by N. C. Lewis
"Mildred called in sick today: back pain. You know what that is like. Anyway, I've got to cover for her. Normally I'd refuse but we don't have much money and every little bit helps."
His lips tightened. "Oh, I see."
"I knew you'd understand. Don’t wait up."
She hung up.
He sat very still on the hallway floor. His heart beat in an uncomfortable rhythm, thundering in his eardrums, throbbing behind his eyes.
Tim knew Esther was lying.
He knew all about her and Alan Earl.
He rubbed his unshaven face, scowled, and shook his head to break the tight little string of vicious jealousy that had welled up over the past week since he'd discovered the truth. Something inside him bunched up. He felt a rising anger that drink just might quench.
But he did not move.
The sounds of the city flooded through the thin apartment walls and door. Footsteps scurrying along the walkway, a fit of coughing from the next-door apartment, the sharp clap of a car door slamming.
Tim imagined Esther and Alan at a fancy restaurant after he'd picked her up in his Tesla Roadster. He pictured Alan laughing at him over a bottle of fine wine and congratulating himself on keeping the affair a secret. Tim fumed. How long had Alan been laughing at him? How long had Alan and Esther been an item? Tim remembered introducing Esther to Alan once when she stopped by the store to pick him up. How long ago was that? He couldn’t recall.
And now, at last, he moved to the kitchen to pour a drink. Three shots of cheap gin did nothing to dilute his anger. He'd worked for Alan for years, understood his seedy, little book-dealing business inside out. Now he'd watch Alan even closer, find out where he kept his list of buyers, contact his suppliers, and find out the code for the safe. He'd fix Alan Earl for good, then he and Esther would go away—far away.
It was nearly one a.m. when, at long last, Tim heard Esther's key clank in the front door. He rose, stiffly, from the kitchen table. The empty gin bottle rolled to the floor.
Chapter 8
It was twelve thirty a.m. as Alan Earl drove with his left hand along the Mopac Expressway. His Tesla Roadster humming contentedly as he topped the speed limit. He kept one eye on the rearview mirror, the other scanning ahead for slow-moving vehicles, and his right hand caressed the leg of the young woman buckled in the seat next to him.
He chuckled.
Esther Bara turned her head slightly.
"What's so funny?" she asked.
Alan breathed in deeply, acutely aware of her subtle fragrance. "Oh, I don't know."
"Yes, you do; tell me," she pleaded in a husky voice.
"Sugar Daddy Earl can't. It's not funny, really it isn't."
She batted his hand away. "Sugar Daddy no talk; Sugar Daddy no touch."
"Okay," he said, replacing his hand on her leg and running it up her thigh. "It's Tim. Today's his birthday, and I'm eating his cake."
They both laughed.
Alan half-turned and grinned. "Are you going to give him something sweet tonight?"
"He'll be asleep. Anyway, I'm saving dessert for Saturday afternoon, at Austin Plaza Hotel with you."
Alan chuckled. "You know, Tim's been acting odd these past few days."
"Odd?"
"Today, he rang up some books for half the price on the sticker. The customers would have had a steal if I hadn't been paying close attention. I'm telling you Esther, if it wasn't for you, Tim would be looking for another job."
Esther remembered how bleak life felt before she met Alan. Her humdrum office existence and dull evenings with Tim. Romance involved a Friday night meal at a catfish parlor, followed by a drunken romp between the sheets. At least Tim paid for her favorite dish, she thought. But she wanted more.
Alan's hand slipped higher up her thigh.
Esther giggled. "Hey, that tickles." Again, she swatted his hand away. " Do you think Tim suspects something?"
"Not unless you've told him. Have you?"
She stared out of the windshield for a long moment, took a deep breath, and sighed. "These past eighteen months of secrecy has been too much."
The car reached a fork in the highway. Alan took the left, onto Route 360. There was little traffic this late at night, and he stepped on the gas. He wanted to drop Esther at her apartment, so he could be home before one thirty.
"Have you told Tim about us?" His voice was insistent.
