Sunday, November 15, 2015
Sunday, November 8, 2015
Perhaps love wasn't a fairy tale.
Watching the bride and groom share their first dance, Celeste Thompson was taken aback by the longing that filled her heart. She'd never been one to entertain romantic notions. Yet she suddenly found herself wondering what it would be like to be in love. To share your life with someone. To give that person your whole heart.
Celeste froze, the long pearl-handled knife midway through another slice of wedding cake. She could never trust her heart to anyone. She laid the piece of raspberry-filled white cake on a plate. Precisely why she was the caterer, not the bride.
As the romantic ballad came to an end, her eyes again roamed the crowded, dimly lit reception hall in Ouray's Community Center. From all appearances, Cash and Taryn were the epitome of forever and always. Yet how could anyone promise forever? People change. At least that was what her mother said. Countless times. Usually followed by a less-than-flattering remark about Celeste's wayward father.
Celeste glanced down to see small fingers gripping the edge of the lace-covered table. A pair of large sapphire eyes framed by white-blond curls peered up at her.
A smile started in Celeste's heart, spreading to her face. "Well, hello there, sweet girl." The child was adorable, her frilly lavender dress making her look like a princess. "You must be the flower girl."
The little girl nodded, her mischievous grin hinting that she might not be as innocent as she appeared.
"Emma… " A man with dark brown hair and Emma's same blue eyes sauntered toward them. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his tuxedo slacks and his loosened bow tie dangled from beneath the unbuttoned collar of his starched white shirt. Very GQ. Tall, dark… Of course, at five foot two, everyone seemed tall to Celeste. One of many reasons high heels were her best friend.
He stopped beside the child. "You've had enough cake, young lady." His baritone voice was firm. Unyielding.
Emma frowned. Her bottom lip pooched out as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Cassidy had two pieces."
"Your sister ate her dinner." The man stared down at her, seemingly unfazed by the pathetic look.
"No fair." The little girl stomped her foot.
He held his hand out to the child. "Let's go see if we can find some more of that brisket. Then we'll discuss cake."
Emma's lip quivered, her eyes welling with tears. Her face reddened and contorted in ways Celeste had never witnessed firsthand. Nonetheless, she recognized the markings of a tantrum. And, from the looks of things, this was setting up to be a good one.
Perhaps she could find a way to change the subject. She opened her mouth, but the man she presumed was Emma's father held up a hand to cut her off.
"I've got this."
Fine by her. After all, Emma was his daughter.
He dropped to one knee. "Emma, please. Not here."
His plea was met with a loud wail.
Celeste bit back a laugh. Seemed the poor man had been through this before.
Pulling his daughter close, he begged her to stop crying. His tuxedo jacket was doing a fair job of muffling Emma's sobs, still…he glanced up at Celeste, defeat and perhaps embarrassment marring his otherwise handsome features.
Surely there was something she could do.
Then again, Emma's father had made it clear he didn't need her help.
The child let out another cry. This time loud enough to be heard over the music.
People started staring.
Celeste couldn't help herself. While she might not be an expert with kids, she'd quelled many an executive tantrum in the boardroom. Perhaps those tactics would come in handy now.
She wiped her hands on a napkin and rounded the table. Knelt beside the pair. "Emma?" She touched the baby-fine curls.
Emma hiccupped then slowly turned her head until her red-rimmed eyes met Celeste's.
"Have you ever had a birthday party?"
The child nodded against her daddy's chest.
"And all your friends and family were there?" She looked at Emma's father, afraid he'd tell her to back off. Instead, he seemed to wait for his daughter's reaction.
Emma nodded again, this time lifting her head.
Celeste continued. "Now, suppose one of your friends got mad and started crying at your party. How would that make you feel?"
The child's eyes darted back and forth across the wooden floor. She wasn't answering, but she wasn't crying anymore, either.
"Would that make you sad?" Celeste offered.
Emma nodded, gnawing on her thumb.
"Well, this is Cash and Taryn's party. You wouldn't want to make them sad, would you?"
Emma shook her head, her eyes growing even bigger. "Tawyn's my aunt."
"I see." She dared a glance at Emma's father. He seemed to have relaxed, though he didn't necessarily look happy. "Well then…" Her gaze shifted back to Emma. "You want to be a big girl for your aunt Taryn, right?"
Emma's smile returned. She nodded once more.
Celeste pushed to her feet.
So did the child's father.
She took hold of Emma's hands and spread her arms wide. "Look at your pretty dress." She let go of one hand and twirled the child with the other. "That's a dancing dress if I ever saw one."
Emma giggled, and Celeste didn't know if she'd ever heard a sweeter sound.
"Now—" stopping, she smiled down at Emma "—do you think you can do what your daddy tells you?"
"Good girl. And then, maybe, if it's okay with your mommy and daddy—"
"I don't have a mommy."
Celeste blinked, her cheeks growing warm at the child's candor. "Oh. Well then…" She swallowed, her gaze flitting briefly to Emma's father. "If it's all right with your dad, I can send a piece of cake home with you for later. How does that sound?"
"Yay!" The little girl just about bounced out of her white patent leather shoes. She tugged her father's hand. "Come on, Daddy. Let's get some more bisket."
"Brisket, sweetheart." As his overzealous daughter pulled him toward the buffet table, he shot Celeste an irritated look. "Thanks for the help. But I can take care of my daughter."
Celeste bristled. She hadn't expected his praise, but she hadn't expected him to be so rude, either. That'll teach her to get involved.
Shrugging off the exchange, she watched the pair walk away. Emma obviously knew she had her father wrapped around her little finger. But did she have any clue how blessed she was to have a father who cared?
I don't have a mommy.
Celeste ached for the child. And wasn't there some mention of a sister?
She shook her head. A single dad with two daughters. No wonder the guy looked defeated. He didn't stand a chance.
She turned as Erin, one of her part-time servers, approached.
"We're down to crumbs on the brisket."
"No problem. I've got another tray in the kitchen." Celeste pointed to the cake. "You mind taking over?"
"Not at all." Erin picked up the long knife as Celeste started toward the swinging door. "Sausage is running low, too."
Celeste waved a hand in acknowledgment and continued into the community center's small yet efficient commercial kitchen. The groom's request for Texas barbecue seemed to be a hit with the guests. Good thing Granny had taught her the art of smoked meat. Building the catering side of Granny's Kitchen was important to her bottom line. As were those old hotel rooms over the restaurant.
Donning her oven mitts, Celeste grabbed another foil-covered pan of meat from the oven. The smoky aroma wafted around her as she carried it into the main room. It had taken her all summer to decide how best to address the upstairs units, but she'd finally decided to convert the cluster of six tiny rooms into three large suites. All while remaining true to the building's character and Victorian architecture.
She set the pan into the chafer, thinking of all the beautiful millwork throughout the upstairs space. The wide baseboards and detailed moldings…quality like that was hard to find these days. She could only pray God would lead her to the right contractor. One who didn't cringe when she mentioned the word salvaging.
After replenishing the sausage, she topped off the grated cheese and bacon bits at the mashed potato bar, pleased that everything had turned out so well. Word of mouth was a powerful thing, especially in a small town like Ouray.
A popular tune boomed from the DJ's speakers and people flooded the dance floor. Celeste paused to watch. Young and old, everyone appeared to be having fun. Including two little blond-haired girls in lavender dresses. Emma held her daddy's hand, as did the other girl Celeste presumed was her sister.
Although she found Emma's father to be a bit on the arrogant side, the adoring look on his face as he twisted and twirled his two precious daughters around the dance floor melted Celeste's heart. His girls were obviously the center of his universe. And though they were without their mother, Celeste got the feeling that Emma's dad was the kind of guy who would do whatever it took to be both mother and father. He would never desert them, like Celeste's father had.
A sad smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Those two were lucky girls indeed.
Gage Purcell escorted his daughters, Emma and Cas-sidy, off the dance floor. In the year and half since his wife, Tracy, had left, Emma's tantrums had grown more and more frequent. Maybe it was a coping mechanism. Maybe she blamed him for her mother's absence. Whatever the case, he needed to find a way to make them stop.
The fact that a total stranger could settle his daughter better than he could had bugged him all night. Not that he wasn't appreciative of the caterer's intervention. The last thing he'd want to do is ruin his sister's special day. Still.
He raked a hand through his hair, eager to call it a night. Dinner and dancing had gone on far longer than he anticipated, though the latter had afforded him some special moments with his daughters. But now that the bride and groom had made their exit.
"Time for us to think about going, too, girls. It's way past my bedtime." Gage wove his daughters between the round cloth-covered tables to retrieve their sweaters.
"But you go to bed after us, Daddy." Seven-year-old Cassidy peered up at him with serious eyes.
"That is true. So it must be way, way, way past your bedtimes."
"I'm not—" yawning, Emma leaned against a folding chair "—tired."
He chuckled, knowing his youngest would likely crash before he even put his truck into Drive. Kneeling beside her, he held up her pink sweater. "But your old dad might fall asleep at any—" His eyes closed, he lowered his head and pretended to snore.
Emma giggled. "Wake up." Her tiny hand nudged his shoulder. "Wake up!"
"What?" He jerked his head. "I must have dozed off."
Emma shoved her arms into the sleeves of her sweater.
Turning his attention to Cassidy, he held up the purple sweater.
