by Pepper Frost
The Return of Betty Snickerdoodle
Pepper Frost
Working Strategy
Copyright © 2018 by Pepper Frost
All rights reserved.
This book may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author, except for brief passages quoted in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
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For Anne Chase, who is always an inspiration.
Chapter One
Bea Sickles glared at her door. Her sacred morning routine of chain smoking while watching “The Price Is Right” had been interrupted by irritating knock-knock-knocking.
Probably just some idiot cult member, the old woman thought. Or some fool begging for some dumb cause. Suckers. Never a shortage. Perhaps the nitwit was having trouble comprehending the “no solicitors” sign she’d written in two-inch-high block letters. Or didn’t know the meaning of “solicitors.” She made a mental note to change the sign to “NO KNOCKING BY ANYONE. OR ELSE! AND YES THAT MEANS YOU, STUPID!” She chuckled to herself as she pictured Moonies and Jehovah’s Witnesses studying it, trying to decide whether God would insist they knock anyway.
Until now, she hadn’t worried much about people unexpectedly coming to her door. Hardly anyone even knew who she was, much less where to find her – and that was how she liked it. This new turn of events was not at all pleasing. I’ll ignore it, she thought, taking a deep, pacifying drag on her cigarette. Eventually they’ll give up and scram. But the knocking only grew more insistent. The door was shaking, and though it was heavy, the woman began to wonder what it would take for a determined person to bust it off its hinges.
“Betty Snickerdoodle?” a young man’s voice shouted cheerfully. His chipper tone clashed with the forceful pounding on the door. He sounded clean-cut and annoyingly sunny, like an over-eager glee-clubber. “Oh Betty,” he said in a sweet, sing-songy way, “you can’t hiiiiii-ide. I know you’re in there.” The old lady pictured him smiling in a way that exposed far too many teeth.
Bea hoisted herself from the stained sofa with a disgruntled groan. Steadying herself against her cane, she stubbed out her butt and considered her options. 20 years younger and she would have been out the back door before you could say “See ya”! But running clearly wasn’t an option. It wasn’t just her advanced age and low speed; she was pretty sure her tattered nightie would be see-through in the glaring, mid-morning sun. She couldn’t have cared less what people might think of her wrinkled torso and long, unbridled boobs. But escaping Mr. Sunshine, only to get arrested for indecent exposure? That would be beyond stupid.
The peephole in her door was useless. It had been years since she could straighten her spine sufficiently for that. She picked her way carefully to the window through piles of books and papers and overflowing ash trays. Maybe she could get a glimpse of her unwanted caller, if he was standing far enough from the door.
She parted the blinds and peered through. She couldn’t see much. The back of a crisp, white windbreaker. Brownish hair in a short, tidy cut. He seemed to be rocking back and forth on clean sneakers as he pursued her attention. Bea pictured an excessively earnest, yet harmless young man – was it possible a Betty Bro had somehow discovered her secret?
Betty’s many fans were mostly hopelessly romantic women “of a certain age” who gobbled her books like bite-sized cookies. But a contingent of young men also helped turn her wholesome Christmas romance series into a money machine. The “Betty Bros” even formed a club to revel in their odd obsession with Betty’s syrupy stories. If pressed for the truth, Bea would have to admit she found the Betty Bros weird. Luckily, one of the benefits of being a recluse is that you rarely have to reveal your truth about anything.
Now what? Bea thought. If she didn’t open the door for Mr. Persistent, he’d keep pounding and yelling — and if he kept up the racket, her neighbors might realize the mysterious author Betty Snickerdoodle was living right under their noses. A horrified Bea imagined fans descending en masse. She flashed on boozy holiday buses full of Betty’s adoring readers: sweet, Christmas-loving ladies and earnest Betty Bros on eggnog-fueled pilgrimages – rolling right up to her house! That was a development she absolutely had to prevent.
Opening the door seemed like the much safer option. Within a few minutes, Betty Bro or no, she’d set him straight – straight on his way. “Okay,” she finally rasped. “Just one minute.”
She cracked the door, intending to engage in a quick, deflecting conversation. But before she could finish saying, “You must have the wrong house,” the strapping young man forced his way through the door, nearly knocking tiny Bea over in the process.
“Now, now, Betty, you’re way too modest,” the man declared, already snooping around the old woman’s house. “Can’t say I love what you’ve done with the place, though. What’s one of the bestselling authors in the world doing in such a dump?”
“I told you, I’m not …”
“Just cut the crap,” the man said. His demeanor was suddenly more sinister. Bea wondered how she could have thought, even for a moment, that he was one of those gentle, misguided Betty Bros.
“I know who you are. And I’m not interested why you hide out in a tear-down in Napa. Kind of stupid – eventually your rich busybody neighbors are going to complain about the condition of this shack – but whatever floats your decrepit boat. What I am interested in – deeply interested in – is your god-damned manuscript!”