Esther folded her arms. "Of course not." But she had left hints, hoping Tim would find out. Then it would all be in the open, where it belonged.
"Good," Alan said glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.
At last, they left the highway, turning onto a city street. It was empty with the intersection traffic lights all on green. Alan eased off the gas. There'd be cops hiding in the shadows along this stretch of town.
"Darling," said Esther slowly, "don't you think it is high time we had it out in the open? You would feel so much better. And we could be together."
For a moment she dared to hope.
Alan half turned, breathed softly, checked the rearview mirror. "Esther, I'm here for you darling, you know that. I love you… but there is Sara to consider."
Esther covered her face and exploded. "I'm tired of hearing about Sara. That witch has made your life a misery. Why do you stay with her?"
Alan had heard this a thousand times. He'd answer the same way he always did. "Because her father left her the money. Marriage is the only way to get my hands on it." He half turned, again rubbing his hand up her leg. "… And share it with you."
Esther wriggled. "But, for how much longer? I want you all to myself."
Alan's voice fell an octave. "Until… she dies. You know that."
"I don't want to go on like this. Won't we ever be able to—to get rid of her?"
"Esther, not now darling, please…"
She batted his hand away, wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, and sat in silence the rest of the journey.
It was almost one a.m. when the Tesla Roadster pulled into the East Riverside apartment parking lot. Esther slid out of the car and walked in front of his headlights. Then she stopped, adjusted her hip-hugging skirt and tugged at her blouse, half hoping Alan would climb out of his car, hold her in his arms and say things would be all right.
But he didn't.
Frustrated, Esther vanished into the apartment complex.
As she climbed the dimly lit stairs to the second level, an idea struck her. It struck her like an object propelled with great force. And it hurt. She'd have to be so very careful.
Outside her apartment, she searched her handbag for the door key. It turned in the lock with the finality of the hangman's noose. Her mind set, she opened the door and stepped inside.
"If I can't have Alan to myself, no one will."
Chapter 9
Alan pulled his car into the driveway of his home on Scenic Drive, a tall narrow-faced, two-story building built in the 1940s with a clay-tiled roof and a lot of heavy timber accents and hand-troweled stucco finish. Downstairs were the parlor, front room, dining room, kitchen, and study. Upstairs were three guest bedrooms, a sewing room, a den, and the master bedroom.
It was very quiet here on Scenic Drive at this late hour. Not a car engine, not a bicycle clink, not so much as a footstep. The house stood alone in the darkness of the late night like a solitary sentry keeping watch.
Alan pulled out a hip flask from his jacket pocket and took a sip. The whiskey burned on the way down, but he felt good. He enjoyed having his cake and eating it. He enjoyed eating Tim's cake too. That was the only reason he kept Tim around, so he could belittle the wretched man and secretly gloat. It made Alan feel alive, superior, like some kind of king.
He whistled a merry little tune as he strolled across the flagstone path to the front door. In his left hand he carried a paper bag. As he approached the doorway he fell silent and tiptoed the final few feet to the door. Sara would be asleep now. He didn’t want to take the chance of disturb
ing her.
He'd sneak into the house, change into his nightclothes quietly, and slip into bed. If Sara woke? There'd be hell to pay. Once, a year or so ago, when he'd had an evening at a nightclub with Esther, Sara had surprised him by waiting up. She'd sniffed, looked at him coldly and said, "My money keeps your book business afloat and clothes on your back. You can work late at the bookstore, but I disapprove of you attending nightclubs and bars."
That hadn't been the end of the matter. For months afterward, Sara had made his rendezvous with Esther more difficult, insisting he be home by nine o'clock in the evening, restricting his spending and insisting he install a tracking device on his cell phone so she could see his location. Even now Alan burned with humiliation at the memory.
It had taken an upgrade of a cell phone before he'd gotten rid of the tracker and things returned to normal. He'd been more careful after that.
"If it wasn’t for her money…" he muttered under his breath, standing in the quiet at the front of the door.
The house was dark. Softly, expertly, making no noise at all he inserted the key and silently opened the door, stepping into the darkness of the long narrow hallway.
