The Trouble with Cupid
Page 22
Jerry and his companion had the man who’d piloted the small boat held at gunpoint with his hands in the air when suddenly lights exploded around Tammy, big, strong lights that completely illuminated the area.
“Police!” a loud and familiar voice cried. “Put your hands in the air and don’t move.”
A fast-moving boat spurted from down river, its lights focused on the big boat. The sound of a winch told Tammy the big boat was raising its anchor.
The noise and lights confused Tammy long enough for Aiden and four other men to rush past her to the river bank.
She rose to see that Jerry’s companion had separated one of the women from the others and was holding her in his arms. Both he and the woman were sobbing. Aiden approached the couple. The man dropped his weapon to the ground, but he did not release the woman.
Aiden spoke with the man for a moment, then to the woman. Then, to Tammy’s shock, Aiden patted him on the shoulder and turned to the others.
Jerry, too, had dropped his weapon when the police arrived and now stood with his hands in the air. One of the officers handcuffed the pilot of the smaller boat while the others herded the women up the bank where another officer wrapped them in big, warm coats. There were at least twenty of the women, so many of them stood shivering while the officer passed out coats to those in front.
Tammy leapt to her feet. “I’ll help,” she said as she neared. The officer took a moment to look her over using his flashlight and then nodded. “Start another line,” he ordered.
She grabbed a stack of the parkas and began passing them out, expecting an emotional response from the women, but while they seemed to greatly appreciate the coats, their eyes were dull, their faces slack.
They were drugged.
Chapter 6
Tammy looked around the table that groaned with slices of meat, bread, pickles, potato chips, mustard, mayo, cookies and milk—gallons of milk. A policewoman sat at one end while Tammy held down the other. Beneath their parkas, the rescued women had worn nothing more than wisps of lace and netting, but the parkas were too warm for inside.
Tammy had called the hospital and asked for bedsheets instead of those awful gowns that can never quite cover the human body. She’d shown the women how to make togas from the linens, so the scene, except for her and the policewoman, looked like a Roman orgy absent the wine.
Judging from the women’s growing attentiveness, the drugs seemed to be wearing off. Their slack faces had firmed. But they were all nearly skeletal with dull, dry hair and flaking skin. Several of them wore bruises, and one woman had a deep cut across her right cheek. Tammy figured they ranged in age from sixteen to twenty, but because of their deplorable condition, she couldn’t be sure. Some of them looked much older.
Aiden popped his head into the room, glanced at the assembled group, and smiled at Tammy. “Dinner might be a little late,” he said.
“Plenty right here,” she said with a sweep of her hand at the food.
“I’ll do better than that,” Aiden said. “Just may be a while.”
As it turned out, it was eleven-thirty p.m. before everything was sorted. Two FBI vans collected the women, except for the one Tammy’s attacker had rescued. Another set of agents took the men from the big boat and the pilot of the smaller.
Aiden strode into the room, plopped into a chair with a heavy sigh, and wiped his hand across his face.
“Long day?” she asked.
“Very long.”
“How long have you known what was coming?”
“Not long, but I couldn’t tell you.”
“I understand. The guy who threw the book at me. That girl was his . . .?”
“Daughter. Taken from the streets of Birmingham two years ago. He’s been searching for her since. Nearly got her once before in Nashville, but the traffickers escaped. The dead man was a private detective who worked on trafficking for years and finally managed to infiltrate one of the groups. Because of the many organizations fighting human slavery, these guys got nervous about using electronic communication. One of their group works for a publisher. He took a copy of another novel and created Classified as Murder.” Aiden shrugged. “The last thing we expected was slavers docking in Wetumpka, but again, they were looking for a place nobody would suspect.”
“This would be that place,” Tammy agreed.
“The dead guy—the investigator—began to hear about this book. The rumors didn’t give him the exact location of the novel, but you are the only book store in Wetumpka. Not too hard to figure out where it would be stored.” He smiled at Tammy. “Your copy has much more information in it than we initially found. We’ll use it to take down a few more slavery cells. The slavers found out about the detective and had him murdered. Jerry is your attacker’s brother. He came to work for you to find that novel. When he found it under your counter, he called his brother and the private detective. The PI got to it first, but he was killed before he could tell Jerry or his brother. They thought you still had the book. That’s why he was so upset when you denied having it.”
Tammy’s head reeled a bit from all this information, but she managed a smile. “Given that his daughter was in the hands of human traffickers, it’s easy for me to understand how he could have momentarily lost his temper.”
“Still hungry?”
“Starving.”
“The nice restaurant I had reserved has closed, but I have a backup plan.”
“What is it?”
“Let me show you.”
He took Tammy and Trouble to his home, a small cottage not far from Tammy’s.
“Your house?”
Aiden grinned. “Just wait.”
He opened the door and stepped back. Trouble ran ahead of Tammy, but stopped in his tracks as if he, too, was amazed by what he saw.
