“The cops told me when they came to my hotel to question me. Rose and Tucker. You know them?”
“I went to school with Paul Rose's daughter, Catherine, and Tuck is a year younger than Catherine and me.”
“How old are you?”
“You don't mince words, do ya? Thirty-six.” Mya removed the hair tie from her ponytail, combed through her hair with her fingernails, and reinstalled the hair tie. “How old did you think I was?”
“Fifty-one.”
“Jackass.”
“No, I thought you were in your early thirties.”
“Any more questions, or is the interrogation over?”
“Almost. You know a man by the name of Benny Strong?”
“I know a woman named Betty Strong.”
“How do you know her?”
“She volunteers at the same nursing home I do.”
“You volunteer at a nursing home?”
“Yes. One night a week—Wednesdays. It's ice cream night. I help out and serve ice cream.”
“Huh.”
“My great grandmother lives there. I started volunteering after she moved in.”
“Great grandmother? How old is she?”
“Ninety six, but you wouldn't know it. You'd think she was in her seventies.”
“Does Betty Strong serve ice cream as well?”
“Yes, but she volunteers three days a week, I think.”
“How old is she?”
“You're kinda hung up on everyone's age, aren't ya?”
“It helps me get a better mental image. Do you know if Betty lives with her son?”
“She might. She lives in the big house out on Cow Beach Point.”
“Cow Beach Point? Where's that?”
Mya pointed south. “You go down here about two miles and make a left onto Roaring Rock Road. There's a bend in the road, and then I think it's the first driveway after the bend.”
Allen nodded.
“Why are you asking so many questions about these people?” Mya asked.
“Just curious.”
“Just curious, huh?”
“Yup. What night do you have off?”
“Are you just curious?”
“Yes.”
“This week I have Thursday off from Stones Throw, but I also wait tables at the Stage Neck Inn.”
“Two jobs and you volunteer at a nursing home. Doesn't sound like you have a lot of free time.”
“I have about three days off a month.”
“What time do you get off work on Thursday?”
“Are you asking so you can stalk me some more?” Mya deadpanned.
“Yes. I'm a lazy stalker. I find that it's easier for a stalker to stalk if the stalk-ee tells the stalk-er where she's going to be.”
“That makes sense. I get off at four.”
“Would you like to have dinner with me Thursday night?”
“Gee, I don't know. That would kinda destroy the whole stalker, stalkee thing we've got going, wouldn't it?”
“Oh, don't worry. I'll still stalk you from afar. I've already got a buttload of pics of you on my cell phone.”
“Why are they still on your phone? Shouldn't they be tapped to your wall above the lit candles?”
Allen chuckled. “You haven't worked your way up to shrine status yet.”
Mya grinned. “Okay then, I guess I better go to dinner with you. Probably the only way I'll work my way up.”
“Great. If you give me your address, I'll pick you up at six.”
“Not so fast. I'm not so sure I want my stalker knowing where I live. How about if I pick you up at six?”
“Okay. I'm at the Sunrise Motel—room eleven.”
“Okay, see ya then. Bye, Frankie.”
Allen stuffed the remaining two slices of bacon into his mouth as he watched the back of Mya's perfectly shaped yoga pants jog down the beach.
“What do you think of that, Frankie? Smooth, or what? Third day here, and I already have a date. That's gotta be a record for me.”
When Mya was a tiny gray speck, Allen returned to his now cold scrambled eggs and home fries. Buddy lay back down beside him.
“I wonder if Jacob can keep an eye on you Thursday night?”
Allen took one last look in Mya's direction. The gray speck had vanished.
“Do you think she could tell it was my first time asking someone out in over fifteen years?” He reached over and rested his hand on Frankie's back. “I think I pulled it off.”
Chapter Nine
When Allen returned to his motel room there was a plastic grocery bag hanging on the door.
“What do we have here, Frankie?” he asked.
Allen removed the bag and looked inside. It was two paperback books. He pulled them out.
“The Enemy Around the Corner and No Death for the Wicked,” he read aloud. “I wish I could still write like this, Frankie.”
He unlocked the door and went inside. He tossed the books on the table next to his laptop. Frankie bounded in behind him and jumped up on the bed.
Allen filled a glass with ice and added some Coke. He carried it to the table and sat down.
“Okay, Frankie,” he said, “I'm gonna write the shit outta this book, so be quiet.”
He stared at the screen as he scrolled down through the six pages he'd written over three years earlier. He read as he scrolled. Back then he knew what the book was going to be about. He knew the beginning, the middle, and even the ending. It was the first book he'd ever planned to write that way. The first four books were written as he went along, surprising himself as he hoped the reader would one day be surprised. Allen's first book, No Death for the Wicked, allowed him to quit his day job six months after it was released. A year and a half later, The Enemy Around the Corner was released. It sold twice as many copies in the same amount of time. Two years later book three was released. His fourth book was released three days before his wife received her diagnosis. “Maybe a year,” the doctor told her. “Eighteen months,” said the second doctor. They were both wrong. Allen buried his wife four months later.
