A Good Day for Crazy: A Time Travel Mystery

by L. L. Muir

  “Nooo!”

  She slammed her eyes shut and wished herself back, wet pants and all. She didn’t care. She just had to get back!

  It wasn’t fair! Her alarm wasn’t going off—there was no reason she couldn’t go right back to sleep!

  She pictured Alexander standing there, holding onto the horse, waiting…

  She couldn’t just leave him there! She promised she’d go back to him. They hadn’t had their third kiss!

  But whatever power had allowed her to step into that dream wasn’t listening to her. And as her wet pants began to cool, she felt the dream cooling too, moving further and further out of reach.

  She opened her eyes and stared at the screen. At the words. At the blinking cursor.

  She gripped both sides of the monitor, then twisted her neck to look at the bed.

  Holy crap! I wasn’t dreaming!

  ~ ~ ~

  Wolfgang interrupted with a sharp bark in her ear and she started. She turned to stare through his slightly open, bared teeth at the black streak that ran down the roof of his mouth. He’d probably been checking to see if she was dead enough to eat yet, and seeing her move had startled him.

  Well, served him right. He’d startled her too.

  He finally relaxed and dragged his giant paws from the arm of her chair, sniffed her hip, then hurried from the room. The idea of her wetting her pants clearly disturbed him more than it did her, but she was too busy losing her mind to do anything about it.

  Losing her mind. Was she? Had she? At the moment, she was more devastated by losing Alexander.

  Alexander! Oh, Alexander. I’m so sorry!

  She picked up the nearest thing she could find—a ceramic cup filled with pens—and hucked it at the wall to her left. It was either that or cry, and she was too pissed to fall apart.

  “Why couldn’t it have been a dream,” she groaned. At least, with a dream, she could have rolled over and slipped back into the scene. She’d done that often enough to know she could do it. She could have ripped her alarm clock out of the wall and gone back before Alexander had a chance to worry.

  Wolfgang barked from the kitchen. Habit got Ashlynn off her butt to go let him out. When she came back, she ducked into the bathroom to take a shower, but when she stepped out of her sweats, her underwear was missing.

  Her underwear was missing.

  It wasn’t like she was out of clean clothes, which was the only time she had to go commando, while she washed a few loads. So there was no reason why she would have gotten dressed without underwear. She even remembered she’d been wearing green ones—at least she was pretty sure they’d been green. But the last time she’d seen them was in the woods, when she’d stripped them down, shaken them off her shoes, then kicked them out of the way.

  Holy shit. I really am losing my mind.

  She tossed her clothes into the washer and didn’t bother getting dressed while she scrubbed down her office chair.

  Naked and crazy kind of go together, don’t they?

  Thankfully, the seat was leather and forgiving, and the floor was dry. She tossed the towels in with her clothes, then climbed into the shower. Only then did she dare take a look at the possibilities. But even after she’d used up all the hot water, the only conclusion she’d come to—not that she trusted it—was that, even if she’d never left her desk, even if she’d never left the room all night…

  Her underwear had.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Once Ashlynn’s body and hair were dry, she took a look at herself in the long mirror on the back of the bathroom door. She didn’t look any crazier than the last time she’d faced herself, but there was something a little desperate and sad lurking behind the green eyes she’d inherited from her mother.

  She pulled a clean pair of underwear out of the dresser drawer and held them up. “You’re pink. Light pink.” She checked the clock. “It’s a quarter to four in the morning, on a…a Saturday morning, and I’m putting you on.”

  If they disappeared later on, she’d at least know that they started off on her butt.

  Digging deep in the bottom drawer, she found her old nightgown and put it on, just in case. If she happened to wake up somewhere else, at least she wouldn’t be wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a tank top, which she knew couldn’t be explained away in Regency England.

  The gown was tighter than it had been in college, but it had a touch of frilly lace across the chest and a tiny pink flower in the center. It was exactly the kind of thing she refused to wear, even when she was twenty, but her mom had insisted she take it with her to BSU. Now, Ash kept it as a reminder of the woman who once believed her capable of being a lady.

  Forget the nightgown. Her mom would have been shocked to know her daughter had willingly donned a pair of pink underwear!

  Ashlynn let Wolfgang back inside but he wasn’t interested in following her into the bedroom. Poor guy. Whatever he’d witnessed in her bedroom/office had spooked him. She only wished he could describe it to her.

  Four o’clock, routine intact, she crawled into bed. Heavy, cold sheets. Heavy quilt of wool and denim squares, backed with red and white flannel. It all combined to make her feel safe, warm, and…sane.

  But if anyone out there was listening to her thoughts and taking her preferences into account, she would rather be on a certain merry-go-round…

  ~ ~ ~

  It was six in the morning when she rolled on her side and realized her pillow and hair were sopping wet. On and off for the past two hours, tears had drained down both sides of her face, but she hadn’t realized just how many.

  It was stupid, really, to cry over a guy that didn’t even exist. But no one was around to call her stupid. And if she wanted to cry, by hell, she’d cry.

