by David Bishop
“Did you used to curl them?” Linda asked while uncrossing and re-crossing her legs.
“No. Not that I wouldn’t. I just never thought about it. Still, he got me to wondering. Have yours lost their . . . kink?”
“I don’t think so,” Linda said. “I guess I haven’t watched all that closely. I think that happens to some women, but at an older age than we are. I do trim them from time to time. I don’t know maybe I’ve lost a little curl. Does it matter?”
“I don’t see why it should,” Vera said in defense of such things. “I mean straight or curled, home plate is still there waiting until someone slides into it to score.”
“Nice metaphor,” Linda said after laughing.
“I do admit to brushing my beaver to cut down on the steel wool look. Maybe that’s what he noticed.”
“He didn’t say it like a complaint, did he?”
“No,” Vera said. “At least I didn’t take it that way.”
“It’s great to know that after all these years that we can still talk about anything.”
“I understand why you left town, but, selfishly, I wish you had never gone. I love you, Girl.”
“You’re the sister I never had,” Linda replied. “Now, let’s change the subject before we start bawling.”
“So,” Vera said, “what do we talk about now?”
“The first night I came by, it was late enough that you were upstairs. The other night I walked by while out for a stroll, earlier than that first night. Both nights your downstairs was totally dark, but upstairs there was a light on in one of your bedrooms. Do you have a hobby I don’t know about? Other than men, I mean.”
Vera sat still, staring at the glass in her hand, turning it. Then she looked up. “The store isn’t doing all that well. Frankly, it never has. I sell a little on the Internet, but, except for the Cranston women, local money has always been tight. Most of the local women buy at the outlet stores up north off the interstate. A couple years ago I started a second, even smaller, business. I work it a few hours at night three nights a week. I use an upstairs bedroom.”
“Doing what?”
“I talk to lonely men. No one I know or have met, or ever will. Guys call in from around the country. I tell them what they want to hear, but mostly I just listen. Make them feel they’re . . . okay.”
“Phone sex?”
“For a lot of them, but a good number want more than that. Many just want to talk about life in general or their kids, others about their job. Men who feel they have no one who will listen without being judgmental, someone they feel confident opening up to. Some talk about relationships they’re in. In short, they’re lonely, not just horny. A few, including one regular caller, is a woman. She’s not about sex. Her thing is her husband doesn’t pay her any attention, doesn’t respect her, and often abuses her. He doesn’t listen or care what she thinks. The way she puts it, he makes her feel invisible.”
“Would that be Martha Cranston?”
“What in the world made you ask that?”
“Mostly a guess, but Billy is the kind to treat his wife that way, to be physically and emotionally abusive. When she came in your shop the other day, when you introduced us, you two seemed more than just . . . I don’t know. It was like she came in to talk more than shop. Then she discovered I was there. So, it’s Martha right?”
“This can’t be repeated to anyone. My God, Lin—Carol.”
“For Christ’s sake, Vera. I’m trusting you with my identity. We’ve always trusted each other.”
“It’s Martha. Mostly, we talk only face to face. She doesn’t trust that her phone is private. She comes in the shop. Some nights, when Billy is out being an alley-cat, she’ll come over here. Truth is Martha and I have become really close. Except for you, she’s my best friend.”
Vera went on to tell Linda about her and Billy having sex each week with the hope of getting him a son, an heir.
“Sex with Billy,” Linda said, “yuck.”
“I’m doing it for Martha. To get her off the hook. Well, to be honest, Billy has promised me a substantial payday when I get pregnant and an even bigger one if I give him a healthy son. It’s that damn chauvinistic Cranston clan crap.”
“How does Martha feel about you playing the role of surrogate mother? Surely, she must know. Well, I guess it isn’t strictly surrogate . . . you know.”