As he spit out the word “manuscript,” he leaned down toward her, so that his moist, foul-smelling breath hit her smack in the nostrils. She leaned back against the side of the sofa to steady herself.
“Where is it, Betty? Because I’m telling you right now, I’m not leaving without it.”
Feeling a surge of adrenaline, Bea reflexively swung her cane, whacking the man hard across the temple. To her shock, he fell, hitting his head on the side table and collapsing silently on the floor.
Holy hell, she thought. Is he dead?! At first she hoped he wasn’t dead, but then decided that maybe she hoped he was. Except what would she do with the body? As her mind reeled, the man came to, moaning as he rolled over.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” he grunted, pushing himself up from all fours. He stood over her and yanked the cane out of her hand. “I don’t give a shit if your real name is Haggatha Broomhandle, you gnarly old prune. I know you’re Betty, and your 21st book is overdue. I’m here to make sure I get it before you go croakers. You owe me – I mean, you owe my dear old dad – that much. So … where is it?”
“It’s not overdue,” Bea spat back. “It’s not due at all. And if it were, I
certainly wouldn’t hand it over to you! Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“Charlie Carter,” the man said. “Technically, Charlie Carter, Jr. You know, your agent’s son. My friends call me Cash.”
“Huh?” squawked the old woman. Her hearing was perfect, but she’d cultivated a jarring interjection for when she was really irritated with someone. It was a bit like having a Canada Goose honk right into your ear. “Your friends call you ass?”
“Very funny, hag. Why don’t you just think of me as the dude who is not leaving here without your next Treacle Town installment. Now where’s your computer so we can print it off and download it.”
“Ha!” Bea yelped. “Computer? Puh-leeze.” That’s a good one, Bea thought. She detested and deeply distrusted all forms of technology. Anyone who knew her at all would know that much. Cash’s story about being her agent’s son was starting to smell like old bait.
Cash scanned the room, finally spotting a desk in the corner with an old electric typewriter and many stacks of onionskin pages. “A Selectric?! That’s how you churn out the sugary bullshit?”
“Maybe watch your language! Show a little respect. And anyway, what’s it to you?”
“You’re right, why should I care? Whatever lights your candle, as long as you do your job,” he replied, moving quickly toward her. Before Bea could back away, he picked her up under her small arms, carried her to the desk, and dumped her roughly in the chair in front of the antique machine.
“Yeow,” the woman cried. She resettled herself in the chair and flatulently noted her objection.
“Classy,” said Cash. “Fart all you want. But I’m done messing around – and so are you. Time to get on with it, Witch Hazel. It must be here somewhere. It will save a lot of time if you just hand it over.”
“I don’t owe a manuscript. My contract’s been done for more than three years and I haven’t written a book since. If you’re really Charlie’s son, you should know that. I’ve got nothing to hand over.”
“Well then, I guess it’s time to start a new one,” Cash said, leaning uncomfortably close. He placed his hands around her neck, squeezing enough to imply a threat. “We’re not getting any younger now, are we? But a real pro like you should be able to crank out another sugar bomb in no time.”
Bea felt her heart start to race, beating out of her chest. But she felt something else, too. As Cash pressed his hands around her slender neck, she felt the chain she wore around it dig into her skin. It hurt a bit, but the sensation also gave her an idea. She let out a little moan and pointedly touched her belly.
“I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”
“Okay, let’s go,” he said, beginning to grab her under the arms again.
“I don’t think you want to join me. You heard that toot. It’s my probiotics kicking in.” He turned up his flat nose at her gross detail. She grabbed her stomach again and groaned, laying it on thick. “Besides, what are you worried about? Are you really thinking I can escape from inside the bathroom? I can barely walk across the room.”
Cash considered her point. The house appeared to be completely off the grid – no computer, no sign of a cell phone. Even her TV sported a flat antenna, haphazardly taped to the wall – no cable. No way for her to contact anyone. And she surely wasn’t going to climb out the window: The old bag of bones could barely climb out of a chair. “Okay. But I will be right outside. No funny business, Betty.”
“Hand me my cane,” Bea said. “And make it snappy,” she added, shimmying with a bit of exaggerated bravado.
Leaning against her cane, Bea moved as quickly as she could to the bathroom, heaving a sigh of relief as she shut and locked the door behind her. Propping herself against the door, she pulled the chain from under her nightie – dangling from it was the alert device Angela had bought her. At the time she’d thought it was just another silly, unnecessary technology. The only reason she’d kept it on was to please Angela. Now she was hoping it could do everything Angela promised.
The little device chimed as she pressed the button. Like magic, a soothing woman’s voice came from its tiny speaker. Holy cow, Bea thought. Technology might not be so useless after all. “Hello, Miss Sickles? How can I help? Is everything all right?”
