Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense

by Luana Ehrlich

  “Sally watches over us. Makes sure we’re healthy. Teaches us basic business practices and how to invest our money. She’s got accounts for each of us with our money and we’re free to leave whenever we want. No one forces us to do this. Like I said, soon as I graduate, I’m out of here.” A tear fell from each eye. “So, don’t judge us.”

  Betsy placed her hand on Jennie’s shoulder. “I’m not judging anyone. This is all new to me, but I just don’t believe I’m up to doing this. Only thing I know I’m good at is writin’ short stories and drawin’.”

  “Can you make money doing that? You need money to survive, you know.”

  Betsy didn’t know the answer to that question. She’d never tried to sell a story, but she knew that magazines had to get their articles from somewhere and surely they paid the authors something.

  “What kind of writing can you start with that’ll make some money?”

  Betsy still had no confirmed answer.

  “You could do this while writing all day. Think about it. I really, really want you to stay.”

  With that, Jennie turned and marched off to the kitchen leaving Betsy alone in the main room. Jennie’s tone, as well as her final statement caught Betsy as unusual. They’d just met. Why would she feel so strongly about Betsy staying on? Why was she pushing so hard? There had to be something else, some other reason.

  Nevertheless, Betsy wouldn’t be there long. She would find Jimmy quickly and they would move on. How could she tell her son that she supported herself as a hooker while searching for him? Her pa had already called her a slut for sleeping one time with a boy she had loved. She didn’t want to earn the title legitimately. Not that her pa’s opinion mattered to her. He was as good as dead to her, and she hoped he felt the same way about her because she didn’t want to run into him ever again.

  Still, this place sure looked nice. She gazed around the room and walked toward a wall of photos. Most showed Sally with a variety of young women over a number of years. Some showed Sally with prominent looking men in suits. Most curious were photos of what appeared to be a younger Jim, some dancing, some of him on stage, some of him in a variety of costumes. He had obviously been a performer of some type when younger.

  Betsy retreated to her room, happy to see it undisturbed when she opened the door. She grabbed her map and the address of Lester’s bus yard. As Jennie had stated, it was less than half a mile away. She opened a box of Ritz crackers and her peanut butter, and realizing she had again forgotten to get a knife she could use to spread the PB, dipped each cracker into the jar. Her hunger abated with less than a dozen pieces and she stopped, dreaming of another piece of that chocolate. Maybe Jennie would sell her a couple of bars.

  She wrote in her diary and had time for a brief nap before setting off for her first day at work, so she lay down on the bed and thought about the day. What a curious cast of characters she had met. There had to be some short stories she could write mixed in there somewhere.

  She also thought about Jennie’s comment about earning money with her writing. Magazine articles were a possibility, as were newspaper articles. Maybe she could write for the newspaper as she had mentioned to Lester on the ride to town. If she liked it and wanted to move up, maybe college wasn’t so far a reach as she once thought. That thought birthed a new realization: she would have to provide high school grades and a diploma. That meant going back to Frampton Corner. She would have to come up with some other means.

  She thought about other types of writing. Businesses had to have someone write their brochures and flyers, didn’t they? Maybe there was an opportunity there. A scene from the grocery store flashed through her mind. A rotating rack of greeting cards. Yes, that was something she could definitely do. She could write that kind of stuff for hours on end, and draw the art, too.

  Betsy woke up to discover she had slept longer than planned. Lester had told her to be at the yard no later than ten fifteen that night so she’d be ready to work when he pulled into the yard. Her watch told her she had but ten minutes to get there on time.

  She jumped up from bed and rushed to the bathroom. On her way back out, she grabbed an apple from the bag on the shelf. Her biggest dilemma was what to do with her valuables. She didn’t want to leave them behind while she was off the property, yet she didn’t want to become a target for some robber in this “not so good” neighborhood, as the guy at the hardware store called it. She decided to trust in her new lock and hid her papers and most of her money between the pad and mattress. Someone would have to tear apart the bed to find her cache, not just lift up the mattress. She confirmed that the mace sat in a convenient location in her purse and placed the knife into the right pocket of her bell-bottoms.

  She did a quick recheck of the map and picked up her purse. As was to become her ritual, she rechecked the windows, closed the door tight, locked it, and added the padlock to the hasp. She rushed along the strange streets keeping her eyes open and mind alert to her surroundings, much of it hidden in deep darkness now. Two left turns, four barking dogs, and ten minutes later, she approached a tall, chain-link fenced yard surrounding a taller barn-like building in the middle and a modest home to one side. A weathered sign of red block letters on a dirty white background announced, “West Mountain Motor Coach Co.”

  Betsy walked through the open gate and approached the barn but made it no closer than thirty feet from the building when a large German shepherd confronted her, snarling with teeth bared and ears alert.

  She knew to stop and make no provoking moves. “Nice dog. It’s okay. I’m supposed to be here. Nice dog.” She moved her hand slowly into her purse and wrapped her fingers around the can of mace. The guard dog eased toward her, sniffing the air. Betsy’s grip tightened around the can and she eased her hand to the opening of the purse. “Good dog.” She lowered her other hand, displaying the back of it toward the dog in a nonthreatening manner at a level where the animal could choose to sniff it. She noticed its ears relaxing a bit. “I’m not here to hurt you. Good dog,” she said softly.