“I wouldn’t have agreed to it without her approval. She believes Billy has reason to be angry at her for not being able to give him a son. She’s spent years trying to come to grips with all that, she’s still in therapy over it. She told me if she was going to raise another woman’s son, she would rather it be me than some woman she doesn’t know. I admit it’s a little strange, but, hey, life can be strange.”
“She no longer feels guilty about not being able to give birth, does she? I mean, some women, for one reason or another, just can’t. It’s no justification for Billy’s philandering. I mean, Martha can have sex. Just not get pregnant, right?” Linda asked.
“Yes. Martha still feels bad about it, but she’s remained furious with Billy for catting around other than with me for the purpose of having a kid. She’s okay with my being paid generously. The way Martha put it was, ‘you might as well get some of his money. He’s got things set up so I never will.’”
“I don’t really know her, but I feel sorry for her.”
“Listen,” Vera said, “I hate to break this up but I have a . . . what we just spoke about, a session, for lack of a better word, with Billy, I can’t not show up.”
“I understand. Let me get out of here. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Linda left, her friendship with Vera refilled to the brim as it had been when she left town after high school. This visit showed that while years had passed, nothing really changed. At least, Linda hoped it hadn’t.
After sharing what ended up being nearly three bottles of Riesling, Linda hadn’t felt surefooted enough to take the stairs down the outside of the building. Instead, she walked back to the alley and across it to Third Street, then up to Main and back to the hotel. On the way, she passed Sheriff Blackstone.
“Good evening, Ms. Benson. I figure you’ll be leaving us tomorrow, taking the mid-day flyer. That right?”
“I don’t think so, Sheriff. I like your town. I’m helping the local economy in my small way. Think I’ll hang around for another few days.”
While they talked Linda noticed a sliver of light through a parted curtain over the window above the pharmacy. The room where Vera said Hildegard Caruthers lived.
The sheriff leaned on the street sign at Second and Main, his right hand atop his holster. The leather creaked from the strain caused by his hand resting on the butt of his handgun. “We’d hate for you to miss your train.”
“Trains are like lovers, Sheriff. You miss the one you thought you wanted, you hop on and ride the next one.” Linda used his stunned reaction to what she said to step around him and continue on toward the hotel. The window drapes over the pharmacy closed as she walked away from the sheriff.
When she got back to her room in the Frontier Hotel, the phone was ringing. She answered, “Carol Benson.”
“Ms. Benson, my name is Hildegard Caruthers. I live over the pharmacy. I’m wondering if you’d be kind enough to stop by for tea one afternoon in the next few days. I think there are some things we should discuss.”
Linda dropped her purse on the dresser and sat on the edge of the bed. “That would be lovely, Ms. Caruthers, which day would you suggest?”
“May I call you when I’m ready? There is a little more information I’m compiling. I’d like to gather that first. I’m thinking in a day or two.”
Linda stood and looked out the window. She could see the living quarters over the pharmacy, but now the curtains had been closed.
“Could you tell me what this is regarding?”
“I’d prefer to have my thoughts more in order before we chat. May I ask you to wait until we meet?”
“Certainly, Ms. Caruthers. Call me at this number the evening before you’d like us to meet. I rarely go to bed before eleven.”
“Thank you, Ms. Benson. I will call soon, maybe tomorrow. Good night.”
The somewhat reclusive Hildegard Caruthers hung up.
Chapter Fifteen
I can trust you. You can trust me. Our problem is we can’t trust each other
It was well past ten when Billy Cranston left the suite in his Frontier Hotel. He felt calm, as he usually did after a tryst with Vera Cunningham, whether he wanted a son or not, the woman was a great lay.
Starting with the fire at his horse barn, the last week or so had been one of the very rare times, hell, the only time, when everything in his town was not firmly under his thumb. Things seemed to be fraying around the edges. He had no clue as to why, but someone for some reason was messing with his town—messing with him. Before leaving for home he angled over to his office above the bank to pick up some papers he wanted to look over before going to bed.
