Stranger Than Fiction

by Emelle Gamble

  No lights could be seen from outside. The windows reflected no clue about the inhabitants, only the starless night. Claire felt as if the velvety darkness was pressing against the windshield.

  Though unwilling to trust her voice since Tony’s revelation of the solid link between Patricia Snow and Sarah Winesong, Claire had not come undone when they had gone to see the proof. Pearl Loney’s property assessment records were kept in a small office in her home, and she had shown them the title transfer.

  The description Mrs. Snow had given them of the woman her daughter had gone.to work for reran through her mind. “Something of a privacy hound,” she had said. Claire berated herself for not realizing there were only so many coincidences.

  But she realized it now. The world’s most successful con man could not have arranged these interconnections. The letter from Roz seemed even more proof that Sarah had stolen the girl’s book. This news would kill Tillie, and Mr. Harrison, Claire found herself thinking. Winesong was more than a claim to fame to those two; they ran their lives based on her reputation.

  “Watch your step. The ground’s full of ruts.”

  Tony’s whisper broke into her thoughts. “Do you think she’s inside?” she asked.

  “Ssh. Who? Patricia? I hope so.”

  “No. Sarah Winesong.” Claire lowered her voice as Tony’s strong hand gripped her arm. His touch gave her some comfort.

  It pained Tony to see Claire so anguished. But he knew how it felt to be lied to by someone you had faith in. It took time to believe it had really happened. And even more time to put it behind you. He wanted to hug Claire, tell her that he would be waiting for her when she was ready to trust again, but her brittle posture stopped him.

  Instead of a hug, Tony offered more information. “I doubt if Sarah Winesong lives here. Pearl said she knew of Sarah’s work when you asked her, but she has never met her. Said none of the town folk had, either. Didn’t you hear that?”

  Claire chewed up her last Turns as a shiver tingled down her back. “I guess I did. Let’s go in now.”

  Shoulder to shoulder they walked to the front door, the wet grass squishing beneath their feet. The floorboards creaked the length of the porch as they went up the three steps. Claire cringed when Tony’s knock resounded through the stillness of the night.

  No one answered.

  Squinting in concentration, Claire leaned her ear against the door. Just like in the movies, she thought. All she could hear was Tony’s measured breathing next to her.

  Moving away from him, Claire walked toward the large front window of the house. Heavy curtains covered the six-by-nine paned window, but she detected a small bluish light behind them.

  With a flutter of hope, and apprehension, she surmised the glow was from a television set. “Someone’s inside.”

  “I’m sure it’s Patricia. I think that’s her car.” Tony’s voice rushed toward Claire from the other end of the porch where he stood, his arm pointing to a bulky shape near the barn.

  “Maybe she’s asleep and didn’t hear our knock. These old houses have thick walls. Should we wait and come back in the morning? It’s almost eleven.”

  Walking back, Tony stopped just a few inches from where Claire waited by the door, her freckles like pinpricks of worry against her pale skin. Tony silently considered the possibility that Patricia was asleep, but decided to keep knocking. It was more likely she had passed out.

  Or someone was keeping her from answering the door. That worry prompted him to action. “We have to see her tonight. Tomorrow may be too late to do any of us any good.” He saw the question, and the fear, in Claire’s eyes about what lay behind his remarks. Turning, he grabbed the doorknob and rattled it. “Patricia? Open up, it’s Tony Nichols. Wake up!”

  Though the knob moved easily, the door itself was stuck, warped at the bottom. After a few pushes with his shoulder, it gave way.

  A vision leaped at them out of the blackness of the foyer, a two-headed monster with gleaming eyes and white skin. In a blink, Claire swallowed the scream in her throat as she realized it was only her and Tony’s reflection in the dusty mirror hanging opposite the door.

  “Well, now I can add breaking and entering to my list of criminal accomplishments,” Claire muttered.

  Stepping inside, they faced the dust and gloom. The rooms off both sides of the center hall were cluttered, full of bulky shapes unrecognizable without light.

  But neither felt inclined to turn on a light. It seemed too intrusive an act. After all, they were trespassers in what was an obviously lived-in home.