The entire room was filled with flowers. Roses, gardenias, mums, baby’s breath—the list was endless. A huge heart-shaped box of candy sat on the coffee table, and a small package sat atop it.
“My goodness, Aiden,” Tammy cried as he closed the door. “When did you have time for this?”
“I made time for it. I usually have to make time for the important things.”
She turned to face him. “And this was important to you?”
“Very,” he said. “Take a seat.”
He went to the kitchen and returned in less than five minutes with wine stems filled with ruby red wine. He moved the candy and the small box from the coffee table to another, smaller table and put both stems on the coffee table. “Be right back.”
This time, he brought a tray filled with cheese and fruit, and another covered with fancy crackers and sliced bread. His last trip brought the condiments.
When it was all placed, he said, “I’m so sorry about tonight, Tammy. We’ll do a real meal somewhere special.”
She took a sip of the wine, and smiled. “What could be more special than this, Aiden?”
He sat down beside her. “Perhaps this.” He slid an arm around her shoulders, leaned down and captured her mouth in a deep kiss.
His lips were soft, his arms hard as steel. He was a good man. She’d known that for months. She’d watched him grieve his murdered wife with the passion of a man who’d been deeply in love. She’d had no desire to interrupt his process, even if it meant he would never be interested in love again.
Aiden’s tongue pressed against her teeth, removing any doubt about his readiness.
She opened for him and found herself drowning in a sweet pressure she’d all but forgotten.
About the Author
Nancy Sartor is a Nashville born writer, a charter member and current president of Word Spinners Ink, the oldest on-line writer’s group, a member of RWA, MWA and SiNC, the current secretary of SEMWA, a graduate of Donald Maass's Breakout Novel Intensive Workshop, workshop on micro tension and the Writer's Police Academy.
She lives in Rural Hill, Tennessee, just east of Nashville with her husband, classical composer and conductor, David Sarto
r and two Maine Coon cats. Nancy has three published novels: Bones Along the Hill, Christmas Across Time, and Blessed Curse.
www.nancysartor.com
Tidbit From Trouble #9
We cats have frequent occasion to reflect on human behavior. Not that I dislike humans. Some of my favorite people are humans. But at times, they are truly baffling creatures. One of their most bewildering traits is their obsession with money. At its core, money is a purely imaginary commodity represented by scraps of paper and metal disks that cannot be eaten and are relatively unsatisfying to play with. Yet, its power is such that some humans will go to any lengths to acquire it.
A Troubled Romance
By Lisa Wysocky
Tammy smiled as Trouble looked out through his cat carrier and sniffed.
“Not up to your standards?” she asked.
Trouble gave her a baleful stare, then began to groom his right front paw.
Tammy put Trouble’s carrier on the grass to the left of the huge open doors of the indoor riding arena, and let Trouble out. He sniffed again, arched his black tail over his black back, and picked his way through the grass to a nearby planting of potted petunias, where he sat. Tammy looked fondly at her feline friend, then began to load book boxes onto a small rolling cart.
The 1st Annual Valentine’s Day Festival was being held in the most unlikely of places, a large horse barn in rural Bucksnort, Tennessee, about an hour’s drive west of Nashville. It wasn’t something Tammy normally would drive three hundred miles for, but the owner of the barn was an old friend from high school, and Tammy wanted to support Becca in her new venture of making the equestrian facility available for special events such as this. She and Becca had lost touch over the years but had reconnected recently on Facebook.
In keeping with the theme of the event, Tammy had packed every romance or Valentine-themed book she had in stock at her store in Wetumpka, Alabama, The Book Basket, and they all now balanced precariously on the rolling cart. She was doing fine until she came to the soft footing of the indoor arena, where all the vendor booths were set up. The cart tipped and Tammy’s boxes flew in all directions.
* * *
I like the way these petunias smell. I am a naughty cat, though. Instead of enjoying this wonderful fragrance, I should have suggested that Tammy carry each box in separately. Tammy, however, often doesn’t understand the special nuances of feline language. But look, here’s a genuine dweeb coming to help her. He couldn’t get much taller, could he? Or much paler. Or much thinner. I wonder if he ever eats? He looks so gawky carrying Tammy’s books to her booth. I might just have to keep an eye on him. He seems the sort to be more comfortable at a technology conference, than . . . here.
Speaking of here, I guess one does become accustomed to the smell of horses—eventually. While this set-up phase of the festival is interesting, all those open boxes and all, I have spotted an intriguing golden feline goddess up in the rafters, and I believe she is looking at me.
* * *
Tammy thanked Chad for helping her with her boxes. And in a strange twist of fate, it turned out his booth was right next to hers. Chad Jensen had a 3-D printing machine where people could customize a rose, a heart, or a stylized version of the word “love,” and then print it out. It was a remarkable invention, but Tammy preferred her books. She was just setting out copies of Deadly Valentine by Carolyn Hart, when Becca came up to give her a hug.
