The Paper Detective

by E. Joan Sims

  My face said it all. He sat back in his flimsy chrome chair and laughed again.

  “Come on, Paisley, you know the drill. I can’t tell you anything until Chief Hall makes a statement. And from what I hear, that won’t be anytime soon. You know Danny Hall. Why don’t you ask him?”

  “I did. He won’t tell me anything. I was hoping you…”

  “You were hoping I would be unprofessional and spill the beans?”

  “Well, yes.” I gave him my sweetest and brightest smile. It didn’t work.

  He scowled at me and shook his head.

  “Danny Hall is a good man. A bit disappointed in love, I hear. But he’s a good man. And I’m every bit as good as he is. Maybe better, ’cause I’m older and more experienced. I will speculate that the motive was robbery. That’s obvious. Ever since Bert came into all that money and went to live in the woods alone, I’ve been expecting trouble.”

  “All that money? What money? Bert’s rich?”

  I was stunned.

  Andy seemed surprised that I didn’t know.

  “Yeah, Bert came into quite a large sum a year or so back. Right after he recovered from the gunshot wound. That’s when he announced he was taking early retirement.” Andy smiled ruefully. “I don’t blame him. I can’t say I wasn’t envious. Still am. Man, what a stroke of luck. Well, maybe I’ll win the lottery, and Connie and I can take the kids and go live in Florida.”

  “You would hate it, Andy. You’re as crazy about this little town as I am. You’ll never leave.” I stood up and buttoned my jacket. “But I do hope you win the Lotto.”

  “Say ‘hello’ to Miz Sterling for me.”

  “I will. And thanks.”

  “For nothing?”

  “Yeah, for that,” I forced a smile as I waved and stepped out into the cold blustery winter afternoon.

  Chapter Eleven

  I was mad. Even in the blustery wind my cheeks burned with anger. How dare Bert Atkins be a wealthy man! Somehow it upset the balance of power. I was supposed to be the one with the money—the fancy writer lady—the grand duchess of the literary world. He was the poor lonely soul I might bestow my favors upon if I saw fit. It wasn’t fair. Damn and double damn!

  I crossed Main Street and plopped down on one of the concrete benches in front of the courthouse. The wind slicked back my short hair and froze my earlobes. I pulled up the hood to my jacket but made no move to seek the comfort of Watson’s warm interior—instead, I scooted over on my bench so that I could take advantage of the protection of the Civil War Monument.

  My mind wandered to that cold and lonely battlefield for a moment as I stared at the statue of the Confederate soldier frozen in time and space in his ill-fitting uniform. Poor little guy. He and his musket had guarded the courthouse for as long as I could remember. I wondered why the town fathers had made the statue so small instead of life-size. Not enough money, I guessed.

  The thought of money brought my mind back to the problem at hand. Okay, I decided, so Bert Atkins was rich. That was a fact. He probably had a great deal more money than I did. Why did that make me so angry?

  I didn’t like the answer I came up with. I wasn’t just being selfish and spiteful, I was angry with Bert because he hadn’t been honest with me. He had never said he was poor, but he had acted like he was. Him and his “don’t have anything else to wear but jeans,” attitude really pissed me off.

  Then I had a darker thought. What was the real source of Atkins’s surprise windfall? Had he gotten tired of the tough job with the high risk and low pay like so many lawmen before him? Had he felt like Andy was beginning to feel, but been less honest? Had he looked the other way at the right time and collected a bag full of money for doing so? There were plenty of big city drug dealers who were anxious enough to gain a foothold in a sleepy small town by buying off the law. It wouldn’t be hard to find one.

  The wind was making headway against the fabric of my parka. My nose was frozen and my eyes were tearing up, but it wasn’t just from the cold. I hated the thought of Bert’s being anything but completely moral and upright. It was at that moment that I finally had to admit to myself that I was a little bit in love with him, or at least the person I thought him to be. He loomed tall and straight as an arrow in my imagination. He was Gary Cooper in High Noon, John Wayne in almost anything, and my very own savior in the snow. I didn’t mind if he was gruff and angry. And I could care less that he was deaf and had a limp, but I didn’t want the star on his chest to be tarnished. My heroes had to be squeaky clean in the virtue department.