  As her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the front parlor she had stepped into, Claire located the small television set. It sat on the floor in the far corner of the room, the volume turned off. A mute Johnny Carson was interviewing a guest who wore heavy makeup.

  Claire caught distinct stubble of beard on the guest’s jaw. A female impersonator? The incongruous image seemed to fit the bizarre evening.

  “Patricia?”

  Tony’s voice distracted Claire from the flickering television. As spooky as this place was, she realized her jittery stomach was due more to an intuition that something was amiss. As her eyes grew used to the darkness, she saw piles of papers strewed around, a stool on its side, books in a heap by a corner bookcase.

  “Look, Tony. Do you think someone else has been in here, searching?”

  He eyed the mess and shrugged. “I doubt it. Patricia’s never been known for neatness.”

  “Is there any sign of her?”

  “No. Stay there, Claire. I’m going to check the bedroom.”

  Somewhere in the darkness she could hear a clock ticking.

  As Tony’s broad back disappeared farther down the hallway, a hollow pop like a car’s engine backfiring made her jump. Willing her legs to walk, Claire crossed the room to peek out of the sagging curtains. No glimmer of headlights verified what she had heard. Nothing moved on the road.

  Turning back into the room, Claire confronted Tony, who seemed to have materialized out of the velvet darkness of the hallway.

  He had an unlit cigarette in his mouth, a burning match in his hand. As their eyes met, she grabbed away the cigarette and stuck it in his pocket.

  Tony shook out the match. “Sorry. I. forgot you don’t like smokers.”

  Claire’s throat constricted. She was alone in someone else’s house, uninvited, in the dead of night. “Did you find her?”

  “No. But the bedroom doors are closed. I think I’ll go back and knock. I hope she’s alone.” Tony tossed the match into a small bowl on the coffee table in front of him.

  Embarrassment rolled through Claire, bringing a kind of relief. Of course, Patricia Snow was just out of college, not some gothic recluse. Her lover was probably here with her. “No, don’t go in there, Tony. We’ll come back in the morning. Let’s go now. No one will even know we’ve been here.”

  His olive skin seemed to have paled in the ghostly blue light. “No. I’m not leaving until I know if Patricia is all right. Stay here and wait. Remember, Claire, I promised you proof, and I plan to give it to you.”

  “Then I’m coming with you.” She pulled herself into action, and followed him down the hall, softly calling Patricia’s name. A glimmer of light from a high window, a skylight, caught Claire’s attention. Turning, she spied a towel lying crumpled in a heap just inside the bathroom door to her right. The air was scented with a faint aroma of lavender soap. Someone had showered. And dressed for bed?

  As Tony moved into the room on the right, Claire opened the door of another room and stepped into a deeper darkness. She made out the shape of a dresser, a narrow bed and, in the corner farthest from her, a pile of clothes on the floor. ‘Patricia?”

  Feeling like a Peeping Tom, she turned to call for Tony. Before any words came out, she froze. A small red glow flickered at her from across the room, the acrid smell of burned paper and cotton assailing her nostrils. —

  A cigarette filter? Had someone left a cigare
tte burning?

  While she stood there attempting to sort out this new information, Claire was seized by a terror unlike any she had ever felt. There was a new shape, a human figure sharing the quiet darkness of this strange bedroom.

  Someone was sitting across the room, next to the burning glow, apparently staring straight at her.

  “Is she here?” Tony bumped against Claire as he came up behind her in the bedroom.

  Pointing toward the corner, she whispered. “Patricia. Is that Patricia?”

  In a flash, Tony’s hand found the wall switch, flooding the room with a glaring, too bright light.

  “Oh, my God!”

  “Patricia!’’

  They spoke in unison as the figure in the chair came clearly into view. A young woman in a pink terry bathrobe sat with an empty bourbon bottle clutched in her hands. Her eyes stared straight ahead.

  In the middle of her forehead, a smudged round hole neatly marked the entry point of the small caliber bullet that had killed her.