Becca Brady was almost as thin as Chad, but her thin, dishwater hair was a shade darker than his. And while she might be considered plain on first glance, Becca had bright turquoise eyes that sparkled whenever her face broke out into a smile. Tammy had the pleasure of seeing Becca’s eyes sparkle as they spoke about the festival that would start that evening. The sparkle went away, however, when Chad joined them and began to give Becca a tutorial of his forthcoming app that could stop people from snoring.
“I’m in the last stages of development, have all the files on my computer. But see, the app connects to a bracelet that can ping the snorer to encourage them to move into one of nine non-snoring positions,” he said, pulling all nine “ping positions” up on his smart phone screen in a collage. “This is going to be huge. Snoring is big business, you know.”
Fortunately, another vendor needed Becca’s attention just then. Chad turned to show the images to Tammy, so he missed Becca’s dramatic eye roll as she mouthed the word “booooring.”
* * *
It turns out that a horse barn has a wealth of captivating places to investigate. The feline goddess, whose name happens to be Peaches, of all things, gave me quite a satisfactory tour. There are mice in the feed room, of course, and she says they can be amusing on a rainy day. While I would never condescend to eat a mouse, I might, in a moment of weakness, be persuaded by a vision of feline enchantment to chase one.
But, I digress. Peaches really does have the best view of the entire event high up in the arena rafters. There, one can observe virtually everything that is going on. She has invited me to sit with her this evening during the festival, as well as all day tomorrow. I believe I will accept her offer, but in the meantime, I should check in on Tammy.
* * *
“There you are,” Tammy said. “I was getting worried.”
Trouble wound his lithe body around her legs, then jumped into an empty book box and curled up to take a nap. The afternoon was flying by, and Tammy had only finished setting up when the doors of the 1st Annual Valentine’s Day Festival opened to the public.
Bucksnort was a tiny, unincorporated community, but it was close enough to Nashville that the novel event had drawn a big crowd. Tammy turned her attention to potential customers, and once, when Tammy felt eyes on her, she looked up and spotted Trouble nestled high above, next to a cute little golden-haired cat.
“That’s Peaches,” Becca said, walking past with two other women, and noticing Tammy’s gaze. Becca stopped and added, “Peaches isn’t much of a mouser, but I think having her around keeps at least some of the mice away.”
One of the women picked up a copy of Ham Bones by Carolyn Haines. Sarah Booth Delaney and Graf Mileau were one of Tammy’s favorite fictional couples.
“Tammy,” Becca said. “I have to introduce you. This is my friend Cat Enright, and her friend Carole Carson.” Carole was the one who had picked up the book. “Cat grew up here in Bucksnort, and rode at this very stable when she was a kid. Now she lives near Nashville and shows horses all over the country.”
Tammy smiled at the younger woman and the two shook hands.
“And Carole . . .” Becca started.
“Shush,” Cat said. “We’re just here to support you, Becca. We’re not important.”
“It’s okay,” Carole said. “Cat is protective of me because my husband is––“
“Keith Carson! The country music superstar,” Becca said. Her turquoise eyes sparkled with excitement.
Everyone knew who Keith was, Tammy thought, especially since he’d had that part in that movie.
“Cat lives next door to Keith and Carole and—”
“And I’d like to buy this book,” Carole interjected with an easy smile. She was quite tall with supermodel good looks, while Cat, who was attractive herself, had masses of long curly brown hair and was a few inches shorter.
“It was very nice to meet you,” Cat said after Carole paid for the book. Then Becca introduced her two friends to Chad.
* * *
Peaches and I both see it happen. The floor of the arena is filled with people, many of them couples who are holding hands, and we’ve alternately been watching Tammy and a few bipeds whom we find interesting. There is an older lady with a flowered hat that I wish I could lie down on. The flowers look very comfy. Then there is a set of half-grown twins, girls who find every booth new and exciting. Odd that humans only have one or two children at a time. So much more efficient to have a full litter and get it all over with at once. Then there is a short, pudgy man dressed in gray who looks anxious.
* * *
Chad yelled at the gray man and tried to run after him. However, the people sprawled on the soft arena floor, and the number of couples walking through the aisle who had their arms wrapped around each other, combined with Chad’s physical awkwardness, prevented his progress. By the time Chad finally reached the door, the gray man was nowhere in sight.
* * *
Becca, who was still escorting Cat and Carole past various booths, saw the commotion. Then she saw Chad leaning against the open doorway, his face in his hands.
“What happened?” she asked, rushing toward him.
“My computer’s been stolen. It has my app on it. My snoring app. Years of work is just . . . gone.”
“You didn’t have your app backed up?” she asked.
“An earlier version,” he said. “It’s just the most recent set of tweaks that weren’t, because I was still working on them. I’m on a tight deadline. There is another meeting with Z-Corp, the health giant, next week. They want to buy the app from me and will give low-cost downloads of it, and include the bracelet with some of their anti-snoring medications. They also will promote it heavily to doctors and so will their doctors. The money they are offering is . . . well, it’s astounding to me.”