by Lyn Gardner
“Holy crap, you got laid. Wahoo!”
Robin looked toward the ceiling as she shook her head. “Not that kind of sore, you pervert. I went for a run today.”
“You should have gotten laid. It’s way more fun.”
“Yeah, well, there’s no laying material around here at the moment, so a run had to do, and guess what I realized?”
“What?”
“You were right.”
Declan held his chin high. “Seriously, Robbie, when am I not?”
“Well, I can remember a certain redhead—”
“All right. All right. Let’s not go there,” Declan said, his ears reddening at the mention of the dominatrix he once dated. “I still have a few scars left from that one.”
“I know. I’ve seen them. I still can’t believe you allowed her to—”
“Subject change!”
Robin rolled to her side on the sofa, laughing until she couldn’t breathe.
The more Robin roared, the more Declan smiled, and it wasn’t until she got herself under control when he spoke again. “So, what was I right about this time?”
Wiping the tears from her eyes, Robin sat up and cleared her throat. “When I first told you about coming up here, you said you thought I was running away, and you were right, but I wasn’t running from Pam. I was running from writing.”
“That makes no sense.”
“That’s because you didn’t see the two books I wrote last year. Declan, they’re crap, and the more I looked at them, the more I thought I had lost my mojo. They don’t even sound like me, and there are a ton of mistakes. Stupid, stupid mistakes that an amateur wouldn’t even make.”
“Well, you did have a few things on your mind.”
“Yes, I know, but I kept telling myself it didn’t matter. I’ve never struggled to write. It’s always come naturally to me, so I thought I—”
“Could just hammer out a few best-sellers without any problem?”
“Something like that.”
“Do you know how stupid that sounds?”
“Trust me, I know! I was an idiot. I was so engrossed in all that other shit, I blocked everything else out. I totally forgot the basics. Whether it comes naturally or it doesn’t, what we do takes work. It takes concentration and dedication, and a shitload of time.”
“Robbie, that’s Writing 101.”
Robin jumped from the sofa. “I know,” she said, waving her arm in the air. “And it’s everything I wasn’t doing because I wasn’t focused. I wasn’t committed. I was just angry...and I’m not anymore.”
“No?”
“No,” Robin said, sitting back down. “I ran eight miles today. I practically killed myself, and I’ll be paying for it tomorrow, but I think I burned off the hurt and the regrets and the doubts. I am a good person, and I am a good writer.”
“You’re a fucking excellent writer,” Declan growled. “Don’t you ever forget that, Robin. Your books don’t sell the way they sell because you write crap, and they sure as hell don’t show up on all those bestseller lists just because people like your looks. They sell because you’re good, and you think things through, and you have more dedication in your goddamned pinkie than I have in my whole body.”
“That’s a lie, and we both know it.”
Declan’s eyes began to twinkle. “Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating.”
“Typical author.”
“Takes one to know one.”
For a few moments, neither said a word. Their expressions were identical, and they both knew it.
“I love you,” Robin said softly. “You know that—right?”
“Yeah, I have that effect on women. What can I say? I’m a chick magnet.”
Robin’s grin grew larger. “Don’t you mean you used to be a chick magnet?”
“What? Are you saying I’ve lost my touch?”
“No, I’m saying if another woman comes near you, Natalia is going to have their hide.”
“Oh yeah, well, there is that.”
“How are things going with you two anyway? Still smooth sailing,” Robin said, resting back against the sofa.
“Not a ripple on the water.”
“Good to know.”
“Um…speaking of ripples, I had one just the other day. My place was broken into.”
“What?” Robin said, sitting up straight. “Why didn’t you call me? Are you okay? Oh, my God, Declan, if you—”
“Relax, woman. I’m fine,” Declan grumbled. “I wasn’t even home when it happened. I went out to run an errand, and when I got back, the kitchen door was open, and my office was torn apart.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Not exactly what I said, but close,” Declan said, pausing to take a sip of his drink. “Anyway, I called the police and filled out all the necessary paperwork, but that was basically useless.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever broke in, didn’t take anything.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. They didn’t touch my computer or my printer, and my freaking Rolex was still sitting right smack-dab in the middle of the desk where I had left it. The only thing they did was empty out all the drawers from my desk and filing cabinet onto the floor.”
“Why the hell would they do that?”
Robin didn’t need to look at her phone to make sure the call hadn’t dropped. She could hear Declan breathing, and the longer she waited, the more Robin sensed something was wrong.
“What aren’t you telling me?” she said softly. “And don’t even think you’re going to blow me off because that’s not going to happen.”
Declan slumped back into the pile of pillows in the corner of his sofa, rubbing his stubble-covered chin as he stared at the ceiling. “Robbie...I think it might have been Pam.”
It was almost a full minute before Robin found her voice. “Why do you say that?”
“Because ever since you left, any time I walk into one of our old haunts for a drink, the bartenders tell me the same thing. Pam’s been in. She’s asking everyone where you are, and when she doesn’t get answers, she starts threatening, and when that doesn’t work, Pam gets shit-faced or somehow gets higher than she was when she walked into the place. Some of the bars even flagged her.”