After unlocking his office, Billy walked in, shut the door, and flipped the light switch that controlled his desk lamp. “Shit,” he said into the darkness. “What the hell’s wrong with the damn light?”
“I removed the bulb, Mr. Cranston.”
Billy froze. He saw no one. Yet, he had heard the voice. He was not alone. “Who are you?” he asked in a demanding tone. “What the hell are you doing in my office?”
“Time we had a chat, Mr. Cranston, after normal business hours, quiet, no interruptions.”
“I have a secretary and office hours,” Billy said without moving. His eyes darted about in the darkness. “Now, get the hell out and call for an appointment.”
“I’m here now. Don’t waste my time.”
“How did you get in here?”
“Not important, Mr. Cranston.”
“I wanna know. How did you get in here?”
“We’ve already covered that. Let’s move on. You’re involved in, running actually, various activities hereabouts which are, to put it nicely, inappropriate for an honest businessman. Carlos Molina, the dead guy, was part of your muscle.”
“Did you kill Carlos?”
“Not important.”
“Did you?”
“Good cover. Asking me, when you pulled the trigger yourself.”
“Me? Why would I kill a loyal employee?”
“I can think of a couple reasons which would point directly at you. That is, if there was a proper investigation.”
“Such as?”
“Your so called, ‘loyal employee’ was fucking your wife. Besides that, he torched your barn. As for your wife, you don’t love her, she doesn’t love you. The lighter found behind your barn belonged to Carlos. You’re better off without men of that ilk.”
“My wife is fat and oversexed. She can fuck whoever she wants, with my thanks. I don’t give a shit.”
“You need a partner. Someone more dependable and resourceful than the buffoons you’ve got around you. Your sheriff is a weak bully. The old judge you have in your pocket is closing in on retirement. He’s eager to get free of you. With Carlos gone your best muscle is a bartender who follows orders mostly because he can’t think for himself. Then there’s the fugitive you’ve got running your gambling casino. To those sad sacks you occasionally add the security guys from the casino or a couple of big ranch hands willing to do your bidding for a free pass in your whorehouse and a few beers. These nitwits have been sufficient for herding the chickens cooped up in Cranston, but that’s not what you’re facing now. When real competition starts coming after you, and it’s already here, you’re alone.”
“The hell with Carlos. I don’t need him. He’s yesterday’s news. What I want to know is why in hell should I give you a piece of whatever I’m doing? All of which is fully legal, I assure you.”
“Legal maybe, with the sheriff and judge on your payroll. But not according to the state boys, or the feds for that matter.”
“Your accusations are quite irregular.”
“Irregular? That’s a damn prissy way of saying it.”
“Where the hell are you? For Christ sake let’s turn on a damn light.”
“This is just fine, Mr. Cranston. I don’t need the light. I know what you look like. And, until we reach our agreement, what I look like is not important.”
“Just who do you think you are, breaking into my office, and talking to me disrespectfully?”
“Like I said, I’m your new partner. Being born into the catbird seat, you’ve never learned how to deal with people you can’t intimidate. Let me make it simple. I want a cut of your whorehouse, your casino, your marijuana smuggling, your harbored fugitives, and all the rest.”
“I do not engage in any illegal activities. You can trust me on that.”
“Sure. I can trust you. You can trust me. Our problem is we can’t trust each other.”
“I should beat hell of you and throw you out that window.”
“Now that’s a more manly way of speaking. After having talked all prissy before, when I expected you to threaten to pound the shit out of me. I’ll get back to you in a few days, Mr. Cranston. I’ll expect your answer then.”
“What’s to keep me from having a few friends with me next week? Friends, who could make you talk.”
“Do it and I’ll force you to kill me. The threat of force is hollow without the willingness to kill. Times have changed, Mr. Cranston. You need help or you’ll end up like the wheat stubble which in a week or two will be plowed under in your fields.”