  She turned the wet pillow over, crushed her cheek into it, and waited for the tears to start again. When they didn’t come, she finally drifted off, lured to sleep by the warm, heavy covers and the soft mattress molded to her favorite position, hoping she’d wake up somewhere other than Ketchum, Idaho.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ashlynn dreamed she was in a Latino grocery store and she wasn’t allowed to buy anything because she couldn’t read the labels. She spent a long time arguing with a woman at the bakery because she wanted a cake and they didn’t have buttercream frosting. She really wanted buttercream frosting!

  When she woke up, she couldn’t think of a reason why she needed a cake; she had nothing to celebrate. But she also had a revelation—no matter how long she’d stood and argued with the cake chick, she never seemed real. Not like Alexander had.

  If the woman came knocking on her door, Ashlynn wouldn’t recognize her from the dream, even though it was fresh in her mind. But if she had a sketch artist handy, she could describe Alexander down to the smallest detail—including a few dark whiskers that had been missed by his razor, just below his right ear.

  Her memory of him wasn’t any sharper because he’d looked like a dark-haired Adonis that would only grow more handsome as he aged. It was his eyes that burned in her memory, eyes that make it look like he was smiling, even when he wasn’t. He wasn’t cute. Perfectly handsome, but not cute.

  And not boring.

  She stumbled to the kitchen to start the coffee machine. Eleven a.m. was a little early to start breakfast, but coffee she could do.

  Wolfgang looked up at her from the couch and dared her to scold him. But she figured it was a day for cutting slack all around.

  “I won’t talk about last night if you don’t.”

  “Barf.”

  She was pretty sure the direct translation was, “Bite me.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  All writers are different. And all writers are the same. They can be lumped into all kinds of different classifications, even if their process feels completely unique to them. For instance, they can be divided into plotters and pantsers—those who plan out a book before they start writing, and those who start writing by the seat of their pants and trust that great ideas will oc
cur to them along the way.

  Ashlynn was the latter.

  Writers can also be divided into linear and non-linear camps—those who write in chronological order, from start to finish, and those who can create a bunch of different puzzle pieces, or scenes, and then organize them later.

  Ashlynn had always written in a straight line. If she got stuck, or hit a brick wall, she couldn’t just jump to the next scene and come back to knock that wall down later. It was a problem inherent in her personality too. If she had a problem, all engines were brought to a full stop. She was dead in the water.

  So, when she still couldn’t figure out what in the heck she was going to do about Alexander, she had to resort to the same desperate measures that all writers turn to—

  Call another writer.

  Now, thanks to Hemmingway choosing to live and die in Ketchum, the place was pretty much the Holy Land for writers everywhere. And when many of them made their pilgrimage to beautiful Sun Valley, they decided to stay. She probably couldn’t walk down Main Street swinging a dead cat and not hit a writer of some kind, whether or not they were hobbyists or hiding behind pen names. However, there was only one on whom Ashlynn leaned in rare times of crisis—a fellow pantser and the same writer who leaned on her from time to time—Cindy Stark.

  The text message was sent: Wanna meet for lunch?

  Code for: Emergency! I need help! Please drop whatever you’re doing and save me.

  Response: Sure.

  Code for: You will owe me bigtime.

  Lunch got moved to dinner since the Sawtooth Club didn’t open its dining room until 4:30. Both she and Cindy liked the place because the food was gourmet, the atmosphere was classy but relaxed, and the place was dark and roomy enough so they could sit back in a corner and not have to worry about anyone listening in. And if either of them was recognized from a book-jacket photo, people knew better than to interrupt an intense conversation.

  Okay. Most people.

  Cindy was already waiting at their usual table on the first floor. The wind followed Ashlynn inside and moved the wooden goose sculpture that hung over the staircase. Eight all-white birds created a tunnel with their wings, and tourists were often seen walking around, staring from different angles, trying to count how many geese there were and admiring the art of it.

  “I’m ordering the bisque,” Cindy said. “I’m hoping it will make me feel like fall is here.”

  Fall had already arrived, but sometimes writers could forget the time of year, the month, or even the day of the week if they were trying to hit a deadline.

  “I hope it works,” she said, then slid into her seat and set her small purse on the chair beside her. “The leaves are already starting to turn. In fact, I was outside last night and…and needed a coat…”

  A waiter lit the fireplace in front of the familiar blue couches.

  Cindy’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been crying. You okay?”

  That’s what she liked about Cindy—a little mention of the weather, just to get things started, then drop the bull crap.

  “It’s just this…story.”

  Cindy looked at her sideways. “I don’t know. If it’s causing you this much trouble, maybe you should bag it, write something else.”

  Ash shook her head. “No. I’m…too far into it. Too late to turn back.” She stretched her lips into a smile. “I just need to figure out the next step.”

  “Yeah. Maybe we wouldn’t have these problems if we plotted more.”

  “But who wants to plot, right?”

  Cindy snorted. “Not me.”

  The waitress came over and they both ordered the soup. Cindy warned the woman that they were probably going to be there for a long time. But the waitress said to stay as long as they liked. Since it was still the off-season, the crowd shouldn’t be too bad.