“That doesn’t mean she’d break into your home, Declan.”
“She broke into yours, didn’t she?”
Robin hung her head, remembering the damage the drunken woman had done to her garage when Robin had changed the locks. “Okay, so if it was Pam, what could she have possibly been looking for?”
“Your address, honey, but before you panic, the only place it’s written down is in my phone, which never leaves my side, so don’t worry.”
“Honestly, Declan, I’m not panicked or worried. I’m upset that she may have trashed your place, and I’m pissed that she’s hassling the people we used to hang out with, but if Pam shows up here, it will go way beyond those idiotic texts and emails she sent me. She’d seriously be breaking the restraining order then, and even she’s not that stupid.”
“You give her a hell of a lot more credit than I do,” Declan said with a snort. “All I see is a bitch with a bone that refuses to let go of it.”
“Did you just call me a bone?”
“Well, you are a bit on the skinny side.”
“Fuck you, Declan.”
An instant later, Robin was yanking the phone away from her ear as Declan’s loud, rumbling guffaw erupted from her mobile. Enjoying the sound, Robin waited until he settled down before placing the phone against her ear. “It’s good to know I can still make you laugh.”
“Oh, Robbie, there’s no denying that,” Declan said, wiping the tears from his eyes. “And speaking of knowing, I’d like to know when you’re planning to open those manuscripts and get back to work?”
“Probably next week.”
“Why wait that long?”
“Because I still have two rooms left to paint in my apartment and the stuff I had in
storage is being delivered next Wednesday. That’s only going to take care of the bedroom, so tomorrow I need to go back to the mainland to see about buying some living room furniture. And, if that’s not enough, I also need to look into getting a new countertop for my kitchen and maybe even replace a couple of the appliances. They’re really old.”
“Don’t look now, Robbie, but it sounds to me like someone is putting down some roots.”
Robin’s shoulders sagged. “Is that okay?”
“Of course, it’s okay, kiddo. I’m happy for you. Hell, I’m ecstatic. You’re starting to sound like your old self again, and I’m not going to lie, for a while there, I’d thought I lost you.”
“For a while there, I thought I’d lost me, too.”
Again, they grew quiet, one paling as memories flooded his mind while the other did everything in her power not to reflect.
“So...” Declan said, rubbing the back of his neck to release the tension brought on by the past. “Now that you’ve decided you’re a writer, have you given any more thought to finding someone to help run that place for you?”
Robin opened her mouth and then shut it just as quickly. When it came to secrets, at least between each other, they didn’t have any. It wasn’t a conscious decision on either’s part, but over the years as their trust grew, their lips loosened. She knew about his loves and his failures, and he knew about hers...including a crush on a particular teacher.
Declan pulled his phone away long enough to ensure their connection hadn’t dropped. “Robbie, you still there?”
Robin scraped her fingers through her hair, thankful Declan couldn’t see her rapidly reddening cheeks. “Oh...uh...yeah, I’m still here. As a matter of fact, I think...um...I think I’ve already found someone.”
“Hey, that’s great!”
“Yeah, I think...I think she and I will make a good fit. Every time we get together, it seems like the ideas just keep coming,” Robin said, immediately scrunching up her face at the sexual innuendo only she could hear.
“Hey, anyone who can get the old juices flowing is a winner in my book.”
Robin inwardly groaned. “Exactly,” she forced out as she glanced at her watch. “Listen, I’m going to let you go. I still have some things to do before I call it a night. Okay?”
“Sure thing. Take care and good luck with that new lady. I hope it’s a match made in heaven.”
“Thanks,” Robin managed to squeak before ending the call, and dropping her phone on the sofa, she buried her heated face in her hands. “No worries on the old juices, Declan,” she mumbled into her palms. “No worries at all.”
***
Robin stared at the two overwhelmed laundry baskets in her bedroom and knew she had avoided the inevitable long enough. If she didn’t start laundry tonight, she’d be going commando tomorrow. She’d done it before in sleek outfits and running clothes, but in jeans, the damn center seam always rubbed her the wrong way—literally.
A minute later, Robin set the baskets down long enough to flip on the basement light, but before she could pick her laundry back up, she heard a series of pops. The lighting in the basement dimmed dramatically, as did Robin’s patience. “Seriously?”
Robin stood there, trying to mentally persuade the bulbs to come back on as she glared at the ominous shadows awaiting her at the bottom of the stairs. She tapped her fingers against the door jamb as her eyes traveled from her laundry to the basement and then back again.
She had sensed Isobel’s presence once or twice over the past few days, the temperature in a room suddenly dropping or a chilly breeze appearing out of nowhere, reminding Robin she wasn’t alone, but there hadn’t been another windy exhibition of anger since the painting incident. Then again, did Robin really want to tempt fate by going upstairs to use those machines? She was tired. It was late, and she needed to get some sleep. Sleep that wouldn’t be interrupted by a ghost’s temper tantrum in the form of gale-force winds if Robin intruded on what Isobel apparently believed to be her own personal space.
“Yeah. I’m thinking no.”
Stepping around the baskets, Robin went into the big kitchen, rummaging through all her purchases until she returned with light bulbs in one hand and a flashlight in the other. Putting both on top of her laundry, she took a deep breath, picked up the baskets and made her way down the stairs.