"Alan, is that you?"
For several seconds, he simply stood there, speechless, the hand that clutched the paper bag growing slowly damp with sweat, and his mind wondering if she knew. "Darling," he said at last, "what are you doing sitting here in the dark?"
"You're late tonight."
He drew a ragged breath and glanced casually at his cell phone—a little after one a.m. "Darling, I had to complete the paperwork on a new consignment of books. Did I tell you about them? A special delivery from Eastern Europe, you wouldn’t believe the paperwork—"
The hall light clicked on.
Sara sat in an overstuffed chair, a mass of white hair held tight in curlers, deep wrinkles etched into her mottled face like some unexplored planet.
"Huh! Think I'm stupid? There's more to it than that, and don't you tell me otherwise. I can read you better than any book in your store, Alan Earl. What's her name?" Sara's bulging shoulders shook as she spoke.
Alan lowered his eyes, shuffled his feet a little but remained silent.
For some months before, a conviction had grown with Sara that her husband was seeing another woman. It was only a thought at first, but it had developed into something real over the months. She groaned as she shifted her weight to stand up, the large dressing gown swished like the tail of an angry dog. From under a sea of pink hair curlers, her narrowed eyes stared out of her moon-round face like laser beams.
"Where did you take her tonight?"
Alan forced himself to meet her gaze. His eyes glared back with a look of bewilderment, surprise, and concern. "Darling, what are you talking about? I've got something for you." He held up the paper bag, now moist with sweat, in his left hand. "I've brought you your favorite, thought you might be hungry—a little-blackened catfish with collard greens, mashed potatoes, and deep-fried cheesecake for dessert."
Sara leaned an oversized hand on the wall and continued to stare.
Alan stared back. Their eyes locked until Alan thought he'd go blind. At last, he looked away and shook his head. "Darling, what are you talking about? There is no other woman." Then he chuckled. "I've told you to cut out afternoon television. Those terrible shows have a lot to answer for. Now, I'll heat up a nice bit of catfish for you. What do you say?"
Sara lumbered forward. "Did you see that woman again?"
Alan looked away and shook his head. "Darling, I love you. I always will. There is no other woman, there never was another woman, and there never will be another woman. I've been dreaming of being with you all day."
"Why are you back so late?"
After a hesitation, he muttered a half truth, " You know perfectly well that the book business requires long hours."
Sara's pale face crumpled into an unforgiving scowl and she began to cry. "I can take your lies, I can take your business losing money, I understand you married me for my wealth, but I will not share you with another woman!" She raised a wrinkled finger and jabbed it. The loose folds of skin on her seventy-five-year-old arms shimmered like the waves on an incoming tide.
Alan gulped and reached into his jacket for his hip flask, took a sip to steady his nerves. "There is no one else, I swear. Only you, my darling, I've only got eyes for you." He wondered whether he'd be able to meet Esther this Saturday. If he did, he'd have to be more careful.
Sara turned and waddled along the hallway. At the stairs, she paused, and with an evil twist of her mouth said, "You've had your only warning. If you see her again, I will kill you."
"Don't you understand? I love you," Alan protested. "Always have, always will. Darling, it's a soul thing. You and I are kindred spirits."
Again, Sara rested an arm on the wall, easing the weight a little from her bloated legs. "Oh Alan, do you think so; really?"
Deliberately Alan allowed his features to sag into his puppy dog face. "Yes, yes, I love you Sara. I'll do anything for you; you know that." He sensed the danger had passed and relaxed. "Now, let's get some sleep, shall we?"
Sara made a curious little movement with her mouth, stretching her lower chin from one side to the other. Then she puckered her lips, drawing them back swiftly into a hawkish smirk. Out popped her dentures.
Alan looked away, disgusted.
Sara's gummy lips twisted into a girlish smile. Her voice softened. "Now come to bed, Alan, Sugar Mama needs you, and bring the catfish."
A wave of nausea rose from the pit of Alan's stomach. His mouth went dry, and he felt a tingling in his chest. He didn’t want to go upstairs. "It's late darling, and I'm tired." But he knew, tonight, he'd have little choice but to perform his matrimonial duty. Slowly, he reached for his hip flask and drained its contents.
