A Good Day for Crazy: A Time Travel Mystery

by L. L. Muir

  “I like my privacy.”

  He shook his head vaguely, as if what she liked didn’t really matter. And that changed everything. Instead of being scared, it only made her mad. And mad meant she wouldn’t be frozen in fear like she’d been when LaMont forced her into a car at gunpoint, and she wouldn’t be destroyed if she had to shoot someone to save herself.

  Like the last time.

  She could run, but she needed a head start if she was going to make it back inside the building before he stopped her. So she dragged one foot back slowly, just to see what he’d do.

  He noticed, and held up his hands again, trying to prove he wasn’t a threat. “I realize that you probably live alone and you’re a little paranoid.” He laughed quietly. “Hell, I guess I would be too, if I were you. But…can we just go somewhere and get some coffee?”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  He smiled and revealed deeply cut dimples while he seemed to be laughing at himself for even suggesting she leave with him. He reminded her of the equally handsome man she intended to meet in a few minutes, if the stars were all aligned. Only with Alexander, the smiling was all about the eyes. With this guy, it was all about the dimples. Dimples that made him look ten years younger than he probably was.

  So far, he’d kept his hands to himself, but she could assume nothing when her life might be on the line. Even so, she gave him one more chance.

  “I think you’d better tell me who you are, or I’m going to start screaming.”

  “No! Don’t do that. The cops have harassed me for two days.” He tucked his hands into the back of his belt and retreated a step. Too bad it only moved him closer to the Jeep. “I’m William Bainbridge. From Boston. I’ve come a long way to find you. But the people of Ketchum and Sun Valley weren’t very helpful.”

  She shook her head and took another step back. “That’s the mission statement of every stalker, ever.”

  Blue and red lights flashed across Bainbridge’s pale jacket. A white Explorer, with SHERIFF written across the hood, barreled through the parking lot diagonally and screeched to a halt five feet from Ashlynn. Lance King already had his firearm in hand when he exploded out of the vehicle.

  “Hands in the air!”

  Bainbridge obeyed, but his attention was on her. “I never meant to scare you,” he said. “I just had to know. I had to see—”

  Lance spun the guy around and flattened him against the Jeep.

  She tried to step closer, but her friend barked at her. “Get inside, until I’ve got him secure.”

  Obediently, she went to the sidewalk, but stopped. Bainbridge’s head, pressed against her car, faced her.

  She had to ask. “You had to see what?”

  “Ash!” Lance cursed himself, probably for using her name. “Get inside.”

  “I had to see if you were real—” The poor guy gasped as Lance took hold of his hair and turned him toward the county car. Lance opened the side door and prodded him inside. “To see if the story is true!” The door slammed shut, cutting off anything else he might have said.

  A deputy pulled up and Lance left the guy standing next to his rig to come talk to her. Gawkers drove past with their windows down. The graveyard shift waited eagerly on the other side of the glass storefront.

  Lance reached for her arm, but thought better of it and gestured for her to follow him away from the automatic doors. “You’re going to press charges.”

  She took a deep breath. “I don’t think I am.”

  Lance barely hid his surprise. “You’re not usually the type to fall for a pretty face, especially when a guy is trying to contain you.”

  “Thanks,” she said, “for your incredible timing. But I have to say, I was holding it together. I stood up to him for quite a while, even though he wasn’t going to hurt me.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  She made a face. “Yeah. I think I do.”

  “You’re going to press charges—”

  “I’m not—”

  “And the judge will order him out of town—”

  “He can’t do that, can he?”

  Lance grunted, exasperated. “It will give you some peace of mind.”

  She gave her friend a big smile. “You know what? I have peace of mind. I feel like… Like, if Cliff LaMont is waiting on my front porch when I get home, I won’t freak out.”

  “You’ll just invite him inside for a cup of coffee?”

  “You bet.”

  “And let Wolfgang rip him to pieces?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Lance rolled his eyes. “You’re still going to press charges.”

  “I’m not. But I would like to find out what story he’s talking about.”

  “Ashlynn!”

  “What?”

  “If you come to the station in the morning, I’ll let you talk to him. But only if you agree to learn how to use a gun.”

  “Agreed.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “Fine. But only a Taser.” Then she remembered, she had plans. “Wait. I don’t think I’ll be around tomorrow.”

  “Suit yourself.” It was then that Lance took the time to examine her wardrobe. “Just where are you going, dressed like—is that a nightgown?”

  She hoped he’d think the blush on her face was due to the flashing red lights, but no such luck. His suspicions were written all over his face. Then suddenly, his expression flattened.

  “It’s none of my business.” He pointed to his car. “We’ll hold him for a while, so he can grasp the gravity of his actions, then we’ll escort him to the Interstate. That’s all we can do without charges.”

  She nodded. “I don’t suppose I can just talk to him for a second?”

  He shook his head. “He was probably just trying to get you interested in him.”

  “True.”

  He looked hopeful. “You’ll let it go, then? Since you’ve got, you know, things to do?”