Robin winced with every step, her muscles groaning in time with the old wooden treads under her feet. She had put her body through the mill today, pushing it further than she should have, but it was good to know she could still run. It was good to know running could still clear her mind, and it was good to know...she had more light bulbs upstairs.
Where once there were four lit bulbs, now the only one remaining was hanging over the washer and dryer, and it had to be the lowest wattage available on the market. Robin set down the baskets, and gathering what she needed, she turned on the flashlight and carefully made her way toward the workbench. She knew there was a light fixture somewhere in that area, and waving the beacon back and forth across the ceiling, she inched along until the burned-out bulb came into view. With one good stretch, she reached it, and a minute later Robin was blinking away the spots caused by a hundred watts of power.
It didn’t take long before Robin managed to replace the remaining bulbs, and once her first load of laundry was in the washer, she was about to go back upstairs when something caught her eye. On the back of the post holding up the ladders was a light switch, one that had been hidden in the shadows until now.
With nothing but darkness filling whatever was left of the basement, Robin paused for a second before she went over and flipped on the switch. She expected to see a bit of clutter and maybe some old furniture she’d need to step around, but when the rest of the lighting around the basement sprang to life, Robin said the first word that came into her head. “Wow.” Not only was the basement as large as the rooms above it, other than a few cobwebs dangling from some of the joists, but it was almost as well-kept as the house had been on the day she’d moved in.
There was no chaos created by boxes stacked haphazardly here and there, with contents overflowing their confines. There was no hodgepodge of mismatched tables or chairs piled high along the walls, waiting to be discarded or refinished, and where Robin expected to see little, grimy windows around the perimeter, their sills no doubt littered with dead insects, she found herself admiring ones perfectly framed by flowery kitchen curtains with nary a bug in sight.
In the center of the cellar was a large work table, its plywood surface speckled with drips of paint long since dried, and going over to it, Robin knelt by its side. Underneath were cubicles holding a collection of old paint cans in varying sizes, and when she saw another cubby filled with a stack of roller trays and at least a dozen brushes, she sighed. “That would have saved me some money.”
As she stood back up, Robin groaned as the muscles in her thighs announced themselves again, and grimacing at the ache, she made her way slowly around the table toward a section of the stone foundation that had been cut away. As soon as steps came into view, her curiosity was satisfied, and feeling no need to investigate the abyss that was the outside entrance to the basement, Robin turned around...and gasped.
The far wall, easily the length of the dining room and entry combined, was entirely filled with shelves, each containing boxes and totes labeled with the names of holidays. A few called out the Federal ones, Memorial Day and Labor Day deserved of only one, while the Fourth of July warranted three. Halloween and Thanksgiving fared better, and Christmas was over the top. In an instant, Robin knew she had more in common with her aunt than she realized.
Unable to stop herself, Robin went over and opened one of the plastic totes. She smiled at the assortment of Christmas decorations piled inside for a moment before closing the lid, and stepping back, she scanned the rows again. She was hoping for something labeled Mementos or Photographs that would help to satisfy her curiosity about an aunt she hardly knew, but the lo
nger she looked, the more her posture drooped. If it didn’t have to do with a holiday, it was not going to be found here.
Abandoning all hope Adele had left anything behind even remotely personal, Robin turned to leave until she saw something in the far corner of the basement. She hesitated before moving toward it, and the closer she got, the more Robin’s brow began to furrow. Concealing an area roughly the size of a small bedroom was heavy black curtains running from floor to ceiling.
Over the centuries, the genres in literature have adapted to the times. In Ancient Greece, the stories penned by authors and playwrights initially fell under the headings of poetry, drama, and prose, and as years passed, subgenres were born. Poetry was divided into epic, lyric, and dramatic, and dramas began to include both comedy and tragedy, its division based on the Greek plays of old. However, when it came to prose, the style in which the author wrote in sentences, paragraphs, and chapters, its subcategories expanded and expanded, and expanded again until eventually it became known as fiction.
Fiction, a story based on imagination rather than fact, is the most popular form of written entertainment in the modern world. Like its predecessors, poetry and drama, which it eventually consumed, it too has its subgenres. There are short stories and fairy tales, realistic fiction and fantasy, romance and horror, science fiction and westerns, thrillers and suspense...and then there are mysteries.
A mystery, by definition, is fiction involving a crime and its eventual solution, and Robin’s passion for the genre had been ignited in her youth by Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. Poring over the pages, she would become the detective intent on cracking the case, but it wasn’t long before her interest in solving the mysteries gave way to her interest in creating her own.
Robin’s technique when it came to writing a mystery novel was sound and eventually proved to be award-winning. Her goal was always to take the reader on a ride they wouldn’t forget. Much like the roller coasters she loathed, Robin incorporated in her plots unforeseen twists, abrupt turns, and sudden drops. However, unlike some mystery writers, who wouldn’t unveil much-needed clues until the final few chapters, Robin always gave her readers all the information they would need to solve the crime. However, by weaving her words carefully, most were left scratching their heads until the last chapter was read.