  THE VOLVO FISHTAILED violently as they raced around the corner and through the only stoplight in Benton Convent. Accelerating to fifty miles an hour down the slick, two-lane road, Tony floored the gas pedal, urging the Swedish engine to propel them as fast as possible away from the horror behind them.

  Claire sat motionless against the door, her face white, and her brown eyes huge with disbelief.

  “Claire? Are you okay?”

  “Okay? Of course I’m okay. Shouldn’t I be? After all, I live in New York City. Breaking into a house and finding a dead body is something I’ve become accustomed to. What do we do next? Stop in and see Psycho at the movies?”

  Slowing the car, Tony ordered his own breathing to steady. He knew Claire was in shock, her bitter retort only a defense. With alarm, he noted she was shivering despite the heater’s steady stream of warmth. “I’m sorry, that was a dumb question. Let’s stop and get something to eat. Then we’ll go report Patricia ... uh, the body.”

  The memory of the poor girl sitting drunk, and dead, dead drunk, her mind ghoulishly offered, clamored back into Claire’s thoughts. Shivering uncontrollably, she fought back the tears that burned in her eyes. “We shouldn’t have left her there, Tony. We should have called the police and waited for them.”

  “I don’t think that would have been a good idea, Claire.”

  “Why not?”

  Tony did not answer. Claire’s voice rose in anger. “Who would do such a thing? Why did someone murder her?”

  The last question tore Tony’s returning calm asunder. His hands felt disconnected from his body as he gripped the steering wheel. Why indeed?

  “I don’t know, Claire. But I do know it’s crazy for us to get involved with the police now. We’d have to tell them about the manuscript, Sarah Winesong, the criminal activities you’ve been advised that Cauldron Press might, be responsible for.”

  “Oh, don’t not call the police to spare me any trouble. You’re the one who’s been implying I’ve been behind this all along. Why stop now?”

  Tony knew his suspicions could send Claire over the edge.

  “How can you even worry about a damn book at a time like this, Tony? Some lunatic murdered a girt in cold blood. In cold blood.” Tears ran down her cheeks, and Claire began to sob and shiver even more violently. Her husky voice broke with every breath.

  Nearing the edge of town, Tony pulled the car into a small lot. He parked it away from the white light pouring out of the twenty-four hour doughnut shop. With great care, he folded Claire into his arms, rocking her while her sobs increased, her arms clutching him tightly.

  After several minutes, she stopped shaking and, with a final sniff, accepted his handkerchief. Uncontrollable hiccups punctuated the silence as Claire moved back into the seat.

  Tony brushed away a tear-dampened strand of silky blond hair and waited. He had an overwhelming desire to kiss each of the freckles sprinkled across her nose until her skin regained its normal rosy blush.

  But he didn’t. “Let’s get some coffee. Then we’ll go back to Narragansett Bay. I have a house on the water. It’s quiet, and you can rest while we sit down and decide what to do next.”

  Claire stared at the man she had known for such a short time. Only two days, but so much had happened. Tony had sparked something inside her the moment he had jumped out of the elevator and demanded she speak with him. He had gotten under her skin.

  Though a physical pull of attraction was significant, it was not only his body she craved. A bond had formed between them in those first few seconds, a bond rooted deep inside of her.

  She cared about Tony, even though she knew little about him. With all that had happened, she thought, she still had no good reason to trust him.

  But I do. “I’ll take some milk. And about half a dozen buttermilk doughnuts.”

  With a gentle caress of her chin, Tony hopped out of the car, but turned and stooped back inside to give her a smile, his black eyes glittering. “Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere. Lock the doors. I’ll be right back.”

  * * *

  The morning light scratched her consciousness like a lover’s day-old beard. Pulling herself awake, Claire opened her eyes and saw she was still in Tony’s car. And the car was still moving.

  Around them the, sky was red and raw looking, gray clouds streaked across it like claw marks, lacerating the glow of a hot pink sun on the horizon.

  Though she had slept several hours, she was exhausted. Her bones were sore, her muscles cried out to walk, run, anything. Tony had taken the Harvard shirt off his seat and covered her legs with it, but that protection did little to dissipate the cold knot inside of her.

