“I’m supposed to give a talk there tomorrow over lunch and she has some things from Betsy she promised to give me for our research.”
“Well, I’ve been in those boxes. Mom, Oni, and me looked through them for clues to what might have happened. You’ll find her old diaries interesting. She had a rough life until coming here. But there’s no clue about what happened to her, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”
Dewey sat on the balcony of the Basin Park Hotel, sipping a light beer while watching the main street. He’d been there for two days, waiting and watching. He’d received a text message from the Senator that the Hamilton girl’s cell phone had pinged the towers in Eureka Springs. He acknowledged to Albritton that he was already in town, but received no reply. That seemed off.
The Writer’s Retreat was at the far end of Spring Street and there were back ways to get there, but everyone who came to town seemed to gravitate to Main Street around Basin Spring Park. Spring Street intersected with Main Street here, and between the covered balcony bar and the park next door, he had an unfettered view of the street. If the Mitchell lady and girl came through, he’d see them. And when he’d confirmed their presence in town, he would call the Senator with the good news. No, even better, he would dispatch the women and then call the senator with better news.
“Here you are, Sir. Enjoy.”
The waitress laid a club sandwich platter on the table before him. The place had great burgers, but he’d decided to try as much on the menu as he could. This was an early lunch. He’d maintained a somewhat erratic schedule, befitting a tourist, so as to avoid questions.
Today after eating, he planned a leisurely walk taking photos of the homes along Spring Street to the retreat. He would blend in easily that way. The retreat had confirmed their coming to Eureka Springs, but he had no doubt the women had learned of his “interrogation” of the manager of Mabel’s place in Taos by now. Still, they couldn’t be expecting him here. He had the element of surprise.
However, Hastings wasn’t alone. A second set of eyes followed the activity on the street, as well as Hastings on the balcony. The Senator had been surprised to find that Dewey had preceded the women to Eureka Springs. How had the man gotten so lucky? However it had happened, the Senator was pleased that two problems could now be “handled” much more expediently and had arranged a quick flight for this man to Little Rock. The man had his instructions: complete what Dewey hadn’t and then take care of Dewey himself.
Thirty-four
**********
Myra and Alexia drove slowly through historic downtown Eureka Springs, past the auditorium, turning toward Basin Spring Park.
”This town is beautiful,” exclaimed Alexia. “So quaint. I love it! I can see why Betsy stayed, so it must have been something awful to make her leave like that.”
Myra nodded. “I’m sure it was. I’d say “been there, done that,’ but you know how I hate clichés.” She turned left at the old Eureka Gallery onto Spring Street. “Up here we’ll pass the Post Office and further up Spring Street we’ll pass the public library. It’s built of solid granite and was donated to the city by Andrew Carnegie himself. Lots of famous people have passed over these same streets.”
They passed couples strolling along the tree-lined street, families with young children in tow, and a man taking photos of the beautifully restored Victorian-era homes, many of them operating as bed and breakfast inns. “I read somewhere that Oni Prairieberry and her husband started the first B&B inn here. She’s hosted a number of luminaries herself, including the Clintons when he was Governor. She’s listed as an official F.O.B., friend of Bill,” Alexia commented.
“That’s right. They turned the inn into the Writer’s Retreat just before her husband died too young of cancer.”
Myra continued, “Did you also read that these streets were built up to prevent mud slides that had become a problem? That’s why most of the homes on the downhill side are altered to have main entries on what would have been the second floor originally.” Alexia nodded, acknowledging that bit of trivia as they passed a dozen more homes and inns. A minute later, they arrived at Grotto Spring. As Myra turned into the gravel drive of the retreat, a young woman emerged from the nearest building.
“Ms. Mitchell, it is such an honor to meet you. I’m Maria, chief go-fer here. Oni’s on the phone, but she’ll be right out.”
Myra introduced Alexia and took a deep breath of the clean Ozark air. A front had passed through overnight and the atmosphere seemed recharged. The air refreshed her, but she missed the smell of the ocean at home in Carmel.