His oldest complied immediately, a dreamy smile lighting her face. "I loved this day."
Standing, he donned his tuxedo jacket and stared down at his two beautiful girls. Their usually straight blond hair had been curled and pulled back on each side and their fingernails were painted the same pale purple as their dresses. "I guess you did. You look like little princesses. And you got to hang with the big girls."
"That was the best part," said Cassidy.
A twinge of guilt prodded Gage. With their mother out of the picture, the girls didn't get to do many girlie things, so he was glad Taryn had included them in all the primping and pageantry that leads up to a wedding.
"Don't forget the cake, Daddy."
He should have known Emma wouldn't forget. He could only hope the caterer didn't.
Taking his daughters by the hand, he started across the hardwood floor.
"Hey there, Gage." His old friend Ted Beatty, a shift supervisor at one of the mines outside town, walked alongside them.
Gage had been trying to get a job with a local mine since moving back to Ouray last year. So far, though, not one nibble.
"Whatcha know, Ted?"
"Not much." He stopped.
So did Gage. He eyed the man who was a little older than his thirty-one years. A deep love of mining and its history had bonded the two from a young age.
"Any hiring going on?"
Ted shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Don't give up, though, buddy." He gripped Gage's shoulder. "Things could change at any time."
Easy for him to say. Ted had remained in Ouray, getting his foot in the door early when the first gold mine had reopened. Gage, on the other hand, had gone off to Colorado's School of Mines for a degree in mining engineering. If only he'd hung around. Maybe he'd be following his dream instead of biding his time working construction.
"Daddy…what about the cake?" Emma squeezed his hand, bringing a smile to Gage's face.
His girls were the reason he gave up his dream job in Denver and moved back to Ouray. He needed the support of his family. And he'd do it a thousand times over, whatever it took to provide a stable, loving environment for them. He only wished he could say the same for their mother.
He shifted his focus back to his friend. "We're on a mission, but let me know if you hear anything."
"Sure thing, Gage."
Emma skipped alongside him as they continued on to the kitchen. He hoped she wasn't getting a second wind. If that happened, they could be up all night.
He carefully pushed open the swinging door.
"Nana!" Both girls bolted toward a long stainless steel work table as his mother, Bonnie Purcell, stooped to meet them with open arms.
Behind her, the caterer moved aside and busied herself at the sink. But not before her deep brown eyes narrowed on him.
"Oh, my precious girls." Mom embraced her granddaughters. "You were so good today." She released them, smoothing a hand over her shimmering dress as she rose. "Gage, have you met Celeste?" His mother's gaze drifted between him and the caterer, that matchmaking twinkle in her eye.
Man, Taryn hadn't been married but a few hours and his mother had already set her sights on him.
Well, she could try all she wanted, but Gage wasn't going down that road again. He was a failure at marriage and had no intention of setting himself or his daughters up for another heartbreak.
"Not officially." The caterer grabbed a towel from the counter. Chin jutted into the air, she held out a freshly dried hand. "Celeste Thompson. Nice to meet you."
Recalling the irritation that had accompanied his parting words earlier in the evening, he reluctantly accepted the gesture. "Likewise."
Long, slender fingers gripped his with surprising strength.
"Celeste was telling me that she's looking for a contractor to do some renovations in the space above her restaurant." Mom fingered Cassidy's soft curls, her attention returning to the caterer. "Gage has quite an eye for detail."
"Well, it just so happens that I'm a detail kind of girl. I'm very particular about how things are done." Her smile teetered between forced and syrupy. "But, if you think you can handle it, you're welcome to come by and look things over."
"Oh, don't be silly." Mom took hold of his daughters' hands. "Gage can handle just about anything." She beamed at Celeste first, then Gage. "Come on, girls. Let's go say good-night to Papa."
The trio stole through the door, leaving him alone with the caterer. Talk about awkward.
She stepped toward the counter and retrieved a disposable container. "Here's the cake I promised Emma. I included enough for you and her sister, too."
He wasn't sure how he felt about that, but accepted the package anyway. "Cassidy."
"My other daughter is Cassidy. I'm sure she will appreciate the cake every bit as much as Emma and me. Thank you. And…" He forced himself to meet her gaze. "Thank you for helping me out earlier."
"You're welcome." Her golden-blond hair was slicked back into a long ponytail. Save for one wayward strand, which she promptly tucked behind her ear. Her expression softened. "Look, I realize that was kind of an uncomfortable situation with your mother." She peered up at him with eyes the deep, rich color of espresso. "If you'd like to drop by and check out the project, great. However, I understand if you don't have time."
She was actually giving him an out?
He hadn't expected that.
Unfortunately, his finances dictated he not turn down a job. "How about Monday at two?"
Posted by Bonnie S. Calhoun at 10:30 PM
Sunday, November 1, 2015
May 1, 1915
There is a distinct difference between marrying a man you do not love, and falling in love with a man you cannot marry. As Ashleigh Dougall locked eyes with Sam Miller across Manhattan’s crowded dock, the sting of that truth stripped all doubt. Pinpricks of fresh awareness rifled through her like the sharp May wind off the wharf of the Atlantic, bringing to life a shocking realization.
Heaven help her. She was in love with her sister’s fiancé.
Even through the space of noisy travelers and hurried porters, Sam’s grin tripped her heartbeat and introduced a myriad of emotions she’d reserved for three-volume novels and daydreams. Ash-brown curls twisted in an unruly manner from under his brown Fedora and shadowed his best feature – his eyes.
In love with her sister’s fiancé? A man who’d become her dearest friend? Nonsense.
But her mental reprimand did nothing as her pulse skittered into rhythm with Alexander’s Ragtime from the pier. She waited for her mind to catch up with her errant heart, to blame the high emotions of departure, but each thought confirmed the growing attraction. He’d provided escort for the long journey from North Carolina and only now her emotions swelled from girlish fancy to—
No. The idea was utter madness and complete betrayal, a family trait of which she would not fall prey. Whether she blamed youthful blindness or disappointed hopes, the truth remained: Sam was ever faithful – and forever Catherine’s.
Or the woman he thought her sister was.
Ashleigh drew her day suit jacket taut. Rumors had made their way across the Atlantic in Mother’s letters and Fanny’s quick missives. The faithful maid gave more insight into Catherine’s notorious flirting and dogged pursuit of Edensbury’s elite, flaunting a wealth her family didn’t possess. After a year abroad to help her mother grieve, nothing had changed.
A child’s scream pierced through her mental fog. Ashleigh turned in time to see a little girl tumble forward and land in a crumpled mess of lace and cloth on the dock floor, arm pinned beneath her.
A woman with the same blush of auburn hair, rushed to the child’s side. “Alice, are you all right?”
Without another thought to the maddening confusion of her heart, nursing instincts quickened Ashleigh’s steps to the pair on the dock. The older woman pulled the child into her lap.
“My wrist hurts, Mama.” The girl’s cries were muffled against her mother’s chest.
Ashleigh dropped her valise and reticule and lowered herself to the dock beside the pair. Their faded, but pressed clothes, suggested poor – but hardworking. Like so many she’d served over the past two years in the rural North Carolinian Mountains.
She met the mother’s frantic gaze with the cool calm of her specialty. “My name is Ashleigh Dougall. I am a trained nurse. Might I be of assistance?”
Alice whimpered. “I can’t move it, Mama.”
“My girl, Alice, has hurt her wrist.” The mother’s voice pitched higher, a sudden awareness raising her volume and drawing attention from the passersby. “If it’s broke what are we going to do? I used my last dollar to pay for our tickets. How am I going to—?”
“Let’s see what we have here, first. What do you say? I’ve watched magical recoveries with little girls and wounded wrists before.” Alice peeked her teary gaze from her mother’s shoulder. “I shouldn’t wonder if this might not be the perfect setting for another bit of magic.” Ashleigh smoothed her words into softer tones and the spell worked.
The mother’s breathing slowed. Alice sniffled and squinted at Ashleigh, her eyes a beautiful umber hue.
“Hello, darling, I’m very sorry for your spill. I would like to help you. I’m a nurse and know a bit about things like bruised wrists and skinned knees. May I look at your arm, Alice?”
The little girl tightened her hold on her doll, proving the wound was more a sprain than a break. Painful, but not as serious and certainly a less expensive fix.
Sam emerged in Ashleigh’s periphery a short distance across the dock, his whistle at full volume. She caught his gaze in a solid hold of unspoken messages. He paused. Ten years of friendship worked its wonders. He surveyed the situation and increased his pace toward them, resuming his tune along with the band.
She turned to the little girl and lowered her voice to increase the suspense. “My friend Sam has a secret. Do you like secrets?”
Alice’s whimpers died altogether. A smile tickled at the corners of Ashleigh’s lips in response to the interest glittering in Alice’s golden eyes.
Sam removed the newspaper from beneath his arm and knelt at Ashleigh’s side, bringing with him his usual scent of soap and lemon. Heat swirled up her neck and planted firmly on her cheeks, no doubt darker than her mauve day suit.
She acknowledged him with a nod, but kept her attention fastened on Alice’s movements, in part to monitor her injury and in part to gain time to cool the sudden warmth around her chest at his nearness. “Have you ever had a LifeSaver? I wouldn’t wonder if one or two might be the medicine you need to feel better. What do you think, Sam?”