Chapter 10
Number seven Enfield Court, Hansel's House, is a popular eatery with a covered Mediterranean terrace and a courtyard crowded with hanging greenery and flowers. Paintings and photos of Austin landmarks lined the walls of the rustic interior, and huge wall-to-ceiling windows looked out onto the creek. The owner, Chef Hansel, a tall thin man with saucers for eyes and a dazzling smile, inherited the restaurant from his Bavarian Uncle Conrad Abensberg.
The late evening sun shone softly across the tiled floor. A delicious aroma wafted from the kitchen as Amy reached for the creamer from the plastic box at the center of the table and poured it into her china mug. She was absolutely buzzing. "Got another client!" she said as she waved her arms in glee. "My second."
"Are you kidding?" Danielle replied, sliding into a seat at the table and picking up a menu. Today, she wore a pink T-shirt with Yay For AISD written in big black letters, and metallic bronze pants with purple pumps.
"I can hardly believe it," Amy said with a smile sliding across her face. "It's for a corporate birthday party. Some bigshot who runs an investment fund here in town."
"You're a natural. Go get 'em, Amy girl!" Danielle took off her pumps and waved them in the air like a member of a high school color guard.
Amy giggled. "I never realized business would be so much fun… and easy. The clients are falling out of the woodwork and no advertising yet."
"Word of mouth," replied Danielle. "It's the best form of advertising." She glanced at the menu. There were so many options it was difficult to choose. "What do you recommend?"
"The menu changes weekly, but the soups are always good."
Danielle studied the menu for a few moments longer. "Okay, I'll order a soup, but which?"
Just then the kitchen's swinging doors flew open. Chef Hansel peered out into the restaurant, his saucer-sized eyes rotating from table to table. He stepped into the dining room and beat a wooden spoon on the counter. After several seconds the conversation died away, and the patrons gazed curiously at the man with the huge eyes, dressed in a white double-breasted jacket and houndstooth pants in black and white. On his head a toque blanche, the traditional he
adgear of a French chef.
"Ladies and gentlemen," his deep voice resonated off the walls as clear as if he had used a microphone. "Today we have a French special, bouillabaisse. It's a delicate stew of mixed herbs, fish, and vegetables, and comes with a house baguette on the side, made with organic flour from a traditional French recipe."
He adjusted his hat and retreated, walking back into the kitchen.
"Oh, it smells wonderful!" Danielle said, rubbing her hands and pouring a glass of water as the waitress appeared.
They both ordered the house special and talked animatedly about the day's happenings. They conversed briefly about Stan and Nick, but mostly they chatted about Studio Shoal Seven and Amy's plans for the business. It was a lively, friendly, late afternoon meal. As they sipped a white house wine, they felt the warm glow of friendship. Studio Shoal Seven sounded like a perfect venture.
"Exactly how did you bag the first client?" Danielle asked putting down her spoon and breaking off a piece of bread.
"Well, Kate Fremlin from the library mentioned that Alan Earl, the owner of A.E. Antiquarian Books, was holding a private book auction, and wanted someone to stage his business."
Danielle leaned back in her chair. "Girl, I thought people only staged homes and then only when it was time to sell."
Amy joined her forefingers, tapped her lower lip, and remained silent for a few seconds. "That's exactly what I thought, at first. Staging homes for sale are where most in this business hang their wares. Studio Shoal Seven is different. We cater for business clients. That's our niche. That's what caught Alan Earl's attention."
"So cool. I can see this being a tremendous success. What exactly does Alan Earl want?"
Amy hesitated for a moment. "I don’t know, yet. Oh, that reminds me. I have an appointment with Mr. Earl on Saturday morning, around nine. Why don't you join me? Two heads are better than one, and I'd appreciate your input."
Danielle scrolled through her cell phone. "Yep, Saturday morning is clear. I'd love to tag along."
Amy let out a little laugh. "I'm so grateful you have joined me. I can't wait. This is going to be so much fun."