“I see you picked up your rental okay. Wow, I never knew Enterprise rented vintage cars. This is great. Did you know we have one of the country’s biggest Mustang car shows here in town?”
Myra knitted her brow. “Rental? This is my own car. I know nothing of a rental.”
Maria continued examining the car. “Funny, a guy named Tim called a few nights ago, asking if you’d gotten here yet and that your rental was in the lot in Fayetteville.” She stopped at the back bumper. “Too bad about that dent. This car is perfect otherwise. I know a guy who –”
The squeaky screen door interrupted her, while alarm raced up Myra’s spine.
“Ms. Mitchell!” Oni Prairieberry walked toward them, arms extended.
“Ms. Prairieberry.” Myra braced for a hug. “Please, call me Myra. Both of you. Please.”
“Absolutely, and please reciprocate. Everyone calls me by my first name, unless they’re mad at me.” She laughed. “I even get mail just addressed to Oni in Eureka Springs. No street necessary, everyone here knows me.”
Myra introduced Alexia.
“Oni,” echoed Alexia. “What a unique name.”
“Yes, well, would you believe it’s not my given name? Of course you would. It’s a short story really. I got married at age sixteen in the middle of the hippy era. My husband, my first husband that is, he and I decided we needed names that had meaning. I selected Oni because it means ‘born on sacred, or spiritual, ground.’ Well, in Africa, anyway, not Japan. The last name was simply something whimsical and impulsive.” She laughed. “Now, thirty-plus years later, I’m forever Oni Prairieberry. Well, come on in. The gang is anxiously waiting.”
Myra scrutinized the area around the old home before moving and approached Alexia. She whispered in the young woman’s ear, “You heard that, right? Someone called asking about my rental. Keep your eyes and ears open. I think whoever this is, is after me. He won’t strike while we’re with others, but we might have to leave quickly.” Alexia nodded. Myra hoped she was correct.
Myra’s luncheon session extended well beyond her scheduled time. As she had done with Alexia on the charter plane, she read excerpts of everyone’s writing and gave honest critique, no holds barred. More than a few tears erupted, but all were grateful.
Oni approached her. “Thank you so much. You went far beyond what you’d agreed to do. I don’t know how to thank you.” She pointed to three sealed file boxes, similar in size to boxes that hold a ream of paper. “Those are yours, I believe.”
Myra smiled. “Your giving those to us is thanks enough.” She looked around. “Alexia?”
Her assistant came through a nearby door. “Yes?”
“Could you please move those to the car? Be careful. I need to talk with Oni in private for a moment.”
As Alexia picked up the first box, Myra took Oni’s arm and together they walked into the retreat’s main office. “I have a concern and need you to be aware of something that happened in Taos …”
After a brief stop in town at a local clothing store, Alexia drove them back to the motel. As they left the historic district of town, Myra began to sob. “You okay?”
“No.”
“Can I ask –?”
“No. Please, g-give me a moment. I’ll be okay. I-I don’t know why I’m so emotional here.” She lied.
“I know why.”
Myra dried her eyes and looked at the
young woman.
“The rental car thing, what happened to Diana. You’re afraid something’s going to happen to you, us, Oni, the others.”
Myra didn’t reply. She did have those concerns – and a plan.
Nothing more was spoken until Alexia pulled up in front of the cabin.
“Would you please move those boxes into the living area? Let’s take a survey of the contents before bed. I’ll explain what I have in mind while we do that.”
Over the next few hours, they discussed the day’s turn of events while they indexed the contents and moved the diaries and other relevant material into two boxes, arranged chronologically. The third box held various mementoes. With hesitation, Myra discussed her concern about the potential danger they faced and her plan. Now, they were done and could only wait. Were they prepared well enough?
“What do you want to do with that stuff?” Alexia asked, pointing toward that third box. The clock read well past 1 a.m. She yawned.
“Nothing at this time of night, that’s for sure. I’ll have to think about it.” She stood and stretched. “Time for bed. No need to get up early, so let’s sleep in.” If they slept at all.