  Flexing her toes, Claire sat upright, not risking a look at Tony. She was not ready to meet his eyes. She knew they would hold the proof that Patricia Snow’s murder was not a nightmare.

  The car turned down a narrow dirt road, sending pebbles flying. The pinging noise they made against the wheel wells jarred Claire’s nerves.

  Scruffy sea pines and bare cedars, with white trunks stark against the marshy ground, blinked by her like a skeleton crew of guards. A mile in the distance, Claire saw a house perched on a sandy knoll above the beach. As they neared, she realized it must be Tony’s house.

  She was surprised by how fresh and cheery it was. White shutters sparkled with new paint, and a polished brass lantern gleamed beside the front door. “This is where you live.”

  “Yeah. Coffee awaits.”

  “It’s been so long since I was at the beach.” Claire leaned forward slightly, running her hand through her tousled hair.

  “I love it here. Even though I’ve only had the place eight years, it feels like home.”

  “Only eight years. That’s an eternity to someone from California. I moved twenty times in eight years when I was a child.” The memory of the rundown duplex in El Monte where they had lived for two weeks when she was nine tumbled through her mind. Her dad had made them move in the middle of the night. The poker parlor he had been working at had caught him betting against the house, causing the record short stay.

  “What did your folks do?”

  The Volvo creaked to a stop. “They followed Lady Luck. I can’t wait to get out of this car.”

  Before Tony could move, Claire jumped out onto the sandy walk. Facing the sea, she stretched her arms above her head and inhaled the tangy air, reveling in the salt sting against her face. The water rocked gently for miles in front of her, brown-gray calm at low tide.

  “You’ll have to tell me more about your family’s pursuit of Lady Luck someday. I could use some help from her myself.”

  Claire turned to Tony with a rueful smile. “Daddy said no one could ever run fast enough to catch her. It’s much wiser to make your own luck with hard work. Let’s go get that coffee.”

  While Tony began making comforting sounds in the kitchen, Claire locked herself into the tidy blue and white tiled bathroom. She felt grimy and hot, so she peeled off all her clothes. />
  Eyeing the shower longingly, she opted instead for a soapy washcloth. Running it over her arms, neck and face, Claire wondered if Tillie had called and left a message at the inn.

  The inn. She had better call Tillie and Mr. Harrison and let them know ... let them know what? That she had discovered Sarah Winesong was involved in what? A book theft?

  Murder?

  Should she even tell them that Patricia Snow was dead? Claire shuddered, refusing to let her mind dwell on the image engraved on her brain.

  Pulling her jeans on over her bare body and tucking in her pink shirt, Claire decided that before she could come up with any plan of action, she would eat and talk to Tony. Together they could make sense of what to do next. Despite the girl’s death, Claire still had to track down the truth about The Poison Pen Pal.

  And pray that neither led back to anyone she knew.

  The sound of crackling bacon met her as she walked into the compact kitchen where Tony stood at the sink, peeling potatoes. Claire sat down at the breakfast bar watching him toss the chopped pieces into the hot cast iron skillet, adding onion and diced green pepper by the handful.

  In no time, she was enjoying a plateful of scrambled eggs, whole-wheat toast and a heaping mound of potatoes au Nichols. Tony matched her forkful for forkful, watching her discreetly. With her pink scrubbed skin, her blond hair sleekly brushed away from her high cheekbones, she looked like a teenager.

  Except for her eyes. The shock from last night still lingered there, clouding the clear brown irises.

  “You’re a fabulous cook, Tony. You said you love Italian food. I bet you make great spaghetti.”

  “Actually I don’t even try to cook Italian. I go to Mama Vincenzo’s. She’s in town, three miles down the beach. She’s the best.”

  “You’re one of the best. This is some breakfast.”

  “Thanks. I do okay when I’m in the mood.”

  Claire wondered about his moods. There was so much she did not know about him. So much she did not know about a lot of things. As she looked out the French doors toward the bay, she knew it was time to get back on track. The food had given her some strength, enough at least to call the authorities.