. “You’re certainly to the point. Trust me; I don’t bite. I might drool, but that’s only because you’re the prettiest woman I’ve met in a long time, and worldly, too, it looks like.”

  Betsy wasn’t sure what he meant by ‘worldly.’ She could never call herself experienced, but she was a quick study and the stories she’d heard from the ladies at The Rest Stop had been cautionary tales.

  “Why, thank you. I think,” she replied to his compliment. He was by far the most handsome man she’d ever met, and no doubt much more sophisticated than she could ever be. A dangerous combination, according to her mentors.

  Suddenly, her mind filled with thoughts of Jimmy Bob’s father and her lost son, and guilt sluiced through her. How could she even think of resuming life and finding love when she’d failed to find him? She fought the tears.

  “I-I have to go. I-I …” She choked on the words, and then pivoted and raced up the remaining drive, leaving Rod standing on the blacktop alone.

  “Hey! What’d I say? I didn’t mean …”

  Betsy kept running, tears streaming down her face.

  “What about Monday? Which Skyline? Do you know …?”

  She ran, leaving his question unanswered.

  Twenty-six

  **********

  Betsy looked up from the small creek in the park, out across the grassy slope. Two young children laughed and screamed as they held their arms stiff at their sides and log rolled down the hill. Their mother laughed as they stood up and wobbled with dizziness, and encouraged them to run back up and do it again. A happy family. A mother in love with her children.

  She thought she had resolved the conflict in her heart by accepting the harsh fact that her father had succeeded in his threat. She might never see Jimmy Bob again, plain and simple, although she would always hope. Life marched on. She had to move on with it, or fall into such despair that life could no longer hold any meaning.

  The high tide of emotion that swept across her like a tsunami after accepting her first date since JT joined the Army and then finding herself pregnant, had destabilized her. After an hour of staring at an empty drawing board, she had retreated to higher ground and spent all afternoon walking the trails in the park. Now, as dusk approached, a park ranger found her seated on a log above the dry creek and escorted her to her car in preparation of closing the park.

  “Miss, I don’t know what’s bothering you, but I can tell something’s wrong. Can I help? Do you have anyone to talk to?”

  Betsy shook her head.

  The man took a p
ocket-sized spiral notebook, along with a pen, from his shirt pocket and wrote something. He tore the sheet off the spiral wire and handed it to her. “Here. I won’t presume that I can help, but my pastor’s a great guy. I know he’d be willing to listen and help in any way he can.”

  Betsy took the paper and stared at it.

  “Time to close the park, Miss. I’ll follow you out, if that’s okay.”

  Twenty minutes later, Betsy realized she now sat parked in her slot behind the apartment building. She did not recall driving back from the park to her apartment. She wondered how long she’d been sitting there, dazed, with the car running. She vaguely recalled the ranger handing her something and escorting her out of the park. She looked around and found the paper. On it was written the name of a man, a church, and its address and phone number.

  She couldn’t recall the last time she’d been to church. It must have been with Maisy Duncan. What had Maisy’s religion earned her? She thought about that and crumpled the paper in her hand. She emerged from the car and as she entered the building, she tossed it into a nearby trashcan. God? she thought. How could a loving God allow her mother to die from cancer, her baby to be stolen, her friends to be murdered, and Maisy’s death in an inferno? No church or pastor would be able to help her. Sally had said it, “You’re a survivor. Make something of yourself, Betsy Weston.”

  With hardened tenacity, Betsy pushed ahead with her work and by Monday morning had completed not only the two requested cards, but six additional cards as well – all following the design style she had subconsciously developed over the past few weeks. After a call to Jacob, she walked to the plant and signed in at the registration desk as the receptionist worked the phone switchboard. She turned to wait for Jacob.

  “Betsy.” The receptionist rose from her seat and tapped her on the shoulder. “These came for you earlier.”

  As Betsy turned back to the woman, a large floral bouquet on the desktop surprised her. “Th-they’re beautiful.” No one had ever sent her flowers. Had Jacob arranged this?

  “There’s a card.” The receptionist pointed to a small envelope nestled in among the flowers.

  Betsy opened it and read, “Skyline, 7pm, looking forward to a celebration.” An address for the restaurant followed. Betsy smiled. Handsome and thoughtful.

  Jacob’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Good morning. Let’s go back to my office.”

  Betsy looked at the receptionist. “Can I leave these here and pick them up on my way out?” The woman nodded.

  Upon walking into Jacob’s office, Betsy noticed her cards laid out on his drawing board. She opened her portfolio and placed the eight new cards next to them. The creative director looked at the additions and smiled.

  “You amaze me once again.” He picked up each card and examined it. “Very nice. Don’t take this the wrong way, but we will rework the prose a bit. Maybe even the artwork. As you’ll learn, every card we do goes through a process to tweak and perfect it. You’re talented, but you’re new at this. Take the opportunity to learn from the experienced guys, but don’t take their comments as gospel. I want your work to be fresh, to be your own.”

  Betsy understood. After all, she hadn’t seen what Jacob saw in the style she had developed. She could take criticism. She’d lived with it for years under the most negative of terms. Positive feedback would be a welcomed change. But, what about the job?

  “Okay. I’ll buy them all.”

  “Wow! Thank you.” And the job? Was this going to be as tense as the waiting during her last meeting?

  “I presented your work to the board and they want to start a new signature line of cards, gifts and the like, using your work. That’s the good news.”

  Uh oh, she thought. That means there’s bad news.