“I’m sick and tired of your disrespect,” Billy sputtered. “Get the hell out of here.”
“I have not been disrespectful. I didn’t damage your office when I came in. I have repeatedly referred to you as Mr. Cranston.”
“You have tried to extort money from me for criminal activity where there is none. I call that disrespectful.”
Wham.
Without warning, the man slugged Billy Cranston in the face, sending him backwards over his desk. He fell on the other side, into the space along the wall, knocking his desk chair to the side. His tipped over wastebasket rolled in a half circle.
“Now that’s disrespect,” Ryan Testler said to the fallen Billy Cranston who could no longer hear him.
Chapter Sixteen
Women no longer need to be courted so long and promised so much to get them in the sack
THURSDAY
The morning sun entered the west facing window of Linda’s hotel room as if unsure of its welcome. It should not have been unsure. The sun was definitely unwelcome, yet relentless. No longer able to fight off its invasion, she got up at seven-thirty, was out of her room by eight-thirty, and had finished two cups of coffee and an English muffin by a little after nine.
After breakfast she drove for a while, then returned downtown and walked around, had a light lunch and made a heavy decision.
The sign on the wall inside the duplex building announced the names of its two tenants: the Cranston office of a Midwest chain of small loan companies, and Denton Austin, Attorney at Law.
She walked into Lawyer Austin’s office and approached the receptionist. “My name is Carol Benson. I’m new in town. I’d like to see Mr. Austin. Is he available now or do I need to make an appointment?”
“He has an eleven o’clock. He may be preparing. Please take a seat and let me check with him.” Her desk nameplate said Rita Long. She got up and went through a door behind her desk area.
She came back in a minute or so, talking before the door had finished closing behind her. “He can see you now, Ms. Benson. He has some time.” Right about then, a door to the left of the front desk opened and a gray-haired, fit looking man in his mid-fifties came out.
“Ms. Benson. I’m Denton Austin. Please come in.”
Linda followed him inside. He hung back to shut the door. She sat across from him, his desk between them.
“What is your hourly rate, Mr. Austin?”
> He smiled. “You get right to it. That’s fine. I charge $200 an hour.”
She opened her purse and took out two one-hundred dollar bills, putting them on his desk. “This is for one hour. I’ll need a receipt. That’ll get us started. Do you agree this begins a client-attorney privilege and whatever I tell you will be in the strictest of confidence?”
“Yes.”
“Is Billy Cranston or any of the Cranston corporations a client of your firm? For that matter is any Cranston, whether by blood or marriage? I’m trying to ascertain to what extent you may have a conflict of interest in possibly representing me.”
“Billy, as well as the local women and brothers-in-law of the Cranstons use firms in Kansas City and Wichita. I’ve never done any work for any of the Cranstons. Nor have the other two attorneys in town, as far as I know. Billy’s Kansas City firm does the town’s legal work. There’s no client conflict for me to represent you against the Cranstons, if that’s your question. Do you have issues with the Cranstons?”
“In a broad sense, yes, though I can share no specifics at this time.”
“All right, Ms. Benson. Here is your receipt. You’ve got the groundwork in place. What’s this about?”
“My real name is Linda Darby. You’re handling my mother Katie Lynn Darby’s will. The reading is coming in a few days, correct?”
“Yes to that also. My turn for a question: Why you are using the name Carol Benson?”
“I wanted to get an honest feel for the town. I could do that best as a stranger.”
“Fair enough. How long do you plan to keep this up?”
“Probably until your reading of the will. Do you know if my half-brother Arthur is in town yet?”
“He called to say he’d get in the night before the reading, maybe a little earlier.”
“Do you know Dixon Wardley and is he a client?”
“I’ve known Dixon Wardley for quite some years, but never did any legal work for him. I don’t know that he’s had any reason for a lawyer. If he did, he might use me. My guess is he would, but we’ve not had that discussion. Do you have issues with Wardley?”