Alice’s sharpened gaze fastened on Sam.
“Well…” His rich bass voice melted into conversation. “You have to be pretty special to get a piece of my candy.” He pulled a colorful roll of paper from his pocket and slowly opened the wrapper.
Alice didn’t miss one twist of Sam’s fingers.
“So, Alice, I need you to reach those fingers out for that candy, and if you use both hands, Sam will put a LifeSaver in each.”
“Two?” Her lips wobbled into an ‘o’ shape.
“Two.” Ashleigh looked to the mother. “If she can clasp this candy, then it will confirm my suspicions of a sprain rather than a break.”
The mother gave a feeble nod.
In an easy sweep of his hand, Sam popped a piece from the wrapper with his thumb, tossed it up in the air and caught it in his mouth. He sighed and closed his eyes with a look of utter satisfaction. “Mmm, that’s some good candy.”
Posted by Bonnie S. Calhoun at 8:49 PM
Sunday, October 25, 2015
7:15 A.M. MONDAY
FBI Special Agent Bethany Sanchez swung open the door of her truck with the same jitters she had her first day at Quantico. On this gray morning, she was beginning a violent crime assignment and would meet her new partner, Special Agent Thatcher Graves, the man who'd sent her brother to jail.
Bethany caught her breath and took in the unfamiliar sur- roundings. The residential area was flooded with Houston police officers and unmarked cars, part of a task force between HPD and the FBI. Alicia Javon had been murdered here late yesterday afternoon, leaving behind a husband and two daughters.
The homes rose like monuments in this older, exclusive neighborhood, a mirror of refinement and dollar signs. The Javons' two-story brick with classic black shutters was no excep- tion. Not a dog or cat in sight. In her parents' neighborhood, dogs ran loose and usually in packs, whether the four-legged or two-legged type. Here, a pair of squirrels scampered up an oak. The bushes and hedges received regular manicures. Freshly mowed yard. The three-car garage was the size of her apartment.
Contrast the tranquility with a woman who'd been shot, and it was Bethany's job to help bring down the killer.
She arched her shoulders and walked to the front door, wishing her first day in violent crime could have been less stressful. She'd been up most of the night giving herself a pep talk about working with Thatcher Graves despite their history. A little confidence on her end would boost her ego. She looked like a professional. Wore a black pantsuit and a white blouse. Hair secured at the nape. No rings. No bracelets. Just tiny gold balls in her earlobes, a small gold cross necklace, and a keen sense of determination that had never failed her.
After greeting two police officers and displaying her credentials, she entered the home, and another officer directed her toward a hum of activity to the right. She passed through a living area, where an upright bass, grand piano, and harp filled a third of the space. Beyond there she'd find Special Agent Thatcher Graves.
Her gaze pulled ahead. She wanted the partnership to work so badly that her blood pressure flared at the thought of it. She moved through the room to the kitchen. Thatcher bent behind the crime scene tape, where the body had been found. He glanced up, his earth-colored eyes stormy.
She extended her hand and hoped he didn't observe the trembling. "Good morning, I'm Bethany Sanchez."
He stood and towered over her, but most men did over her small frame. "My new partner. The gal from the civil rights division who solved a cold hate crime in the Hispanic community. And was influential in bringing peace to an Asian business district where a prostitution ring worked the streets. Welcome to violent crime." He gripped her hand, not too firm and not an ounce of wimp. "We've met before."
She offered a slight smile while her stomach rolled. "Yes, we have."
"I think it was the Labor Day picnic. Certainly not what the victim had here."
Had he forgotten Papá's threat at the courthouse, or did he expect her to elaborate? "I understand there's a link between this murder and a previous one, and that's why the FBI's been called in."
"Right. Three weeks ago, Ruth Caswell, an elderly woman in the River Oaks area, was murdered. She was under hospice care but otherwise lived alone. Shot with a 9mm to the forehead, hollow-point bullet, and the killer left a plastic scorpion on her body. At that time, HPD requested our help, due to the unusual circumstances. Alicia Javon's murder appears to be identical, but it'll take weeks before we learn if the two women were killed with the same weapon."
"Didn't realize the lab was so far behind. Fingerprints?"
"Too soon to have the report. We'll see about the DNA."
"Anything to go on?"
"Looks like a serial killing."
"But the husband is a viable suspect. Looks to me like a domestic squabble that went bad."
He lifted a brow. "I've been at this longer than you have. The family will arrive in the next thirty minutes for an interview. They spent the night at a hotel."
"Can't blame them." She glanced around the kitchen. A stock- pot rested on the stove, a box of pasta beside it. A dinner that never happened. "I wouldn't want to stay here either. What else do you have?"
He grabbed a large Starbucks cup from the kitchen counter and toasted her. The man wore a muscular build like an Italian suit. "You fit your MO."
She lifted a brow. "What do you mean?"
"No-nonsense. Gets the job done. Analytical. Outstanding record—"
"Whoa. You're armed, and all I have is office chatter and media headlines."
He sipped the coffee. "I'm sure it's all true."
Egotistical, but with a sense of humor. She stared into his chiseled face. "I hope not or I'm doomed."
"Doubt it, General Sanchez. Your reputation is outstanding." She drew in a breath. The ring of his tone pierced her like a dull knife.
"Guess I won't call you a general again." The muscles in his jaw tightened. "Okay, back to the case. The killer is most likely a psychopath."
"We need more information to make that determination, a sus- pect whose behavior we can psychologically examine to determine if he's hearing voices and the like."
"Not every psychopath is a killer, but serial killers are psychopaths." She'd mull his explanation when she had time to think about it.
"Has the blood spatter been analyzed?"
"Yes. Nothing additional for us to follow up on there. I've been here since five thirty poring over the reports, trying to find a motive for both murders. We have two victims killed with the same type of weapon and identical scorpions left on each body.
I sent a copy of the reports to you about an hour ago."
"Hold on a moment while I retrieve them." She eased her shoulder bag to the floor and snatched her phone, berating herself for not checking it sooner. She scrolled through the various reports. There it was. "Go ahead. I'm ready."
"Alicia Javon was a forty-five-year-old wife and mother. She held a vice president position at Danford Accounting. Two daughters are enrolled at Rice University majoring in music. Her husband is currently unemployed and on disability due to a spinal injury sustained in an auto accident. He told the police his wife's Bible and several pieces of her jewelry are missing. All heirlooms from her family. HPD noted a sizable inheritance from her family's estate."
Bethany read the list of diamonds, rubies, and sapphires stolen. Motive? "The husband claims the jewelry is insured. Has HPD checked the pawnshops?"
"Yes, and they will continue," Thatcher said. "No signs of forced entry."
"She may have known her killer or opened the door without a visual check. Where was her husband? Do her daughters live at home?"
"The girls were out with their father. Walked in and discovered the body," he said. "It's in the report. I labeled it Scorpion."
Ouch. Could this get much worse?
"Hey, I'm messing with you. Don't worry about it."
She smiled but didn't feel it. "I noted Mrs. Javon's arm was in a cast. Worth looking into."
"I agree. Have a few thoughts about the injury."
"Theory or fact?" Immediately she regretted her question.
Arguing fact and logic solved nothing. "That was inappropriate.
I know you operate on instinct, and you're quite successful."
"But you have no respect for my methods, right?"
She reddened. "I'd like to think our partnership could work well organically."
He took another sip of coffee. "Well said. We could fail or become a dynamic team. When we're finished here, let's head back to the office and discuss the case."
A police officer stepped into the kitchen. "The family has arrived."
"They're early." Thatcher glanced out the kitchen window to a patio and pool area, his face stoic. "Tell them Special Agent Sanchez and I will talk to them in a few minutes. We're stepping outside for privacy."
Posted by Bonnie S. Calhoun at 9:52 PM
Sunday, October 18, 2015
Chapter 1 of Promise to Keep
A morning rain whispered a harmony of delicate drops against the second-story bedroom window. Esther Detweiler kept her eyes closed as she lengthened her legs and arms. Even as she stretched, dampness crawled through the cracks of the old house and wrapped around her like a shawl. A gentle nudging pushed her from the warped mattress, and she swung her feet onto the floor. The cool wooden planks were smooth and comforting. When she stood, the floorboard didn’t creak as it usually did. The house was perfectly still.
Her gaze landed on Daisy Garrison, the seven-year-old deaf English girl, who slept peacefully in the cot against the opposite wall in the same room. Esther had been caring for her deceased cousin’s child for four years. She was drawn to touch the girl’s silken cheek, but a sudden chill drew her attention away from the sleeping child.
She turned and her eyes landed on the embroidered wall hanging her mother had given her decades earlier as a Christtag gift. For God alone, O my soul, wait in silence, for my hope is from Him. It was the last Christmas gift Esther received from her mother.
She shivered and pulled on her housecoat, then tiptoed down the staircase. At the bottom was Mammie Orpha’s bedroom. The door was cracked open. Orpha always kept her door open at night, saying it was welcoming to the heavenly beings. But something was different this morning. Was it too open? Or too quiet? She leaned a shoulder against the wall next to the door frame, her eyes squeezed shut. She should hear her mammie’s easy snore through the small gap, but all she heard was the warm breath of summer wrapped in the scent of freshly turned soil. She reopened her eyes.