  Rafe had been my hero as well as my love; but there was something about Rafe I hadn’t known—a secret he kept hidden that had eventually taken him from me. Never again would I allow myself to experience that terrible sense of loss and abandonment. I preferred to live and die alone.

  I knew then that I had to go back to Jackson Lake. Bert Atkins had confronted me. Now it was his turn for a little confrontation—his turn to answer some questions.

  The next morning dawned clear and cold, but there was no snow on the ground and none in the forecast. This time I didn’t ask anyone to accompany me. When I told Mother where I was going she asked, “Oh, dear, Paisley, do you really think this is such a good idea? Last time you went out there alone you got into trouble.”

  “The kind of trouble I got into last time won’t happen again, Mother.”

  “Are you sure, dear?” she winked. “He’s still quite attractive.”

  “For Pete’s sake,” I protested. “I’m not at all interested in how attractive Mr. Bert Atkins may or may not be.”

  “That’s not what Pam said,” she countered.

  I stopped buttering my bran muffin and stared at her.

  “Pam? When did you talk to Pam?”

  “She called yesterday afternoon while you were in town. I’m sorry I forgot to tell you. She said she canceled the webbed page, whatever that is, and sent Mr. Atkins a letter of apology.”

  “Web page,” I responded automatically. “What else did you all talk about?”

  “Just things,” my mother answered slyly.

  “What things?”

  “Oh, you know, Cassie’s school and…”

  “Would that ‘and’ have anything to do with my so-called love life?”

  “Maybe,” she admitted.

  “Well, now hear this. There will be no more speculating on some romantic notion that Bert Atkins and I are an item. We are most emphatically not!”

  “The year is young,” she laughed as she left the kitchen with the last word.

  I followed her to the living room and sat down opposite her on the sunny yellow flowered sofa.

  “Okay, Mother, let’s discuss this. Do you really want me to fall in love and marry someone who is not Cassie’s father? Would you want me to go and live with him instead of here with you on the farm?”

  Mother was thoughtful for a moment.

  “Paisley, someday when the time is right, Cassandra will leave you for good. She would be happier if she knew you had a friend as loyal to you as Horatio is to me. If that means giving up the status quo, then so be it.”

  “Well, I’m not ready to give it up. Not for some gimpy deaf man with a smelly old dog. Especially when it appears he has a bull’s-eye painted on his forehead. I’d really hate to be in the way if there’s a shootout at the O.K. corral.”

  “The okay what?”

  “Old western.”

  “Oh.”

  She kissed me goodbye and told me to be home before dark.

  “If I’m going to be late, I’ll have Bert radio a message to Danny,” I promised, adding, “But don’t worry if I’m not back and you haven’t heard from me. You know it gets dark awfully fast this time of year.”

  All the way out to Bert’s cabin I rehearsed my speech. I had to stay as dispassionate as possible. I didn’t want him to get the idea I was out there for any reason other than to find out why he was a target for some murderous nut. If he refused outright to ans
wer my questions, then I might have to accept the fact that he had something to hide. Maybe the man he killed was trying to take back that bag full of payoff money. Maybe…

  By the time I arrived at the turnoff to the cabin I had a headache from thinking too much. I was seriously considering going back home, but it was too late to turn around. The long twisting driveway was full of deep ruts and mud. It wouldn’t do for me to get stuck and have to be pulled out by the wrecker again. I pulled in front of the cabin and decided it would be silly not to get out and say hello after coming all this way.

  And then I noticed Bert’s Jeep was gone.

  “Drat! All this way for nothing.”

  In my annoyance, I leaned on the horn. The tinny little beeping did nothing to relieve my displeasure, but I kept it up out of shear orneriness. Because of the horn, I didn’t hear the first gunshot. I sat in utter shock and surprise as my windshield shattered into a million pieces. I heard the second shot clearly and threw Watson into gear as fast as I could. My right rear tire had obviously been hit, but I managed to get the big Jeep almost all the way to the road before the tire came apart and the metal rim got hopelessly mired in the mud.