The pages Allen now stared at on the laptop were written five days before her passing. He'd read them over and over again, never once adding to them.
Allen sipped his Coke. “Maybe it's time to start from scratch, Frankie,” he said. “Maybe someday come back to this one.”
He couldn't bring himself to delete the last few pages he'd written while his wife was alive. She had always been his muse, and now he felt as though these five pages provided a connection between the two of them.
He closed the pages and brought up a new blank page. Chapter One, he wrote. Reed Templeton pulled into town on a Sunday afternoon. The sun was shining, the waves were crashing, the seagulls were screeching, and the tourists were dying. Templeton looked over his shoulder into the back seat of his Jeep Grand Cherokee. His dog, Hondo, was sound asleep.
Allen took a deep breath and leaned back in the chair. He picked up his glass and drank. He looked out through the picture window at the water.
Might be a good idea to close the drapes, he thought.
He grabbed the edge of the curtain and yanked it closed.
“That's better.”
What do you think, Hondo? asked Templeton. What should we do first—grab lunch, or catch a serial killer?
Allen picked up his pen and quickly jotted down some notes.
“Look at that, Frankie, sixty-six words. It's as easy as that.”
Allen's hands hovered above the keyboard, and then there was a knock at the door.
“Come in … wait, hold on.”
Allen leaned over as far as he could to try and reach the doorknob; he couldn't quite reach it. He stood and turned the knob. Jacob's mom stood in the doorway. She was still dressed in her pajamas.
“Mr. Crane?” she said.
“Allen,” he replied.
“I'm Jacob's mom—Tess Palmer.” She stuck out her hand. Allen shook it.
“Gla
d to meet you. Jacob's a terrific kid. So, what can I do for you today?”
“I was just wondering if Jacob had been up here today.”
“Haven't seen him since yesterday. How long's he been missing?”
“He's not missing. I just don't know where he is.”
“How long have you not known where he is?”
“An hour or so. I tell him to let me know where he's going to be, and if he's going to be gone very long. Kids.”
“Did you check with his friend out back?” Allen asked, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. “He walked Frankie over there yesterday.”
“I have Oliver's mom's phone number. I was going to give her a call if you hadn't seen him.”
“Haven't seen him,” Allen assured her.
Tess glanced down at the two paperbacks on the table. “Are those your books?” she asked.
“Nope,” Allen replied. “Those are Mildred Owens' books.”
Tess leaned in closer. “Your name is on the bottom.”
“That's because I wrote them, but they belong to Mildred Owens. She asked me to sign them.”
“Like, an autograph?”
“Exactly like an autograph.”
“You do that a lot?”
“Write autographs?”
“Yes.”
“Not a lot. Most people don't know who I am.”
Tess smiled. “Yeah, I read quite a bit, and I never heard of you.”
“Thanks.”
“I ordered your first book on my Kindle this morning.”
“Well, thank you. I hope you enjoy it.”
“If I don't, I'll just run right back up here and get my money back.”
“I guess that's the drawback of living above a reader.”
“I guess so.” Tess stepped back away from the door. “I guess I better give Oliver's mom a call.”
“Let me know how you make out.”
Tess turned and walked back down the walkway.
Allen left the door open and walked back to the table and sat down. “Where was I?” He read over what he'd written. His eyes wandered over to Mildred's books. “Maybe I should sign these books and take them back to Mildred.”
He pulled the books over in front of him and picked up his pen. He scribbled on a sheet of paper with the pen. Deciding that the ball point wouldn't make a very nice autograph, he searched his satchel for one of the thin felt tips he knew was somewhere in the front pouch. He pulled out a black one, removed the cap, and signed his name on the paper next to his scribble. Perfect.
Thanks for reading, Mildred, he wrote in one of the books, and To Mildred, hope you enjoyed the mystery, in the other. He signed his name at the bottom of both. He blew on the signatures to make sure they were dry before he closed the books.
Allen stacked the books, picked them up, and stood. “Coming with me, Frankie, or staying here?”
Frankie opened one eye and closed it.
“Okay, I'll go by myself.”
Halfway across the parking lot Allen felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket.
“Hello?” he answered.
“Crane? It's Sergeant Rose.”
“Hey, Rose. What's going on?”
“I just thought I'd touch base with you and set your mind at ease a little.”
“I love having my mind set at ease,” Allen joked. “This hardship setting is no fun at all.”
“Anyway, I sent someone over to Benny Strong's house yesterday afternoon. No one was home. The investigator said he spoke to a neighbor who told him that Benny and his mother are in Augusta for the week. Won't be back until Saturday morning.”
“Ya don't say?”
“You probably won't hear from any of his cronies at least until Strong gets back into town.”
“Okay, Rose. Thanks for the call.”
“Oh, and I guess my wife is a big fan of yours. She says you're one of her favorite writers.”
“Tell her she's one of my favorite people.”
“I will. Hey, uh … if I brought a couple of her books over to your motel, you think you could sign them?”
“Of course, Rose, I'd be happy to. When do you think—you're pulling in right now, aren't you?”