Alexia nodded. She didn’t look like she would fall asleep any sooner than Myra would. She still couldn’t fathom why she had become someone’s target, but that someone meant business. She thought of Diana. Yet, Myra was fatigued. What if she failed to stay alert, failed to carry out her end of the plan. Would Alexia pay a price as she would?
“Don’t forget what I told you to do.”
“I won’t.” Alexia turned on her cell phone and clutched it to her chest.
Myra knew she wouldn’t.
At first, Dewey stood there, stunned. It wasn’t that Mitchell and the Hamilton girl had driven by him. He’d expected that. Well, hoped for that anyway. No, what had caught him totally off-guard was the car. He had memories of a yellow Mustang and a girl long gone. He’d thought the car belonged to someone helping the girl, who had been a threat because of what she’d witnessed. Yet, time passed and nothing ever came of it. She had disappeared from his radar, he never saw the car again, and life went on. Until now.
He now sat in his hotel room with his laptop opened in front of him. He’d spent thirty minutes searching until he found references to and a photo of Betsy Weston. That was the name on that cartoon he’d stolen from the dingy diner in Asheville. And one photo showed her next to a yellow Mustang. He’d thought she was there helping Alice search for that boy of hers. Was it the same car? What were the odds of that happening? He was amazed to learn that she had created one of his favorite comics. Why hadn’t he ever put two and two together? Forty-plus years had passed. How well did he really remember Alice Cummings? Still, the girl in the car wasn’t there helping Alice. She was Alice.
Next, he pulled up photos of Myra Mitchell, finding the current ones easily. Was there a resemblance? It took some surfing, but he finally retrieved some of her earliest publicity photos. The eyes seemed the same. Hair was easy for a woman to change. The nose? Maybe some work done there. Could it be true that fate had finally brought them back together? Was it some cosmic coincidence that led him to Eureka Springs? He had no doubts now. He was going to finally tie up a loose end that had been fluttering in the wind for decades.
Thirty-five
**********
Dewey yawned, and yawned again as he sat just inside the edge of the forest, waiting. He’d spent a looong afternoon waiting for them to leave and followed them to Pond Mountain. Then he’d had his revelation and spent time preparing for his strike. He returned to the forest around the cabins at dusk and settled in for the right time to move in.
He’d hoped they would turn in right away, but no, he’d swatted mosquitoes for two hours before dense dark drove them into hiding. He’d fallen asleep at one point, only to wake up as he fell to the forest floor. He wasn’t the young man who once could keep watch over his stills all night. He couldn’t let that happen again. He focused on his newfound motivation to stay awake.
He wondered what time it could be. He could gauge the time during the day just by the position of the sun. But at night? He didn’t know the North Star from the South Star. He didn’t dare shine a light on his watch. The light might be seen, putting the women on alert and blowing his only opportunity so far at completing his mission.
He started at a rustling in the leaves to his right and impulsively shot a beam of light that direction. Crap! he thought as he doused the little Magnum flashlight. Had he just blown his cover? Man, they better turn in soon. He couldn’t take much more of this.
As if they’d heard him, a few minutes later the light in the main room downstairs flickered off. Fifteen minutes later, the upstairs light went out, and moments later, the remaining first floor light went dark. He assumed these to be the two bedrooms as described in the resort’s promotional brochure. The main floor bedroom, occupied most likely by the Mitchell lady, would be his first target. Should he be discovered or heard, the top floor resident’s only escape path would put her running right past him.
He checked the suppressor on the end of his Walther P22. On tight. After a fifteen-minute delay to allow them transit to dreamland, he eased into a crouch and cursed the tightness that had settled into his thighs and lower back. James Bond he wasn’t. For that matter, young he wasn’t. He scuffled slowly at first, to work out those kinks, and crept up to the back door. Within a minute, he had the door unlocked and open, thankfully without a squeak. His eyes adjusted to the low light and he moved quietly toward the bedroom, where he found the door slightly ajar.