  I knew that I was a sitting duck in the Jeep, and it didn’t take me but a few seconds to decide to get out of the car and run for my life. I grabbed my hat and gloves and beat it for the cover of the brush along the road. I tore my clothes and the skin underneath on thorny bushes as I ran, and twice I stumbled and fell flat on the cold hard ground, but I was able to put some distance between me and Watson.

  I had no idea where I was in relation to Bert’s cabin. And I had no idea who was shooting at me. It could even be Bert, for all I knew.

  My quilted down jacket was dark green. That would have been a good thing any other time of year, but this was the dead of winter. There was nothing green around but me. The brush and the tall grass I was floundering through were bone dry—dead and brown. I stood out like a puffy green bear. I knew if I could get near the edge of the lake the young cedars would be perfect cover. They were still green. I could even climb one and hide in the branches.

  I pushed heedlessly though dead sassafras, Indian poke, and blackberry vine. My gloves were leather and withstood the punishment of thorn and stinging nettles, but somewhere I lost my wool cap, and down clusters were puffing out from several rips in the arms of my jacket. That was all I needed.

  “Just follow the puffing down, Mr. Shotgun Killer,” I panted in disgust.

  The ground was getting softer and wetter under my running feet. The lake was dead ahead, and I prayed that I wouldn’t get shot in the back before I reached the safety of the evergreens.

  I didn’t see the arm as it snaked out from behind a tree and grabbed me. The hand that covered my mouth to silence my scream was big, rough, and red from the cold. I struggled as hard as I could to get away, but my flailing, kicking feet dangled helplessly in the air.

  “Damn it! Be still woman!” Bert whispered urgently in my ear.

  I stopped struggling immediately and my sudden dead weight tripped him up. We both fell to the cold ground just as another bullet whizzed by where his head had been a second ago.

  “He’s seen us! Crawl over toward those trees as fast as you can. I’m right behind you.”

  I didn’t hesitate for a moment. I followed his instructions to the letter and hugged the base of the biggest cedar I could find. Bert got there a second after me. Flopping down on his belly, he pulled a small pair of binoculars out of his pocket and carefully scanned the path.

  “I can’t see anybody. Can you hear him?” he asked softly.

  I cocked my head and listened intently, but all I heard was the wind in the grass and the wavelets lapping against the shore. I turned so he could read my lips and barely made a sound as I told him.

  He got back up on his knees and pulled me roughly against his chest. He buried his face in my hair and whispered urgently.

  “You’ll have to be my ears. I’ll try to be as careful as I can, but if I make too much noise, poke me. And for God’s sake, if you hear something, let me know! We need to get back to the cabin. I’ve got a gun hidden under the privy. You with me?”

  I nodded so vigorously I accidentally hit him in the mouth with my forehead. I winced as his lip began to bleed. He looked me straight in the eye and then kissed me fiercely. His lips were unexpectedly soft and warm. The taste of his blood was salty on my tongue. The warmth of his kiss stole through my body and remained even after he let me go.

  We twisted and turned through the cedar forest until I was hopelessly lost. The sun had set behind the hills, and it was growing dark. I was tired and shivering from the cold, and when I stumbled and fell, Bert picked me up with an urgent gentleness and held me close for a brief moment.

  “We’re almost there,” he whispered in my ear.

  I poked him hard in the back as we came up on the area of tall brittle grass around the cabin. We sounded like bulls in a china shop. He slowed down and we crept cautiously to the back of the cabin and the outhouse.

  Bert motioned for me to hunker down while he advanced slowly to the privy and knelt. He reached underneath and pulled out a tightly wrapped plastic parcel. He quickly cut it open with his pocketknife and came up in one swift motion. Bert Atkins was suddenly transformed into Leonard Paisley before my very eyes. In his right hand he held a large menacing revolver, and his left fist was wrapped around the shaft of a wicked-looking hunting knife.