Rose waved at Allen through the front windshield. “I sure am.”
Rose pulled into a parking spot, shut off the engine, and climbed out of the car. He was holding two books in his hand. “Where ya headed?” he asked.
Allen held up the two books he was carrying. “I had to sign these books for a lady who's staying over here,” he said, nodding his head in the direction of the Grand View Inn.
“Wow, Crane, I didn't realize how famous you were.”
“I'm not.”
Rose chuckled. “Sure you are.”
“No, I'm really not, Rose. Very seldom do I get recognized twice in the same month, much less, the same week.”
“I guess this must be your lucky week.”
“I guess so.”
Rose handed Allen the books. “She wants you to sign them, To Harriet, a good friend of mine. Would that be okay?”
“Sure.”
“You want me to wait here until you deliver those two books?” Rose asked.
“I'll just go over there later,” Allen replied. “Let's head back up to my room and I'll grab a pen.”
“Are ya sure? Because I can wait here.”
“I don't want to keep you waiting.” Allen started back toward the stairs; Rose followed. “I'm sure you have a lot more important things to do.”
“This is York, Maine, Crane. You getting into that scuffle with Bobby Jordan was the most excitement I've had to deal with since Herb Coleman set Dobber Stevens' lobster traps on fire.”
“Would you believe that's never once happened in the town where I live?”
“By the way, Bobby Jordan checked himself out of the hospital yesterday morning.”
“Ya don't say?”
“Yeah, and I spoke with him last night.”
“What did he have to say?”
“He said he doesn't blame you at all for what happened to him. Says his doctor's been telling him to get his blood pressure under control for years.”
“Well, maybe this'll be a wakeup call for him.” Allen pulled open the door and went up the stairs.
“That's just what Jordan said—a wake up call.”
“I probably saved his life.”
“You just may have.”
Allen slid the key into the knob and opened the door. Frankie lifted his head.
“I'm back, dog,” said Allen. “Have a seat, Rose.”
Rose walked to the sofa and sat down.
Allen picked up his felt tip pen. “Can I get you a drink or anything?”
“What do ya got?”
“Coke, tequila, water, and that's about it.”
“Tequila sounds good.”
Allen mentally groaned. That bottle's never gonna last another ten days. “You want Coke in that?”
“Sure.”
Allen signed both books just like he was asked—To Harriet, a good friend of mine, and then signed his name. He handed the books to Rose and went for the tequila.
Rose flipped to the first page and read aloud what Allen had written, and then closed the books. “Nice,” he said. “Thanks a lot. I really appreciate this.”
“Trust me,” Allen said, pouring a generous shot into the glass, “not as much as I appreciate her reading them.” He walked to the sofa and handed Rose his tequila and Coke.
“Aren't you having one with me? I hate drinking alone.”
Allen shrugged. “Sure. Why not?” He returned to the sink and prepared a drink for himself, going a little easy on his own shot.
Rose held up his glass. “To the folks who read your books,” he toasted.
Allen grinned and clinked their glasses together. “Amen.” He walked to the door. “Shall we sit outside?”
“Sure.” Rose stood and they walked outside and sat in the two chairs in front of the picture
window. He placed the books on the plastic end table between them. “How's the new book coming along?”
“I wrote a little bit earlier,” said Allen.
Rose took a deep breath and sighed. “Do fans ever do anything like invite you to their house for dinner?”
“Why, Rose, are you thinking of inviting me to your house for dinner?”
“The wife wanted me to ask. Like I said, she's a really big fan, and she wants to meet you. If you wouldn't feel comfortable, or if I'm crossing a line, just say no.”
“When would this dinner take place?”
“How about Thursday?”
“I actually have a date Thursday night.”
“Didn't you just get here Sunday morning?'
“Yeah.”
“You work quick, my friend. How about Saturday night?”
“That sounds great.”
“And if your date goes well, you can invite her along for dinner as well.”
“I'll keep that in mind.”
Rose downed his drink and set the glass on the end table and picked up Harriet's books. “That really hit the spot,” he said, “but I better be gettin' back to work.”
“You're on duty?”
Rose stood. “Sure am.”
“I wouldn't have offered you a drink if I knew.”
“Why's that?”
“Because—never mind.”
Rose turned and started down the walkway. “See ya Saturday at six,” he said, and waved over his shoulder.
“What's your address?”
“I'll text it to you.”
Allen crossed his legs, leaned back in the chair, and sipped his drink. A few minutes later, Jacob rode his skateboard around the corner.
Allen waited for him to get closer before calling out, “Your mother was looking for you!”
Jacob hopped off the board, and with his back foot popped the tail of the board against the blacktop, and lifted the front with his other foot, catching it in mid-air.
“What?” the boy asked.
“Your mom was looking for you.”
“She was?”
“Yep.”
“How long ago?”
“A couple hours, I guess.”
“She ask you where I was?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her you and Oliver were probably out snatching old ladies’ pocketbooks and knocking off liquor stores.”
“No, you didn't.”
The Maine Events Page 8