With her fingertips splayed, she gently pushed the door. Even the usual creak was silenced. Esther stood in the doorway. In front of her, Orpha lay as still as a painting. A faint smile was cast over her lips as if she was dreaming something pleasant behind her closed eyelids. She looked happy. Losing her husband decades ago had set the stage for many losses and hardships for the past forty years. She had been like an Israelite wandering, only she never found her promised land. Maybe now, in death, she would.
Orpha’s hair, though disheveled the night before when Esther had bid her good night, was now perfectly combed and smooth, her night covering tied neatly around her soft-skinned chin. She’d taken the time to comb her long hair before she’d gone to bed. It occurred to Esther that Orpha had said good-bye last night instead of goodnight. Had she somehow known that she would pass into eternity while she slept?
The quilt neatly tucked around Orpha’s chest had been on her bed for decades. Esther eyed the simple pattern, rows of triangles forming squares. Together, they’d repaired many of the pattern pieces, salvaging her mother’s dresses to use as patches. She and Daisy had both learned to sew on the blanket.
A breath hiccupped in her throat and her hand clapped over her quivering mouth. She hated crying. Her heart drummed like the wooden mallet threshing harvested wheat, every beat aching more than the one before. Tears warmed her face and salted her lips. She heard a low groan just before she fell on this dearest of old women, a treasure that now was an empty vessel.
Orpha had been such a humble woman. A woman to follow after. Dedicated. Loyal. A mammie to everyone.
Esther wept, thankful to be alone. Loss burned within her, and her heart was heaped with ashes. Too many burdens to count. She’d faced death before, but when her mem and dat passed, the innocence of youth had cushioned her grief. Losing Orpha now was worse.
By lunchtime, the furniture in Esther’s house had been pushed aside and the rooms filled with rows of backless benches and mourners whose presence provided comfort to Esther. Daisy remained glued to Esther’s side, eyes wide, rosebud lips pursed, and hands mute. Orpha had never understood the little girl’s deafness, but they still had had a special relationship.
Funerals weren’t foreign to Esther. Life had come at her like an unbroken horse hitched to a buggy without a driver. Her father had left for the war in 1917 and had died as a conscientious objector in prison a year later. Her mother, Leah, gave up on living and died two years after that. Since Esther was only eight, the deacons had suggested that she go live with her other younger, healthier grandparents in Geauga County, Ohio. But that might as well have been another country, and Esther had refused. She would stay with Orpha. Stubbornness came as easily to her as pretending not to be hungry.
But those years had passed. A spinster at thirty-four, she and Orpha had made a life for themselves, and bringing Daisy into it had somehow completed their unusual family. It had been hard at times, and Daisy’s deafness compounded the difficulties, but having three generations in a home had given hope and some peace that Esther hadn’t realized she’d lost when her cousin Irene, Daisy’s mother, had passed away. Before her death she had been lost to her community and shunned for her marriage to an Englisher.
The scales had tipped again with Orpha’s death, and she knew what would happen next. Eventually Daisy’s father would come home from war, though they hadn’t received a letter from him in over a year when he explained he would be helping with reconstruction. A melancholy shadow in the shape of Joe Garrison hovered over her. While she never wanted harm to come to him, she didn’t like to think about his homecoming and taking Daisy away, especially now that Orpha was gone. Orpha’s death, however, made her consider when she may lose Daisy to Joe. And be alone.
“Dangeh,” Esther said as she shook an offered hand and attempted to refocus on her thoughts. Since there was no church service on the in-between Sunday, many people had already visited her. Esther found sympathetic, lingering, and mournful eyes as she greeted her visitors, though their tight grips tired her hands. She thanked another sober-faced, bearded man as the line of visitors finally ended. Then she stood in the doorway alone and watched as the Peterscheim family walked down the drive in a black, single-file row, like worker ants always well ordered and never idle.
Beyond the families dressed entirely in black, shades of English brightness appeared, parting the small crowd. Mrs. Norma White walked with such an air about her. As she passed, the entire Peterscheim family turned their heads and stared. The skirt of her neighbor’s peach-colored dress, tightly cinched about her waist with a belt, swished around her tan stockings. A small group of girls standing on the porch leaned their heads together, whispering.
“I brought a pie,” Mrs. White said as she entered the house. She looked around, never meeting Esther’s eyes, as she handed over a crumb-crusted apple pie. Esther had worked for Mrs. White at the neighboring farm since she was thirteen. Mrs. White was a strong-minded woman. She’d run the farm and raised her daughters after losing her husband in a farming accident. Mrs. White was a rigid and uncompromising employer, but she’d never used her husband’s death as an excuse to forsake living, the way Esther’s mother had. The woman’s grit had stirred Esther over the years not to give in to loss. Mrs. White hadn’t depended on anyone to rescue her from her circumstances and had risen to the occasion. She had run the farm on her own for many years, when many other women would have sold it and walked away.
When Esther had started working there, she’d seen Mrs. White in overalls doing men’s work. That was why she needed a housekeeper in the big farmhouse. That had been years ago, however, and although she still ran the farm, she now wore stylish dresses instead of overalls. She no longer needed to do the hard work herself, but the earlier years had taken their toll. It was rare that the woman didn’t wear dainty gloves. Esther understood why when she realized that the elegant woman had the hands of a hard-working man with gnarled knuckles and rough skin. Esther then understood why there was a bottle of skin cream in every room.
“Thank you.” She accepted the pie with both hands and set it down on the wooden countertop, along with the array of other goods. Esther had baked the pie herself only the previous day in Mrs. White’s modern oven, which she privately coveted. She gestured toward the small table in the center of the kitchen. “There’s coffee and water.”
“Oh, Esther. I’m so sorry, but I can’t stay. I’m already running behind.” Mrs. White smiled and slowly batted her eyelashes. “I have a prayer meeting at church tonight, and you know how I dislike tardiness. I would have been over sooner, but I had so much cleaning to do after church and dinner.” Mrs. White cleared her throat. “You understand, I’m sure.”
Esther inhaled as gently as possible. Making dinner for one could not have been of any consequence, and the farmhands served themselves on Sundays with food Esther had prepared ahead of time. Mrs. White wouldn’t have had to do more than perhaps sweep the kitchen or run a washcloth over her newly installed laminate countertops—in Lillypad Pearl, as Mrs. White called it. Esther considered it just plain green.
“Please accept my condolences,” Mrs. White offered as she patted Esther’s arm. Though her gloved hand was warm, a chill pressed through the thin black fabric of Esther’s sleeve and onto her skin. Mrs. White turned to leave, but returned a moment later. “Oh, will I see you tomorrow?”
Esther’s lips pinched, and a moment later she relaxed them, not wanting her employer to see her vexed.
“We have three-day wakes and then the funeral. I’m sorry, but I won’t be there until the day after the funeral.”
“And must you—” the English woman began.
“I can send a cousin’s wife in my place. Dorothy,” Esther suggested, keeping her voice steady. “Dorothy is one of the women on the food delivery route—she could use the extra money. You will be pleased with her.”
One of Norma White’s thin eyebrows pushed up toward her hairline. Several moments of silence passed between the two women before the elder nodded curtly.
“Send her over in the morning, and I’ll handle it from there.”
Esther watched through the kitchen window as her neighbor tiptoed across the road to keep her pumps from pressing through the damp gravel. In less than a minute, Mrs. White was behind her picket-fenced, colorful existence, leaving behind Esther’s plain life in shades of black and white.
As Daisy slipped around behind Esther, her left arm curled around the little girl’s shoulders. She squeezed three times, their special way of saying I love you. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been told the same sentiment by anyone but Daisy, and the gesture was as intimate as she’d ever been with another person.
“Sellah hooheh frau realleh meint sie sahvet,” Lucy, Esther’s aunt and Daisy’s grandmother, said in a low voice.
Esther wondered how long the older woman had been standing there. She nodded in agreement that the English woman did think very highly of herself. But hadn’t Esther herself learned to stand taller and stronger because of the high-and-mighty woman?
“Are you sure you need to work for her?” Aunt Lucy whispered candidly.
Esther sighed. “Where else can I work?” She and Aunt Lucy stepped in front of the sink and washed out water cups to put out again. “Now that most of the men are back from the war, many of the factory women are out of their jobs. I know not all of them will keep working, but either way, housekeepers are a dime a dozen right now.”
“You could teach. Our school needs a good teacher. If you don’t do it, then it’ll probably be that silly girl Matilda Miller from the district over. She’s a fright.”
“I am not a teacher.” Esther raised an eyebrow at her aunt.
There would never be enough support or approval within the Amish leadership for that to happen anyway. Esther had far too many unusual circumstances to make her a good example to kinnah. Although she strived to follow the church’s standards as laid out in the Ordnung, she was still an orphaned unmarried woman raising a deaf English child.
“Maybe not, but you sure have taught Daisy.” Aunt Lucy patted her granddaughter’s kapp. Daisy smiled at her mammie before burying her face in her guardian’s long black skirt. Lucy sighed. “She looks so much like Irene did at that age. You’ve been very good for her.” An expression of loss and hurt cascaded over the elderly woman’s face. She swallowed hard and looked away from Esther and through the window.
Esther patted Lucy’s hands. They both knew Lucy would have liked to have taken Daisy when Joe joined the Marines after Irene’s death, but she didn’t know—no one knew—how much additional work it would take to raise a child like Daisy.