  “Close your mouth,” he whispered with a soft chuckle. “You look like I guppy I had when I was a kid.”

  Once again, he motioned for me to sit tight while he advanced toward the open back door of the cabin. I sat as still as a mouse, but my heart had a life of its own—it fluttered wildly in my chest, in my throat, and in the pit of my stomach. When Bert stepped carefully inside the cabin and out of my sight, I almost screamed. Minutes seemed like hours before he came back out.

  “Nobody’s home, Paisley. I wish it were safe to go inside, but I can’t be sure until I take a little trip. You stay here. I’ll be right back. Damn,” he swore softly, “I wish I knew where Murphy ran off to. I haven’t seen him since this thing started.”

  “When was that?” I whispered.

  Bert didn’t answer. He couldn’t see my lips in the dark. That’s when I finally panicked. He couldn’t go off in the woods without me. The sniper might be right in front of him and he wouldn’t have a clue. Without Murphy, mine were all the ears he had. I pulled his head down to my mouth and urgently told him so.

  “No!” he insisted as he pushed us apart. “I can’t take the chance of your getting hurt. Stay here like I told you.”

  He started back down the path that had brought us to the cabin. I lost sight of him almost immediately, but I could still hear his heavy feet breaking the dry grass. That’s when I decided to ignore his orders and follow him.

  Chapter Twelve

  With the sun down and the moon behind heavy clouds I had trouble keeping sight of Bert’s broad shoulders as he snaked his way through the tall grass. I could hear him, but the sound wasn’t as loud as I had feared it would be. He was being very careful. I tried to be careful, too, but I paid a price by falling behind. I couldn’t keep up without running, and running made too much noise.

  It didn’t take but a few minutes for his long legs to out distance mine. And the wind had picked up. The bare limbs of the thorn bushes rattled against each other and covered the sound of his footsteps. In the time it took for my heart to skip a beat I was all alone. I was terrified: more afraid of Bert’s wrath than of the hidden gunman.

  I turned around thinking if I could retrace my steps and go back to the cabin, Bert would never have to know I followed him; but the same wind that had covered his tracks had blown the grass back over mine. I considered sitting down right where I was and waiting until morning, but I knew I would freeze to death. I had to find some kind of shelter for the night. I looked around desperately for a place to hide. The moon came o
ut from behind the clouds and mercifully gave me some light. About one hundred feet off to the right was a thicket. The brush was dry and thin and it wouldn’t hide me in the daylight, but it was a place to stay until dawn.

  I stumbled though the grass heedless of the sound I was making. Just as I got to the clearing that surrounded the low lying jungle of vines I tripped and fell over something.

  The fall knocked the breath out of me. Tiny white shooting stars exploded behind my eyelids as I tried to struggle to my feet. It wasn’t until then that I realized just how exhausted and cold I was. I leaned down to help the blood flow back to my head and caught sight of the body I had fallen over.

  It was Murphy. The dog’s long red hair was matted and filthy with mud and clots of dark blood. His tongue was protruding impossibly long from his mouth, and his eyes were open and full of dirt. The dog’s throat was slit from ear to ear. I reached down to touch him—hoping I would feel the pulse of life; but as my hand touched his head it rolled off to the side away from the body

  I jerked upright and screamed in horror. Suddenly Bert was there not thirty feet from me with his gun pointing at my head. The sound of the shot was the last thing I heard. It was like a cannon ringing in my ears. I fell to the ground knowing I was dead.

  My last thought was of Cassie.

  The flashing red lights of the ambulance burned through my eyelids. The acrid smell of something medicinal teased me back to consciousness. Men were speaking in voices that were unpleasantly loud. That made me angry. Had they no respect for the dead? I tried to sit up so I could reprimand them, but I was strapped down. I struggled against the restraints, and for my trouble I got the painful prick of a needle and the sting of something cold going into my vein.

  I woke up in my very own bed on Meadowdale Farm. I turned over and looked out the big bay window. The front yard was covered with a new dusting of snow. It looked like confectioners sugar. My stomach grumbled. That’s when I realized I wasn’t dead.