As planned, he pushed open the door and took three quick steps toward the bed as he raised his pistol toward the body in the bed. He quickly fired off three rounds, two to the chest area and one to the head. One for Alice, one for Betsy and one for Myra Mitchell. Finally, he had settled his score with Alice Cummings.
Albritton arose from bed to ease the urge of his bladder. The clock read 3 a.m. and although he’d come to accept these middle-of-the-night calls of nature, he’d had trouble returning to sleep afterwards for the past several weeks. In fact, sleep had become scarce in general and he often required a stiff nightcap plus a double dose of melatonin to fall asleep at all.
Not tonight. He fell asleep easily and soundly. He now had a true professional on the job. Two loose ends – Hamilton and Hastings – would soon be gone. He’d often thought about how to remove the latter problem, a plague since his schoolboy days, despite his usefulness in the early years of accumulating land.
He returned from the bathroom thinking all was well in his world again. Slumber reclaimed him as his head touched down onto the pillow.
Thirty-six
**********
The man adjusted his night vision goggles as he followed the form of Dewey Hastings from the woods to the cottage. Once Dewey had dispatched the women, he would take care of Dewey. Hastings seemed old on his feet and took forever to approach the cottage. Precious time during which he could have been spotted. Still, he had to give the thug some credit. He picked the back door lock and entered the building in record time.
He knew of Hasting’s preference for the Walther P22. Personally, he’d chosen a suppressed 9mm. That required only one quick headshot, whereas the .22 cal Walther, by necessity, would need at least three shots. Again, increasing the chance for discovery.
A moment after Hasting’s entry to the building, a roar like two cannon blasts cracked the night silence and bright lights from the cottage and nearby buildings blinded the man. He threw off his night vision gear and blinked his eyes. Several figures from nearby buildings, including the office emerged onto the common grounds.
A young woman appeared at the cottage front door and yelled, “Someone call the police. Hurry!”
He eased deeper into the woods, keeping his eyes on the people from the resort. When he could no longer see them, they would not be able to see him either. At that point, he turned and made a hasty retreat to his vehicle.
He needed to leave the area before police arrived. As he neared his car, two thoughts dominated his mind. First, the woman was armed and had anticipated the danger. The gun blasts he’d heard certainly weren’t suppressed .22 shots. She must have taken Hastings out. That made her a more formidable target than the bumbling, overconfident Hastings himself. Second, his plan for a quick completion of his job lay tattered on the cottage bedroom floor. He’d had no Plan B, and now planning anything at all seemed unfeasible. He’d have no other chance for days, maybe weeks, with the expected police activity and the protective wall that would no doubt form around these women. He’d have to stick close by and take advantage of even the subtlest opportunity, improvising all the way.
He smiled. He enjoyed a challenge.
Myra waited for what seemed like hours before moving from the corner of the room where she’d been sitting, waiting. The form on the floor did not move. As lights came on in cabins around them, she gathered the courage to move. She flicked on a nearby floor lamp and watched. Still no movement. She thought about an episode early in her life. That man had continued with agonal breathing, a term she’d learned for her books.
She stood and walked over to the lifeless body. She didn’t see a gun, but she knew he’d had one. A shattered mannequin head on the bed attested to that. She used her foot gently to turn the man’s head so she could see his face. Her mind went numb. This was impossible. No. Her eyes fooled her. After forty years, could it be? The scar on the left side of his face seemed to say so.
Myra slowly moved to the main room and sat on the rustic couch there, her hands shaking. Angela, the resort manager, already stood at the door, cell phone in hand talking to someone. Alexia paced the hall outside the bedroom as if trying to muster up the fortitude to look at the bloody scene inside. Police sirens echoed through the hills in the distance, getting closer with every minute. To Myra, the incident seemed the surreal re-enactment of a scene from one of her books. Except that this man was Dewey Hastings. How was she going to reconcile this fact with her long-kept secret? How could she begin to tell the truth without revealing her preciously guarded past?
Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense Page 79