“No, everything’s not all right!” Bea was trying to whisper urgently, but only managed to croak. “My home has been invaded, and the intruder is still here. Send the police!”
“We’ll send them right away, Miss Sickles. Sit tight. Shouldn’t be more than five minutes.”
Bea hoped the operator was right about the five minutes – and that she could hold Cash at bay for that long. She could hear him approaching the bathroom door.
“Are you talking to someone, Betty? You’d better not be!” yelled Cash, pounding on the bathroom door.
“Tell them to hurry!” Bea now screamed into the little microphone. “I’m hiding in the bathroom, and I’m afraid he’ll break down the door. He’s an animal!”
“They’re on their way, Miss Sickles,” said the dispatcher. “I’ll stay on the line with you until they arrive.”
“Betty, what did you do? Get your bony rear out here!” shouted Cash, who was now slamming his body against the bathroom door. The woman leaned her own small frame against it and could feel it straining against its hinges with every thrust. But sirens were now audible in the distance, and getting closer.
“It’s you who’d better get out, Cash,” the woman shrieked, her voice cracking. “Those sirens are for you! The cops are right around the corner. Did you hear that, operator?”
“Yes, we hear him, Miss Sickles. And yes, don’t worry, the cops are just moments away.”
Cash kicked the door violently, once more nearly popping it from its frame. “You win, Betty – for now. But I’ll be back – and soon. And I want that freaking manuscript. So get your ass on it!”
“Bye, Cash-hole! And by the way, brush your teeth. Your breath is worse than my fart!”
That’s 1 for me, 0 for you, Cash, thought Bea Sickles. You may be coming back, but I’ll be ready. You look at me and see an old lady, but you’re not the first to underestimate me, fool. I’ve got plenty of tricks up my sleeve – and not a single one will involve you getting your hands on a Betty Snickerdoodle manuscript.
Once she heard Cash slam the back door behind him, Bea stepped out of the bathroom. “He’s gone,” she panted into the little alert device. “Thank you.” The dispatcher signed off. “You’re in good hands.” Even if the intruder were to return, she told Bea, the cops were just yards from her house.
As the two cruisers roared into her driveway, Bea considered what she should tell them. She doubted Charlie Carter could be Cash’s father. Cash seemed to be lying – but, on the other hand, if he really was Charlie’s son, it would explain how he knew where to find Betty. Plus, she vaguely recalled Charlie telling her about his children – wasn’t there something about a challenging boy who resented his seemingly perfect, valedictorian sister? Was he called “Cash”?
Bea didn’t trust her memory. She and Charlie had never spent much time discussing family – or any other small talk. It was something she loved about Charlie: minimal chit-chat, always right down to the business of making Betty Snickerdoodle a success. But now Bea wished she’d paid a bit more attention. She furrowed her brow, trying to remember the names and ages of those two kids and do the math in her head: Would the boy be in his early 20s or so now? That matched up with the intruder, she thought.
“Miss Sickles?” said an eager uniformed cop at the door. “Are you okay? We understand you were assaulted by an intruder. What can you tell us about him?” He pulled out a pen and a small pad and poised himself to capture every detail. He barely looked old enough to have graduated high school.
If there was a chance this Cash was Charlie’s son, Bea thought, she should give Charlie a chance to deal with him – keep the police out of it, give the boy an opportunity to turn things around. It was the least she could do for the old friend w
ho’d helped turn Betty into a phenomenon. She owed so much to Charlie. For Charlie’s sake, she hoped that the stooge wasn’t his son. But even if he was, Cash hadn’t done her any lasting damage, and Charlie deserved a chance to knock some sense into him.
How to put off the police, though? Thinking fast, the old woman hastily summoned some crocodile tears.
“I …I … I’m sorry, I didn’t really see anything,” she blubbered melodramatically. “It all happened so fast…and my eyes, they’re not so good ….”
Her performance shouldn’t have convinced anyone that she was actually traumatized, yet Bea had little doubt they’d buy it. You could always count on cops to assume an old lady like her would be dull-witted and defenseless. Thank God for everyday fools, Bea thought. Not that she was the least bit religious, but being underestimated was a gift. She felt she had to thank somebody.
“Well if you’re sure you’re fine, Miss Sickles, we’ll be on our way,” said Officer Eager Beaver’s partner. “But here’s my card. Call me directly if you remember any details. And if that man comes back, call your alert system again or dial 911 okay? We’re just a few minutes away.”
“Thank you. I will,” Bea sniffed, capping her hammy performance. “And please, call me Bea.”
One problem solved, Bea thought as she hastily locked the door behind the cops. Now she needed to find Charlie Carter’s number. She needed to know right away whether Charlie was Cash’s father, because the amateur thug seemed likely to try again soon and she had to start concocting the right plan.