  Alexander!.

  She nodded. “I’ll let it go.”

  Lance looked at her funny for a few seconds, then walked away without speaking.

  “And Sheriff?”

  He opened his door and paused to look back.

  “I don’t think I’ll be crying wolf anymore.”

  After another long look, he nodded and climbed inside. Both the Explorer and the deputy’s car drove off with their lights flashing.

  The two guys in Maverik shirts came running out of the store. Between both of them, they carried three large familiar cups.

  “Your ice must be melted by now, Ms. Woods—”

  “So we got you fresh ones.”

  Ms. Woods. They knew who she was, then. Maybe Jenny was a reader and had passed her secret around.

  “We called the cops—”

  “When we saw that guy giving you a hard time. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Her eyes filled with tears of gratitude mixed with left over emotion, but she smiled through them. “That was wonderful. Thank you so much.” It took just a little juggling to exchange the new ice cups for the old. “That’s sweet of you.” She sucked in a deep breath. “My real name is Ashlynn, by the way.”

  There. She’d exposed herself. Of course, there was no harm done. The two couldn’t care less what her real name was, but for her, it was a giant step for mankind. Of course, she’d have to take baby steps to work up the courage to say Garrity.

  ~ ~ ~

  Mere minutes later, after taking the direct route home, she found her front step free and clear of any stalkers, including Cliff LaMont.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Naturally, Wolfgang had no idea what he’d missed. The dog was content to stay outside, but he did scowl at Ashlynn as if to say, “You’re late for work.”

  She blew him a kiss just to confuse him and closed the door.

  Two cups of ice went into the freezer and the third into her favorite tumbler. If she hurried, not much ice would melt before she presented it to Alexander.

  Settled at
her desk once more, she grabbed her mouse and wiggled it. The monitor came to life. The last words she’d typed stared back at her. Alexander, please be real.

  Of course he was real. She hadn’t dreamed him, she’d stepped onto the page with him. And she could do it again.

  She tried opening the scene as before, describing what she remembered and ended up adding details to the scene that hadn’t been part of the story. After a few minutes, she highlighted the whole thing and deleted it.

  The blank page waited for another try.

  Ash tried to relax and started with waltzing in the garden. She clearly remembered the feeling of the music making her feel light on her feet as she and Alexander swung back and forth only touching hands. She’d wanted so badly for him to put his arms around her, but she was sure the dance police would have stopped them.

  Maybe they would have a chance to dance alone, and do it right…

  Even though she found the exact waltz on Youtube, the one that also played in her grandmother’s music box—Waltz No.2 by Dmitri Shostakovich—it did nothing to get her feet into that garden. And it was as if she were dancing with a cardboard cutout of Alexander, not with the real man.

  As the music went on, it began to taunt her, reminding her of what still lay out of reach. She had to turn it off. And once again, she highlighted what she’d written, and made it disappear.

  She tried the balcony. Not only was Alexander not there, she wasn’t either. She even stood in front of her open freezer and tried to get cold, drank a bunch of water to fill her bladder—anything to recreate what had been happening that night.

  Sadly, after every try, she ended up staring at her words in black and white, unable to put herself into a scene of colorful dancing dresses and spinning painted horses.

  “I’m not crazy,” she said, then repeated it until she got tired of her own voice.

  One last time, then I’m going to bed.

  She remembered fleeing into the trees, started writing about the feel of the ground through her slippers, the desperation to get her underwear off and lift her skirts up before they got wet. She described the tree she’d leaned back against and the feel of the rough bark against her back, the relief of finally letting herself go.

  It was a close call, but she nearly peed her pants all over again before she realized it wasn’t working. She hurried to the bathroom, then closed her eyes as she sat there.

  “When all else fails…”

  Even praying didn’t work. Apparently, God wasn’t in the time travel business, and he didn’t have any suggestions for her, either.

  As she dragged herself into bed that night, she admitted it was no use trying anymore unless she really didn’t care whether or not she’d end up committing herself to a hospital. Wishing herself back with Alexander was like wishing someone hadn’t died. The best she could hope for was to find him, now and then, in her dreams.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Immersing herself in the new cozy mystery series meant Ashlynn didn’t have time to worry much about the real world, or any fictional worlds she might have visited. In a span of seven months, she cranked out five books, so the only world she had time for was the new one she’d created for her mystery solving witches.

  She and Wolfgang got plenty of fresh air and exercise while she worked out the clues and red herrings in her mystery plots. She did her grocery shopping late at night because—food. Letting the dog out kept her from sitting too long in one position, though sometimes she could put her head down and start typing, and when she looked up again, four hours had passed. If it weren’t for Wolfgang and his slowly shrinking bladder, who knew how long she might go?

  The dishes always got done because if she didn’t wash them, the dog would. And if she didn’t take out the trash, he’d make her regret that, too. But if she was stocked up on ice and food, and she didn’t need to leave the house, she gave little thought to what she wore.