What Esther had never told Lucy was that Irene had pleaded with her that if something ever were to happen to her, she wanted Esther to help Joe with Daisy. Irene made Esther promise. Joe admitted to Esther that Irene had made him make the same promise. Somehow she sensed it, he said. She could hear his words engraved in her memory. She said you would love Daisy like your own and take care of her in a way that her parents never could. She made me promise.
Lucy, however, insisted so passionately that she wanted to care for her granddaughter herself that Joe allowed his mother-in-law to keep her overnight before he shipped out. It didn’t take long for Lucy to see that Daisy needed a great deal of attention—more than she could give—and finally agreed that Esther was a better match.
Esther gazed out the window, reminiscing. Her eyes landed on the harmonica that lay on the kitchen windowsill. It had been her father’s. When he left, he told her to keep it and said that someday, when he came back, he’d teach her to play. He’d never returned. Orpha’s death compounded on all the former ones.
Posted by Bonnie S. Calhoun at 9:41 PM
Sunday, October 11, 2015
A clipped sound echoed along the cavernous street as Selah Rishon raised her foot onto a stone bench. She jerked her head up to glance around the abandoned streetscape.
A groan bounced from the building facades.
Eyeing the landscape cautiously, she secured her dark mop of unruly curls that sorely needed a visit from Mother’s shears and finished tightening her exercise shoe. She stretched her calf muscle. Time to get this done before the sunrise and hot temperatures took over.
She switched feet, tightened her other shoe, and stretched again as she squinted into the soft rays of the morning sun trying to climb over the horizon. Dramatic shadows sliced across the ancient brick buildings creating elongated, one-dimensional fright-men. She shuddered and pushed off on a slow jog down the broken, weed-congested street. A shadow slid to the edge of the surrounding darkness in a doorway two building cavities away on her side of the street.
Selah stopped. Her chest constricted as her heart rate ticked up, pushing starbursts into her vision. She squinted at the different shades of black, attempting to distinguish a face among the sprinkled flashes. She deciphered the outline of a short club protruding from an overly thick hand, probably gloved. Her mouth went dry. She sniffed at the air. She could almost distinguish his smell. Sweat and vegetation mixed with musk and dirt. A male.
The black-clad figure separated from the darkness and lunged onto the uneven sidewalk. She inhaled to draw in calm and studied the shape and posture of the figure. A little taller than her five foot six. Broad at the shoulders, rectangular stance between legs and hips. Yes, it had to be a man.
Her heart pounded a staccato rhythm against her rib cage, drowning out her thoughts. Control your breathing.
She turned to run the other way. Adrenaline surged, prickling up the back of her neck and across her scalp. A movement whispered in front of her.
A second figure emerged from one of the numerous doorways, blocking her retreat.
How did she miss him? Not paying attention could get her hurt.
She pivoted and her back faced the street. No! Bad move. Another attack angle unprotected. She spun, positioning her back against the building. One assailant stood to her left, the other approached from the right. If she let them get close at the same time, she’d be done. Her legs trembled. She steeled herself for an attack.
A squeak. An audible click. The man to her left flicked open an auto-blade. He brandished the knife and lunged. Selah jerked her wrist up to block the attack but overswung. Her hand accidentally connected with her own chin and she bit her lip. The taste of copper heightened her senses. Selah balled her fists tight to her chest and thrust out her left leg, planting her foot in his stomach.
He doubled over as air expelled from his lungs with a grunt. The knife flew from his hand and skittered across the broken street surface. He scrambled for the weapon. Selah bounced to a defensive stance. Pivoting her hip up, she kicked out to the side with her right leg, connecting with his chest. He collapsed to the road, gasping.
Emboldened that she hadn’t suffered a blow, she bolted in the other man’s direction. He raised his club and she assumed a fighting posture. He swung. She blocked the downward motion of his left wrist with an upward thrust of her right forearm. It rocked her core, stinging her arm. An adrenaline rush absorbed the pain.
His right fist jabbed at her head. She pulled to the right side. Her left leg shot out in a low kick and connected with the outside of his knee, knocking him off balance. As he started to fold, she maneuvered a hefty jab and shoved her fist into his nose.
Spittle flew from his mouth.
The man grabbed his face. “My nose! Why, you—” He cursed and released the club. It clattered to the ground.
She sprinted down the street, crossing to the other side. Her core buzzed with the electricity of rapid-fire movements and precision strokes. Her speed felt fluid and natural.
Pay attention. Focus. Focus, she recited until her breathing leveled off.
Stinging. She shook her hand, blew on her fingers, and examined them. Tiny smears of blood dotted the back of her hand. She had skinned two knuckles.
White AirStream at three o’clock. Someone in the pilot’s seat.
This time she wasn’t taking chances. She dodged behind a tree and used the street-side refuse container to hide her advance. She sprang from the hiding place, ran to the AirStream, and crept along its length to the front. With her back against the sleek side, she reached across her chest with her left arm and snatched the occupant out by his tunic. As his torso exited the cockpit, she jammed her right hand into the space between his left arm socket and shoulder blade. She felt his shoulder separate and he howled in pain.
Lowering his center of gravity to throw him off balance, she drove his face into the narrow grassy strip at the edge of the sidewalk and planted her knee on the back of his neck.
“All right, all right! I’m down!” With his plea muffled by the grass, the man fell limp.
“Okay, Selah,” boomed the speaker mounted high on the side of a nearby building. “Your session is done, and by the looks of it, so are my men.” Taraji, the head of TicCity security, chuckled over the intercom.
Selah looked up at the tiny visi-unit mounted on the street illuminator and smiled. “Okay, Taraji. I think I may have broken Arann’s nose. He zigged when he should have zagged. And Hex needs to lubricate his auto-blade. His prop has a serious squeak.” She looked down the street and assessed her friendly victims.
Arann, still holding his nose, raised his hand in a thumbs-up. Selah waved and jogged back to the training zone entrance.
A black-clad form dropped in front of her. Selah recoiled as the hooded figure crouched like a jumping spider and charged. She blocked the charge and spun to the right, executing a roundhouse sweep. The figure jumped her leg and came in with fists flying. The two of them parried back and forth, blow for blow, slice for slice. Selah’s comfort level with the defensive moves increased with her added speed and confidence.
A smile pulled at the corners of her lips. She felt exhilarated.
The spider figure lunged, rolled, and swept Selah’s feet from under her with one fell swoop. Selah landed on her back with a grunt as the air rushed from her lungs. The figure scrambled over her and pressed a glove-covered fist to Selah’s throat.
Selah raised open palms. “Augh! I surrender.”
The black-clad spider figure ripped off its hood. Taraji grinned at Selah. “Never let an opponent see your level of confidence because they will use it against you every time.”
“I really thought I had you.” Selah shook her head.
Taraji held out a hand and yanked Selah to her feet. “You would have, if you hadn’t stopped to grin at me. It made for a perfect break in your concentration. But your increased speed is phenomenal. You’re ready to move to the next level of training.”
Posted by Bonnie S. Calhoun at 9:45 PM
Sunday, October 4, 2015
"Next rider in the College National Finals is our oldest in the competition today. He's almost finished with medical school, but first he's got to finish this ride. Give Trey Brown a hand, ladies and gentlemen!"
Sessa Lee Chambers shifted in her seat to watch her five-year-old son stand in rapt attention watching the cowboys in gate seven move in perfect synchronization. One held the gate, one held the rope, and another sat astride a bronc that looked as if it would easily take the rider's head off if given the opportunity. A fourth man spoke energetically into the rider's ear, his words lost on the cheering crowd inside the Sam Houston Arena.
Her attention shifted back to Ross. Was that…a smile?
"Come on, cowboy," Ross shouted over the din as his lifted his little red cowboy hat to mimic the others now crowding the gate. "You can do it!"
Clutching her throat, Sessa fought back the tears that were already blurring her vision. Ross hadn't smiled or spoken a word since his father died nearly one month ago. Taking him to the rodeo had been Ross's grandfather's idea. Get him outside. Expose him to some good old-fashioned commotion. Let him pet a horse or two.
That last one was the most difficult of all. Just last week, her dwindling finances had caused her to sell the last of Ben's beloved horses to an old friend who lived south of town. Bud Jones would take good care of them, this she knew. What she hadn't known was how heartbroken Ross would be at their loss.
Of course, because she was too far gone in her grief to see anything, it had been Daddy who'd pointed out Ross's sadness. And not very nicely.
But he was right. And she had to do better.
The gate opened just a few feet away from them, and the horse bucked out, jarring her thoughts. The rider bounced with legs out and hat flying, but he held on until the buzzer sounded.
"Now that was a ride, wasn't it folks? Hard to believe he's thirty one!" The speakers blared with the announcer's excitement. "Good job, cowboy!"
Funny. The man striding victoriously across the arena was two years older than she. Her memories of college were brief and dimmed by time and distance. One semester was all she'd gone, but she'd somehow managed to meet Ben Chambers, marry him, and forget all about any ideas of pursuing higher education. Looking back, it was the worst decision of her life. Then she looked at Ross and realized that decision had been the best.
Ross waved his hat like the others standing at the gate. "Good job, cowboy!" he echoed.
He was still waving the hat when the long-legged cowboy ambled by. "Good job, cowboy," he repeated.