  As usual, skinny Cindy-the-conscientious-eater ordered the salmon. Ash ordered the ribs. Taking some bones home to Wolfgang might go a long way in earning his trust again.

  “Okay,” Cindy said, folding her fingers on the table. “What is your problem?”

  Ash took a deep breath and dove right in. “My heroine is a writer—”

  “I don’t like writing about writers. It feels like cheating because we know the life so well. Besides, writers are boring. But maybe that’s just me.”

  “Oh, I agree. I usually stay away from them, but this one just stepped onto the page and I couldn’t get rid of her.” Ash then went on to explain that she’s writing about a writer who has written herself into her own novel.”

  “Oh, I like that already. She’s screwed, isn’t she?” Cindy waved her hand. “Go on.”

  “So, she finds herself standing next to a balustrade, looking down on a garden party—”

  “Regency?”

  “Yes.” It was great not needing to explain absolutely everything. She really needed to call Cindy more often. “So there she is, a 21st century writer, when the hero walks up and starts talking to her.”

  She struggled to tell the story of what had happened to her the night before without getting emotional about it. A few times, she even slipped into first person, saying “I.”

  She backpedaled. “I’m sorry. I meant to say, my heroine.”

  Cindy quickly shook her head. “I understand. I put myself inside the story all the time and have to do one last edit to make sure I’ve taken myself out again.” The soup arrived and Cindy tested the side of the bowl, then pushed it aside. “Go on.”

  Ash took another deep breath and hurried to the end, when they were on the carousel. “And after everyone else left them alone…”

  “Yeah?”

  “She suddenly had to pee.”

  “No!”

  “Yeah. So she makes him promise to stand right where he is and not to move until she gets back—”

  “Only she doesn’t come back, right?”

  “Exactly!” Ash lowered her voice. “She’s in the trees, kicks off her underwear, and starts to pee. But then she hears voices. In a panic, she closes her eyes and wishes she had a bathroom…and when she opens her eyes again, she’s sitting back at her desk—”

  “Wetting her pants?”

  “Yes!”

  The few people who had been seated at other tables turned to stare for a second, and both she and Cindy turned slightly toward the wall and started eating their soup.

  Her friend eventually put down her spoon. “So. I assume she immediately tries to go back.”

  “Of course. But nothing works. And then something distracts her—”

  “Like the fact that she’s peeing all over the place.”

  “Yeah. And the only thing she has a chance to notice is that the last thing she thought, before she was whisked back to the present, has already been typed…”

  “What was it?”

  Ash made air quotes. “But it was too late.”

  “Oooh! That’s crazy. Not the stuff you usually write. This is more Stephen Kingy.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want it to be.”

  “So, that’s your problem. Maybe you should go back and have it all be a dream.”

  “Tried that. Won’t work. Too cliché. And it’s just what she wishes had happened, so she could go back to sleep and see him again. It’s driving her crazy, thinking of him standing there, waiting for her.”

  “Okay. Okay. So what if she comes back to find herself sitting on the toilet? Less mess that way.”

  Ash shook her head. “No. I need to make it work with what I’ve got. And oh, by the way, her underwear is missing. The last time she saw them was when she kicked them off in the woods.”

  Cindy just looked at her for a few minutes. “Nice twist.” She laughed. “Get it? The underwear is a nice twist!”

  She forced a laugh. “Yeah. That’s good.”

  “But your character is obviously crazy. The goal is to be believable, so she’s misplaced her underwear, or didn’t put it on in the first place. So it’s a mystery and a tragedy. The goal is to f
ind the underwear, even though finding it will only condemn her, prove she’s certifiable.”

  Ashlynn was crestfallen. It was just what she didn’t want to hear. “But I don’t want it to be a tragedy. I want her to get her happily ever after. I want her to be together with Alexander again.”

  “Okay. So… What if, every time she opens the document, he appears. And they can do the old smooch-a-roo for a while. Then he goes away when she closes the document. It’s very Angie Baby—that Helen Reddy song where her lover gets sucked into the radio when she wants him to go away.”

  “Only in that song, the chick is crazy. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Cindy grabbed her spoon again and thought for a minute. “You can rewrite the end of Somewhere in Time, and instead of dying in her hotel room, she can really make it back to the past.”

  “Two problems.” Ash put a sock in it while the waitress served their main courses. Once the woman walked away, she explained. “First, I don’t want to copy that movie. And second, Alexander is not back in time. He’s in my head—her head. She has no idea where to look for him in real life.”

  “Gotcha.”

  For about five minutes, the two of them concentrated on their food. Though Ash tried to think of other possibilities, nothing made it to the surface. She only hoped Cindy’s creative muse was lurking around.

  Thankfully, when half her salmon was gone, Cindy’s face lit up.

  “Please tell me you have an idea.”

  Her friend nodded and took a drink. “That depends. What is on the document?”

  “The manuscript?”

  “Yeah. I mean, what does it say between the part where she’s standing on the balcony and the part when she says it’s too late?”

  Ash didn’t want to admit it, but now was not the time to withhold information. “She doesn’t know.”

  “What do you mean? She didn’t look?”

  “By the time she got cleaned up, the computer had gone to sleep—”