  Sometimes she wore pajamas 24/7. Sometimes she realized she hadn’t showered for four consecutive days, and she couldn’t just zip down to the gas station unless she did. Even Jenny was sharp enough to realize Ash had been wearing the same outfit the last time she stopped for her three 44 oz. cups of nugget ice.

  After one shower that was more of a decontamination than a washing, she found her underwear drawer empty, her closet stripped of anything comfortable, and the laundry basket over-flowing with clothes she’d already worn more than once.

  She crossed her fingers and opened the dryer.

  Nothing.

  She went back to the drawers and started digging. In the bottom left corner of the drawer best forgotten, she found the gray sweats she’d worn the night she’d had her nervous breakdown. The temptation had been to throw them away, but when she’d taken them out of the dryer, she’d still been mooning over a character in her head.

  In a defensive reflex, she pushed the drawer closed with her foot. But beneath the slide of wood against the rail, she heard the whisper of a name she’d tried and failed to forget.

  Alexander.

  It reminded her she still needed a vacation. The immersion into the new series had cured her almost completely. In fact, she’d even stopped dreaming about getting lost on carousels, or waltzing through grocery stores all by herself. But it was time to leave town.

  Seriously.

  Hell, it was May. It was time to hire someone to scrub down the cabin, then leave the windows open for a month while she sat on a beach somewhere and read someone else’s books for a change. She had plenty of completed manuscripts she hadn’t told Angela about—so the next time she was caught pushing up against a deadline, she could pull one out of thin air instead of lying.

  Besides, she needed a reward for curing herself, right?

  Right.

  She imagined wandering around in her church dress for a couple of hours while she did some laundry. Then she bent and pulled out the drawer again. Since she was cured, what did it matter if she wore the sweats and thermal shirt again?

  Of course, she’d have to go commando while she did a load of delicates. And it was true, the last time she’d gone commando hadn’t been on purpose. But she was over it.

  No problem.

  Didn’t even think about it anymore.

  She pulled out the sweats and the white, long-sleeved tee, but left the plaid flannel and closed the drawer. When she sat on the end of the bed, Wolfgang came in to see what was going on, sniffed the air, then sat down as if to say he approved of the decontamination.

  He rarely spent time in the bedroom anymore. Ever since that September night, he always left when she was typing, though he continued to sleep at the foot of her bed. Granted, it might be a coincidence, or it might have more to do with how infrequently she washed her clothes. He wouldn’t say.

  Since her bras needed some decontamination of their own, she slipped the shirt on over her bare chest, then poked her feet into the legs of the sweats while she looked around for a pair of flipflops. Wearing dirty socks was just a line she couldn’t cross.

  Her left foot had a hard time finding the hole, so she had to pay attention to what she was doing. And when she forced her toes through, something else came out with them.

  Something green.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Somewhere inside Ashlynn’s head, a high-pitched voice screamed at her not to panic.

  Of course she wouldn’t panic. Why panic? She’d known for seven months that her adventure into Regency England, or wherever, hadn’t been real. So why should she be upset?

  Having her underwear back was good news. It meant one of the biggest mysteries of her life had been solved. And it meant her knickers weren’t rotting away in the woods somewhere, crotch-side up, waiting for someone to stumble over them and holler, “Oh, gross!”

  It also meant that she no longer needed to go commando while she did the washing.

  She watched, remotely, while her legs kicked off the sweats, slipped into the long-lost underwear, then disappeare
d into the sweats again. She didn’t remember standing, taking a load to the washer, or turning on the machine. When the spin cycle ended an hour later, she was vaguely aware of it, only because the laundry room was just on the other side of the wall from the darkest corner of her closet—where she sat on a disorganized pile of old shoes and decided she was never moving from that spot.

  She didn’t remember how she got there, either, but it was a good place to stay, to hide from Wolfgang and the rest of the world while she wept out all the saline her body could produce. And though she rocked slightly, back and forth, she wasn’t howling or anything. A light but steady shower rained down her cheeks and washed away all the nonsensical memories she’d been hanging onto for nothing.

  He’d never existed—whatshisname, from a romance she’d tried to write in the fall, a novel she’d had no business starting in the first place.

  Romance?

  Her?

  Ridiculous.

  A month afterward, she’d decided that it had all been a subconscious attempt at procrastination in the first place, and put it behind her.

  So why am I crying now?

  Overworked, that’s all. No sound mind could survive the pace she’d been keeping. It had nothing to do with her underwear or the fact that there were no more mysteries left in her life.

  Her mind wandered back to that balcony and her heart pinched painfully at the realization of just how silly the scene had been.

  A British nobleman conning someone like her into kissing him three times.

  His coat and tails, her sweats and flannel shirt.

  So implausible. Too ludicrous for readers to believe.

  And yet…

  And yet, even after weeks of insanity and months of denial, she could still feel the vibrations of his teasing voice in her ear. She could still remember how the warmth of his body radiated across the narrow gap between them and how his face warmed hers when he pressed his mouth against her lips.