To Sessa's astonishment, the cowboy stalled right there and knelt down to get eye-to-eye with Ross. She couldn't hear what transpired over the noise of the crowd, but a moment later, one of the other men was handing the cowboy a pen.
Ross ran toward her as fast as his little legs could carry him. "Look, Mama!" he shouted. "The cowboy signed his name on my hat! He said someday I could be a cowboy just like him!"
"Hold on there, cowpoke."
Sessa looked up to see the sandy-haired cowboy once again kneel beside Ross. "I said you could be a cowboy like me, but only if you study hard and keep your grades up so you can get into college. Oh, and be sure and listen to your mama."
He looked over Ross's head to offer Sessa a wink.
Through the haze of numbness, she felt a twinge of…something. Attraction, maybe. Unwelcome as it was. She let her gaze drop to her son, avoiding further eye contact with the cowboy.
Oblivious, Ross beamed up at the man, one hand clapped to the hat on his head, steadying it. "I will," he said. "I promise."
The cowboy straightened Ross's hat and then stuck his hand out to offer the child a firm handshake. "I have a feeling I'm going to see you again someday," he told Ross as he rose.
"Me too!" Ross said with a broad grin.
He wore his grin, and that cowboy hat, all the way home. Even as he fell into a deep slumber in his bed, Ross still bore the traces of that smile.
And of course he wore the hat.
Fifteen years later
Venting her frustration, Sessa fashioned a block of the finest ash into the shape of a lion's nose then moved to the table where the next task awaited—carving a replacement ribbon for a century-old prancing carousel horse.
Every satisfying jab of the chisel had chipped away at another piece of her resentment until exhaustion, and the completion of the piece, forced her to quit. Still the aggravation teased at her, daring her to forget her belief in the Lord's plans in favor of believing He was out to get her.
He had to be.
She set the well-used carving tool in its place and shook her head to remove the sawdust from her hair. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the thick file of papers neatly packaged for mailing.
Today of all days, she should be on top of the world. Unlike some of her smaller commissions, the pieces strewn across her workspace could soon be replaced by several dozen intended for use in the Smithsonian's traveling carousel display. After years of careful planning and despite the death of its founder fifteen years ago, Chambers Carousel Restorations had a real shot at hitting the big time.
Her husband, rest his soul, would have been so proud. On the other hand, their son Ross would be unimpressed. What a cruel irony that she and Ben had worked to build something to pass on to the next generation, only to find their only child entertained no interest in the family business.
If only Ben had lived to help raise him. Maybe Ross would have been the man she hoped he'd become.
But then, Sessa could spend hours thinking about what might have been. Instead she chose to live in the present, only thinking of her prodigal on carefully chosen occasions. She went back to her work only to find her control had slipped.
It happened more often these days. Sometimes a glance at her son's baby pictures would bring a memory to mind, while other times it would be the sound of laughter from a child on a radio commercial or the photograph of a dark-haired boy in the newspaper. Other times her longings might stem from a conversation between herself and her mother, some snippet of a past memory that would turn happy then stab her in the heart. Then there was the red cowboy hat on the shelf in his room, faded by time and dusty from her own inability to spend much time in a place where memories hung deeper than morning fog, that hat gave rise to the best memory of Ross she had.
The day he spoke. The day some stranger turned a boy from inward to outward. To horses and riding and rodeo. She smiled and batted at the dust motes dancing in the sunshine.
Remembering Ross as the baby, the child, and the young man prevented her from thinking of him as the adult he had become. The adult she barely knew and hardly recognized.
How long had it been since she'd seen him? The months had stretched long and distant until nearly a year had gone by since his last visit. Even then, he'd been someone she loved but did not like. It shamed her to think of how relieved she'd been when he'd left.
And now this. An impossible situation with no good solution.
Her smile faded. This.
A litany of if only's assaulted her, and she covered her ears to stop them. When they'd finally quieted, Sessa reached for the next piece, a delicate rabbit's ear made of maple.
Wood shavings littered the floor of her studio, and a fine dust danced in the rays of morning sun. Seemed she might never come to terms with the guilt plaguing her.
"Guilt is not of the Lord." She reached for a piece of cheesecloth and gave the prancing horse's nose a thorough cleaning. "You're doing the right thing. There's absolutely no proof."
But the right thing seemed so wrong. And the proof was in those eyes. In the dimple in that tiny chin. In that bawl that sounded as if it came all the way up from those tiny toes.
Her cell phone mocked her, daring her to do what she knew she should, and even as she made a swipe for it, she felt the pain of doubt. "Lord, I can't," sprung to her lips in a desperate plea. "I'm too old, too busy, too… You're the one who made me, so you know how terrible I am at doing more than one thing at a time. Surely you understand."
The clock over the door read exactly eleven-thirty. One hour from now the decision would be taken away from her; it would be done. All she had to do was wait it out.
Cradling the phone in her hand, she blew a fine film of dust off its black surface only to watch the particles settle on the envelope. All her dreams, the hope for a secure future, lay beneath the dust of shattered plans. Somehow, with the Lord's guidance, she could make new plans, find new dreams.
Slowly she punched in the number she'd been given last night, a number she tried to forget yet couldn't help but remember. An eternity later, the phone rang. Sessa cleared her throat and said a prayer for guidance then found her voice when a young woman answered the phone.
"I'll meet you at the bus station." Sessa hung up before she could take back the words. "I did what I should have, didn't I, Lord?"
Even as she spoke, she knew the answer. "I can do all things through Christ," she said on an exhale of breath, "who gives me strength."
"Well amen to that!"
Sessa heard high heels clicking on the concrete and knew the cavalry approached. What was it about her best friend that brought her running at the first sign of trouble, even when she had not yet been told about the trouble?
To the untrained eye, Cozette "Coco" Smith-Sutton hadn't aged a day since she reigned supreme as Sugar Pine High's head cheerleader and then married the quarterback—after he successfully completed his college career at Texas A&M and made it into the pros, of course. The fact that she'd also held the titles of Homecoming Queen, Cotton and Corn Princess, Miss Sugar Pine (twice!), and fourth runner up to Miss Texas should have disqualified her as friend material for a woman who would rather read or spend time in her father's workshop than just about anything else.
And yet Sessa and Coco, who began life together as babies in the church nursery, had defied the odds to remain closer than sisters all these years. Coco had been her rock when Ben's delivery truck rolled off the highway that icy night so long ago, had tucked Ross into bed at her place alongside her boys on nights when Sessa's work kept her in the workshop because not working would have seen the electricity turned off or the mortgage not paid.
In turn, Sessa had brought casseroles and fended off well-meaning church ladies when Coco's mama died and her daddy suddenly became the most eligible bachelor in the Over-Sixty Seekers Sunday School class. She'd also held Coco up through the long dark days and nights after media darling and NFL quarterback Ryan "The Rocket" Sutton, the man that ESPN called unstoppable, stopped loving perfect Coco and her boys and took up with a twenty-something stripper from Fort Worth.
Oh, they fought. For all her sweetness, Coco could go sour fast if she found out you were doing one of the three things she detested most: hiding something she thought she ought to know, telling a lie, or messing with Texas.
"I'm out in the workshop," Sessa called as she tossed off her gloves and swiped at the sawdust in her hair.
"Well of course you are," she said. "I was just heading to the grocery store and thought I'd see if you needed anything."
Today Coco had poured her long lean legs into white jeans, thrown a turquoise top over them, and finished the ensemble with matching turquoise high heel sandals. While Sessa's hair was moderately tamed in a messy bun, Coco's artfully created blonde ponytail looked as if it had been styled in an exclusive Hollywood salon instead by Vonnette over at the Hairport.
She dropped her keys into her signature oversized designer purse, this one the same color as her heels, and removed the sunglasses that hid her perfectly made up face. A dozen silver bracelets jangled as she rested her hand on her hip.
"Honey, you look like something the cat drug in. What's wrong?"
Right to the point. Typical Coco.
"I've been better." Sessa tossed off her gloves.
Coco's green eyes opened wide. "What has Ross done now?" She continued walking toward Sessa. "No, do not answer until I can get you inside and pour you a cup of coffee. You look like you need something stronger than that, though. A pity neither of us drinks."
"Coffee won't fix this."
"Don't be silly. Coffee fixes…wait—" Coco shook her head. "This is really bad, isn't it?"
Posted by Bonnie S. Calhoun at 10:49 PM
Sunday, September 27, 2015
April 15, Five Years Later
I charged from the house and raced across the lawn, frantically waving my arms. "Stop digging! Winston, no!"
Winston, my Great Pyrenees, paused in his vigorous burial of some form of road kill and raised a muddy nose in my direction.
"I mean it!" Why hadn't I bought one of those nice, retriever-type dogs who mindlessly played fetch all day? Winston spent his time wading in the creek, digging pool-sized holes in the lawn, and―judging from the green stain―applying eau de cow pie around his ear. I crept toward him.
He playfully raised his tail over his back and dodged left.
"I'm warning you." I pointed a finger at him. Phthalo-blue watercolor rimmed my nail, making my gesture less threatening and more like I was growing a rare fungus.
Unfazed, he darted toward the line of flowering lilac bushes lining the driveway, temporarily passing from sight. How could a
hundred-and-sixty-pound canine move so fast? I circled in the other direction, slipping closer, then carefully parted the branches. No dog.