  “The better news is that they’ve authorized me to pay you a premium for these. I think you’ll like the check you’re going to get.”

  And the job?

  “I’m afraid, though, that the board won’t authorize a new job position until the new fiscal year, which is October 1st. I tried. Honestly, I tried. Can you work with me this way until then? You can attend our weekly sessions with the writers and artists, if you want. Plus, I still want to meet with you monthly to see what you’ve developed. I just can’t give you a regular paycheck or a workspace.”

  No job. She sighed inwardly. No celebrating tonight. At least he held out the chance for a job in four months. If she continued selling as she had, she could hold out even longer than that.

  “Well, I was really hoping for that job, but I can live with this. I guess.” She hoped her disappointment didn’t show. “I really, really appreciate your interest and support – and buying my work.”

  Jacob walked over to his desk and picked up a short stack of stapled papers. “This is like the papers you signed to give us rights to your first cards. It’s a little different. It gives us the rights to these works, as well as the right to first refusal to anything new you produce. You can take that home to read, or have your lawyer check it. Once you’ve signed, I can ask accounting to cut you your check.”

  Betsy paused a moment. Did she really need a lawyer? She liked Jacob. “Is there anything in there I need to worry about? I’m not much into contracts and the like.”

  “It’s mostly standard stuff for freelancers in this industry.”

  “Yes, Sir. I trust you.” She took a pen from the drawing board and signed her distinctive signature to two copies of the contract. Eighteen hundred dollars! And then she remembered he said they had approved a premium. What did that mean?

  Jacob smiled, took the contracts, and placed one into a manila envelope for Betsy. He then picked up his phone. “Harold, it’s Jacob. Betsy Weston is with me … Yes, that one … She’s signed the contract and I’m buying eighteen cards … Right. At the new rate … Thanks.” He looked up to Betsy. “They’ll have your check here in a few minutes. So, tell me, where’d you learn to do this?”

  They talked for about ten minutes, with Betsy saying nothing about her past but that she grew up in North Carolina and learned to write and draw in high school. She’d said more than she should have to Mr. Gordon. In reflection of that meeting, she’d decided to be more discreet about her past. She learned a bit about Jacob and his family, particularly Rod, whom Jacob seemed to be “selling” to her. She wondered what the son had said to his father.

  A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. A balding, middle-aged man opened the door a bit and peeked in. Jacob rose to meet him and took an envelope from him, which he then turned over to Betsy. “I think you’ll be happy with this.”

  Betsy took the envelope and fingered it.

  “Go ahead, open it.”

  Betsy complied and her jaw dropped when she saw a check for $5400. That was three times the rate per card that she’d been paid for her first cards. She would surely be able to hold out for several months on the money she’d already made. Maybe tonight would be a time to celebrate after all. She jumped up and gave Jacob a huge hug, but shrunk back quickly. That wasn’t a very businesslike response.

  “Sorry.” Betsy blushed.

  Jacob laughed. “That’s okay. Now, if one of my male staff writers did that …”

  They both laughed.

  Betsy floated to the reception area and picked up her flowers. As she turned toward the front door, Mrs. Gordon walked through and smiled as she spied Betsy at the front desk.

  “Why, good morning, Betsy Weston. I hear you’re shaking this place up.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Gordon. I just –”

  “Please, call me Georgia. You certainly look excited and happy.”

  “I am, Ma’am. I just sold more cards to Mr. Meyer and they’re using my cards to start a new signature line.”

  “Congratulations. That’s wonderful.” She chuckled. “I just hope they didn’t make you sign some contract that gives away your first-born child.”

  Betsy froze and dropped her flowers, the glass vase breaking on the ti
le floor.

  Albritton and his brother Mike, the deputy, sat in the back row of the courtroom talking while the jury filed back into the box. The worn oak bench glistened with the patina of age, polished by thousands of derrieres sliding in and out during almost a hundred years of use. The wood of the straight-backed chairs of the jury box matched that of the benches in age and color. Light filtered into the room through tall windows on the east side of the high ceilinged arena of justice.

  “That didn’t take long,” said Mike.

  “Sure didn’t.” Albritton scrutinized the jurors, hoping to gleam their decision from their countenances. “Don’t know if that’s a good sign or bad.”

  “Guess that depends which side of the room you’re seated on.”

  Curt Umfleet sat on the left side as one faced the judge, according to western legal tradition. He appeared calm and seemed to be praying quietly to himself. His seat put him on the judge’s right side, but furthest away from the jury. Albritton had never discovered the origin of this seating tradition, but had been told that the prosecution took the chairs closest to the jury in order to curry favor subconsciously with them.

  “Sure don’t seem right him calling himself a Christian, and then killing that poor Cummings girl,” said Mike.

  The counselor nodded in agreement. Before he could comment, the bailiff stood and said, “All rise.”

  Judge Hoglund entered the chamber from behind the dais and spoke as he sat down. “Be seated.” There was a moment of rustling as dozens of people sat in unison and the judge rearranged his robes and adjusted his position to become more comfortable. He then turned toward the jury box and asked, “Mr. Foreman, I understand you have already reached a verdict.”

  “We have, Your Honor.” The man seated closest to the judge arose and held out a folded slip of paper, which the bailiff took and gave to the judge. Albritton noted Umfleet’s eyes remained closed and the silent working of his mouth became more active.

  The judge read the paper and looked at the defendant. “Will the defendant rise?”

  Umfleet stopped his silent intercession, opened his eyes, and stood, facing the judge.