This was ridiculous. I could chase my dog until I retrieved the road kill from his mouth, or scrub it off the carpet for the next week. And it was getting dark, with Prussian-blue shadows stretching between Montana's pine-covered Bitterroot Mountains.
I glanced to my left. Winston crouched, wagging his tail. I moved toward him. He snatched his prize and shook it.
Two black hollows appeared.
I couldn't move. The air rushed from my lungs and came out in a long hiss. I patted my leg, urging the dog closer.
Winston lifted the object, exposing a hole with radiating cracks.
Crouching, I extended my hand. "Come on, fellow. Good doggie, over here."
He placed his find on the ground. It came to rest on its even row of ivory teeth.
I approached gingerly, knelt on the soggy ground, and inspected the sightless eye sockets. "Oh, dear Lord."
Winston nudged the skull forward.
I yelped and sprawled on my rear. An overfed beetle plopped out of the nasal aperture and landed on my shoelace.
Heart racing like a runaway horse, I violently kicked the offending bug, skidded backward, and stood. Fumbling my cell phone from my jeans pocket, I punched in Dave's number.
"Leave it to you, Winston, to find a skull full of bugs—"
"Ravalli County Sheriff 's Department, Sheriff Dave Moore."
"She's dead. You've got to come now, Dave!" Winston pawed at the skull like a volleyball.
"Stop that, Winston. You're just going to make more bugs fall out." I bumped the dog away with my leg.
"What is it now, Gwen? You're calling me because Winston has bugs?"
I rubbed my face. "Of course not. Don't be silly. I already told you she's dead―"
"Question one: Are you okay?"
"Good, good. Now, question two: Where are you?" "I'm home. Near home. The edge of the woods—"
"Doggone it, Dave, don't patronize me." I wanted to sling the phone across the yard, then race over to the sheriff 's office and kick Dave in the shin. "Stop being irritating and get over here."
"Ah, yes. That brings me to question three. Who's 'she'?"
"She's a skull. Or technically a cranium. Didn't I say that? She was murdered."
"Murdered? Are you sure she isn't a lost hiker or hunter?"
"Oh, for Pete's sake, Dave. She's got a neat bullet hole in her forehead, and a not-so-neat exit wound shattering the back." The dog reached a paw around my leg and attempted to snag his plaything. I tapped it out of reach with my shoe. I sincerely hoped no one was watching me play a macabre version of skull soccer with my dog. I already had a reputation for being eccentric.
"Are you positive it's female?"
Posted by Bonnie S. Calhoun at 11:21 PM
Sunday, August 23, 2015
IT WAS FOUR in the morning in New York City, the city's quietest hour—perhaps only quiet hour. Francis "Frank" Nelson, Jr., stepped off the curb in front of the Dexter Arms on West 58th Street, and looked left and right. A cab was idling across the street, but still no driver behind the wheel. He had crossed the street a few minutes earlier to rap on the driver's window, but the car was empty then, too. That seemed odd, but what isn't odd at four in the morning in New York City? He looked left and right again, but still saw no sign of another cab. Preferably one with a driver.
Where is the driver?
He had been freezing his butt off for almost ten minutes now, and his impatience was beginning to ball up into a tight, throbbing knot in the base of his stomach. He wasn't a New Yorker, but he did enough business in the city to embrace the cynical and sometimes too true belief that the only time you can't find a taxi or a cop is when you need one.
Stage two hypertension. Doctor says I've got to manage stress better. If I don't get out of here I'm going to stroke out tonight.
He was tired and anxious to get back to the second floor of the brownstone on the east side of Central Park. Very nice but at twenty-five thousand dollars for the week it cost too much under the circumstances—his company was on the ropes financially. So was he. Everything he had was sunk in the company.
That is why I had to do what I did tonight.
Nelson was ready to scream with the tension. He was already irritated that no one was working the bell stand at the Dexter to make a cab appear right away. The young lady attending the registration desk, barely able to speak English and barely awake, he thought with a snort, assured him that she could get a cab in no time. Right. He paced inside the lobby and then paced outside on the street for as long as he could stand the cold. Not very long.
He had hired his own car and driver for the week, but he was cabbing it tonight because he didn't want his activities known. Nor did the people he was meeting with. The man in charge—not what he was expecting—said it would be much less conspicuous to catch a cab back to the brownstone at this time of night. He agreed. But where was the cab? Just how hard was it to get an open cab at four in the morning?
Okay, I know the cab across the street is open, but how about an open cab with a driver?
He was late to say the least, and if his wife, Justine, was awake or woke up with him coming back now, she would kill him. She would accuse him of cheating and drinking. Neither was true, of course. At least not tonight and not in the sense she would assume it.
But things could get bad, very bad, if she or anyone else began asking questions about why he was at the Dexter Arms throughout the night.
Nelson told her not to come this trip. That only made Justine more set on travelling with him.
She loves to disagree. I should have begged her to come.
"Kristen, what are you doing? Tell me you aren't going out in this weather."
"It's my last chance to run in Central Park."
"It's below zero."
"Don't exaggerate, Klarissa. The weather guy said it would be at least five degrees this morning."
I can't understand what my sister just mumbled from under the covers but I don't think it was very nice.
Her head pops into view. "Really, Kristen? Really?"
I'm tugging my leggings up. "We grew up in Chicago, Sis, this is child's play."
"It's not even four in the morning, Kristen. Go back to sleep. Or at least get out of here and let me sleep."
"I'm going. Give me a sec. I'm going."
"But not for real long. I've got to pack for my flight later this morning. Mom will be calling fairly soon to make sure I've given myself plenty of time to get to LaGuardia."
Klarissa finally sits up to glare at me. I stifle a smile. Her glorious mane of golden blonde hair looks as beautiful mussed as when it's done up for her television work. Women pay big bucks to have a stylist try to make their hair look like Klarissa's does with a simple toss of her head when she wakes up. My hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail for my run. Same as I wear it for work. Life's not fair.
"Okay, Kristen," she says. "You're right—like always. Far be it from me to argue. We grew up in a freezing cold city. So I guess that makes your obsessive . . . your obsessive stupidity toward physical activity understandable. Since you're crazy enough to run in this weather, at least be quiet about it so one of us gets some sleep," she finishes in disgust, rolling away from the nightstand light and putting a pillow over her head. "And stay warm!" she adds, muffled but loud enough to wake our wing of the Hilton.
I look over at Klarissa, her hair cascading from underneath the pillow. So beautiful. Always the princess. I'll never understand my sister. I lift the pillow, give her a quick kiss on the top of her head, smile when she mumbles something else, nice or otherwise, and head for the door.
Hey, what did she say about me being obsessive and stupid? And what's with giving me the business on being noisy? I was being quiet. I think. And what's with her claiming I always have to be right?
I've got to run. I'll argue with her later.
After the door shuts behind Kristen, Klarissa sighs and gets up to go to the bathroom.
My sister. Is it possible one of us got put into our family by mis- take? Detective. Workout warrior. Fighter. Kristen isn't happy unless she's fighting or getting ready to fight. Or sweating. She doesn't have a clue how beautiful she is. I'll never understand my sister.
Posted by Bonnie S. Calhoun at 11:09 PM
Sunday, August 16, 2015
It had never been Anna Gordon's dream to work for a motel—certainly not the Value Lodge. And most definitely not in the same sleepy town she'd grown up in. But as her grandma had reminded her just that morning, "A job is a job, and I'm sure there are plenty of unemployed folks who would be grateful to trade places." Even so, as Anna walked the six blocks from her grandmother's apartment to her place of employment, she longed for something more.
As Anna came to Lou's Café, someone backed out the front door with a watering can in hand, nearly knocking Anna down. "Excuse me!" the careless woman cried as she slopped cold water onto Anna's good Nine West pumps.
As Anna caught her balance, she recognized the o ender. "Marley Ferris!" she cried out. "What on earth are you doing here in Springville?"
Marley blinked in surprise. "Anna?"
"I can't believe it's you." Anna stared at her old friend in wonder. Marley set aside the watering can and the two hugged—long and hard—exclaiming joyfully over this unexpected meeting.
"It's been so long," Marley said as they stepped apart. "Way too long." Anna slowly shook her head.
"And look at you." Marley studied Anna closely, from her shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair to her shoes. "So professional in your stylish suit. And still looking way too much like Nicole Kidman's little sister."
Anna smiled. "Thanks."
"What're you doing in these parts anyway?"
"I was about to ask you the same thing." Anna adjusted her purse strap.
"I'm just home for a few days." She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "Helping out with my parents' café. My mom's laid up after back surgery."
"Oh dear. Is she okay?"
"Yeah. It was a ruptured disc, but sounds like they got it cleaned up. She just needs to take it easy for a few days." Marley pointed at Anna. "Seriously, what're you doing back in Springville, and looking all uptown too?"
Anna grimaced, wishing for a better answer. "I'm, uh, I'm managing the, uh, the motel," she mumbled.
"Oh?" Marley's brow creased. "A motel? In this town?" Anna tipped her head down the street with a somber expression.
"The Value Lodge?"
"Uh-huh." Anna glanced at her watch. "And I should probably get going."
"Oh yeah, sure." Marley looked doubtful, as if she was still processing this bit of news.
"It's great seeing you," Anna said. "You look fantastic."
"Hey, why don't you come back over here for lunch?" Marley said quickly. "Give us time to catch up. The Value
Lodge does give you a lunch break, doesn't it?"
"Absolutely." Anna nodded eagerly. "At 1:00."
"I'll be right here." Marley picked up the can and began to water the large terra-cotta pot by the front door, which was overﬂowing with colorful pansies and red geraniums. "I promised Mom I'd keep her plants alive until she gets back. Can you believe how hot it's been? And it's only May!" She plucked o a dried bloom, tossing it into the gutter.
"I adore your mom's ﬂowers. So pretty and cheerful." Anna waved as she continued on her way. And it was true—she did love seeing the café's ﬂowers. It was a bright spot in her day. The blooms reminded her of the small hotel she'd worked at during her college years. Some students in the hospitality management program had disparaged the old Pomonte Hotel by calling it the Podunk Hotel. But compared to the Value Lodge, the thirty-six-room Pomonte was quite chic, from its cast iron ﬂowerpots by the door to the bubbling fountain in the lobby. It was true what they said: you don't know what you've got until it's gone.
Anna felt a familiar wave of disappointment wash over as her destination came into view. The boring two-story motel had been built in the early eighties, and most Springville residents agreed it was an eyesore. Some more motivated citizens had even gone to the city council demanding improvements. Anna couldn't blame them. When she'd accepted the managerial job, she had convinced herself that she could make a difference in the humdrum lodgings—or she could move on after a year. Unfortunately, she'd been wrong on both accounts.
As she got closer to the building, her general dismay was replaced by some ironic gratitude—she was thankful that none of her college chums could see her now. It was bad enough having to confess her lackluster vocation to a childhood friend this morning. But if her college acquaintances knew—like her ex-roommate who now worked in Paris, or the ex-boyfriend who managed a Caribbean Ritz—Anna would feel thoroughly humiliated.
She wasn't a big fan of social networking, but she occasionally sneaked a peek at friends' Facebook pages—not for long, lest she feed any jealous green demons festering inside of her. Naturally, she never posted a single word about her own personal or professional life. Occasionally she was tempted to fake some exotic photos and falsify her whereabouts, just for fun, but really that wasn't her style. Better to remain honest and simply suffer in silence.
From across the street, she frowned at the garishly painted Value Lodge. Not for the first time, she wondered what idiot picked out those colors. The bright yellow and red stripes had always reminded her of a fast-food restaurant; they looked like mustard and ketchup, but much less appetizing. In Anna's opinion, almost everything about this motel was unappealing, from the "free continental breakfast," which consisted of small cardboard boxes of cereal and cartons of milk and juice, to the kidney-shaped swimming pool in its varying shades of blue and sometimes green, to the lumpy queen beds topped with bedspreads with a texture akin to fiberglass. For the life of her, she could not understand why anyone would stay here on purpose. Well, except that the Value Lodge boasted the "lowest rates in town." She would give the motel that much—it was definitely cheap.
Posted by Bonnie S. Calhoun at 11:02 PM
Sunday, August 9, 2015
Closed until June 13
Michael Hunter stared at the hand-lettered sign on the Gull Motel office, expelled a breath, and raked his fingers through his hair.
Not the welcome he'd been expecting after a mind-numbing thirty-six-hour cross-country drive to the Oregon coast.
And where was he supposed to stay for the next three weeks, until the place opened again?
Reining in the urge to kick the door, he leaned close to the glass and peered into the dim, deserted office. Rattled the rigid knob. Scanned the small, empty parking lot.
The sign hadn't lied. This place was out of commission.
He swiveled toward the marina down the hill, where boats bobbed in the gentle swells. The motel might be a bust, but at least Hope Harbor was as picturesque as promised. Planters overﬂowing with colorful ﬂowers served as a bu er between the sidewalk and the sloping pile of boulders that led to the water. Across the wide street from the marina, quaint storefronts faced the sea. A white gazebo occupied a small park where the two-block-long, crescent-shaped frontage road dead-ended at a river. More shops lined the next street back, many adorned with bright awnings and ﬂower boxes.
The town was exactly what he'd expected.
But with the only motel closed, it didn't appear he'd be calling it home during his stay in the area.
A prick of anger penetrated his fatigue. Why had the clerk let him book a room if the motel was going to shut down for several weeks? And why hadn't someone corrected the mistake in the thirty days since he'd put down his deposit?
If shoddy business practices like this were indicative of the much-touted laid-back Pacific Northwest lifestyle, the locals could have it—especially since such sloppiness meant he was now going to have to find another place to rest his very weary head.
He reached for the phone on his belt, frowning when his fingers met air. Oh, right. He'd taken it o as he'd rolled out of Chicago two days ago—a very deliberate strategy to make a clean break from work. Wasn't that the point of a leave of absence, after all?
But the cell was close at hand.
Back at his car, he opened the trunk, rooted around in the
smaller of his two bags, and pulled it out.
Three messages popped up once he powered on, all from the Gull Motel.
He played the first one back, from a woman named Madeline who identified herself as the manager.
"Mr. Hunter, I'm afraid we've had an electrical fire and will be closing for about three weeks for repairs. Please call me at your earliest convenience so we can help you find other lodging." She recited her number.
The second and third messages were similar.
So the shutdown had been unexpected, and someone had tried to call him.
Slowly he inhaled a lungful of the fresh sea air, forcing the taut muscles in his shoulders to relax. Driving for fifteen hours two days in a row and getting up at the crack of dawn this morning to finish the trip must have done a number on his tolerance. Giving people the benefit of the doubt was much more his style. Besides, he was used to operating on the ﬂy, finding creative solutions to problems. Glitches never phased him. His ability to roll with the punches was one of the things Julie had loved about him.
His view of the harbor blurred around the edges, and he clenched his teeth.
Let it go, Hunter. Self-pity won't change a thing. Move on. Get your life back.
It was the same advice he'd been giving himself for months— and he intended to follow it.
As soon as he figured out how.
Fighting o a wave of melancholy, he tapped in the number the woman had provided, his index finger less than steady on the keypad. For a moment he examined the tremors, then shoved his hand in his pocket. He was tired, that's all. He needed food and sleep, in that order. The sooner the better. Things would seem brighter tomorrow.
They had to.
If this trip didn't help him sort out his life, he was out of options.
While the phone rang, he looked toward the harbor again, past the long jetty on the left and the pair of rocky islands on the right that tamed the turbulent waves and protected the boats in the marina. His gaze skimmed across the placid surface of the sea, moving all the way to the horizon where cobalt water met deep blue sky. From his perch on the hill, the scene appeared to be picture perfect.
But it wasn't. Nothing was. Not up close. That was the illusion of distance. It softened edges, masked ﬂaws, obscured messy detail.
It also changed perspective.
If he was lucky, this trip would do all those things for him—and more.
"Mr. Hunter? This is Madeline King. I've been trying to reach you."
He shifted away from the peaceful panorama and adjusted the phone against his ear. "I've been traveling cross-country and my cell was o . I'm at the motel now. What can you suggest as an alternative?"
"Unfortunately, there aren't many options in Hope Harbor. But there are a number of very nice places in Coos Bay or Bandon."
As she began to rattle o the names of hotels, he stiﬂed a sigh. He hadn't driven all the way out here to stay in either of those towns. He'd come to spend time in Hope Harbor.
"Isn't there anything closer?"
At his abrupt interruption, the woman stopped speaking.
"Um . . . not anything I'd recommend. I could probably find you a B&B that's closer, but those are on the pricey side. Most people book them for a night or two at most, and I believe you intended to stay for several weeks. Plus, B&Bs tend to be geared to couples."
Good point. A cozy inn would only remind him how alone he was.
"Okay . . . why don't you line me up with someplace for a few nights while I decide what I want to do. Bandon would be my preference, since it's closer."
"I'll get right on it."
"Don't rush." He inspected the two-block-long business district, such as it was. "I'm going to wander around town for a while and grab a bite to eat."
"Sounds like a plan. And again, I'm sorry for the inconvenience."
Once they said their good-byes, he grabbed a jacket from the backseat and locked the car. The midday sun was warm, but the breeze was cool—by his standards, anyway. Perhaps a slight nip in the air was normal for Oregon in the third week of May, though.
Stomach growling, he started down the hill. If he weren't famished, he'd head the opposite direction and check out the big, empty beach at the base of the blu s on the outskirts of town that he'd spotted as he drove in. A walk on the sand past the sea stacks arrayed o shore would be far more enjoyable than wandering along—he glanced at the street sign as he arrived at the bottom of the hill—Dockside Drive.
The two-block waterfront street didn't take long to traverse, and by the time he was halfway down the second block it was clear his food options were limited to a bakery and a bait-and-tackle shop with a sign advertising takeout sandwiches for the fishing crowd.
All the real restaurants must be in the business district, one street removed from the marina.
Just as he was about to retrace his steps, a spicy, appetizing scent wafted his way. He squinted toward the end of the block, where a white truck with a serving window on one side was perched at the edge of the tiny waterside park with the gazebo. Charley's, according to the colorful lettering above the window where a couple of people were giving orders to a guy with a weathered face and long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Another whi of an enticing aroma set o a loud clamor in his stomach.
Sold. Whatever they were cooking, he was eating.
With a quick change of direction, he stepped o the sidewalk to cross the street.
"Hey! Watch it!"
Posted by Bonnie S. Calhoun at 9:33 PM