  The shepherd came closer and smelled her hand. Betsy didn’t want to make any sudden move but the dog’s nose tickled and her hand jerked subtly. The dog jumped back and growled. “I won’t hurt you. Nice dog,” she repeated. How long will this standoff last? she wondered. She took a small step backward, but the dog responded by crouching in preparation to jump.

  “Roscoe!” The shrill voice came from Betsy’s rear right, near the house. The dog immediately sat, alert to movement behind Betsy. She turned slowly and saw a giant of a woman bearing down on them. The grey-haired woman with strong Germanic features appeared over six-foot tall and heavyset even for her large frame. The image of a Wagnerian opera entered her mind. Had the woman been wearing a helmet with upswept horns and a dark velvet cape, and started to sing, Betsy knew it would be all over for her.

  The woman pointed to the dog and waved it back into the barn. “Inside, Roscoe!” The dog obeyed in an instant. By then the woman was next to Betsy. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  Betsy felt a nervous tingle quiver through her body. “I-I’m Betsy, Betsy Weston. Are you Hilda? Your husband offered m-me a temporary job cleaning the bus. I came into town on it last night. I-I’m supposed to meet him here as the bus returns tonight.”

  The woman scrutinized Betsy from head to toe. “He take you to that whorehouse he think I know nothing about? You one o’ them?”

  “Um, yes, ma’am, he took me to the Rest Stop but I just thought it was another motel, until … Oh! Oh, no, I’m no working girl. I-I paid rent on a room for one week, ‘til I can find something else.”

  “Well, he not here yet. He not mention to me about hiring anyone. He can clean that bus all by himself.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just doin’ as he asked. My family’s gone and I’m on my own. I think he felt sorry for me. I’ll leave if you want.” Betsy didn’t want to make trouble. That seemed to be finding her well enough without encouraging such fate.

 
; The woman’s countenance softened and her shoulders relaxed as she eyed Betsy from head to toe again. “He be here soon enough. Then we discuss it. Might be okay to agree, long as you not one of them trollops he visit.” The woman turned back toward the house.

  “Thank you, Ma’am. Mind if I wait inside?”

  The woman spoke over her shoulder without turning back. “Long as you don’t mind Roscoe. Go ahead.”

  Betsy eased open the smaller man door and peeked inside the barn. The dog lay on a large dirty cushion off to one side of a half-windowed door that appeared to lead to a small separate office. It stood and faced her as she slipped quietly through the exterior doorway, but after a moment, he resumed his place. Must think I’m okay if I made it this far past Hilda, she thought.

  She looked about and saw all kinds of mechanic’s tools sitting organized along one wall, while spare tires and parts sat on shelves adjacent to the small office. The central area remained clear with large double doors on both ends that allowed the vehicle easy ingress and egress from the building. Betsy saw a couple of battered metal folding chairs next to the far set of doors, and slowly walked toward them, leery and watchful of the dog, which seemed equally distrustful of her.

  She made it to the chairs without incident and sat down, placing her purse on her lap with one hand on the mace can just inside its leather throat. She scanned the building a few times and softly whistled to bide her time. She noticed the dog’s ears perk up and watched it cock its head back and forth, as she unthinkingly whistled “You Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog.” When she realized what the song was, she added a bit more vigor. The dog inched forward, off the cushion and onto the dirt floor, it forelegs extended forward while its hind legs remained cocked and poised to spring forward in a split second. Its tail started to wag slowly, almost in beat with her tune.

  When she concluded the song, she launched into another Elvis Presley melody, “Heartbreak Hotel.” The dog’s wag became so energized, its rear end joined in and Betsy started to laugh.

  “So, you’re an Elvis fan, too, huh?”

  She switched from whistling to humming and the dog stood up, seeming ready to dance. She stood up and began an emotional, and awful, Elvis impersonation of “All Shook Up” and dog began to jump and dance around her. As she finished, she sat down laughing and Roscoe’s head was in her lap, licking her hands.

  “Good thing you’re not a critic. That was terrible.” She fondled Roscoe’s head and rubbed his ears. A moment later, those ears peaked and he let loose a “woof.” Betsy heard the engine gear down a moment later. Roscoe ran to the opposite doors and danced as they opened. Betsy watched as Roscoe ran to his master and Lester bent over and gave the dog a welcoming rubdown and ear scratch. The man looked up, caught sight of Betsy, and looked surprised.

  “Well now, wasn’t sure I’d actually see you here tonight.” He looked down at Roscoe and waved his finger at the dog. “Some guard dog you are.” The dog ran to the door of the bus and wiggled in glee until Lester said, “Okay.” Roscoe bound up the steps and sat down in the aisle right next to the driver’s seat. Lester shook his head, climbed aboard, and pulled the bus into the barn. As he turned off the engine, Roscoe jumped from the top step to the dirt and ran to Betsy, pulling up and sitting next to her.

  Lester chuckled as he dismounted his stead. “I see you’ve met my ferocious watchdog.”

  “Um, yes, Sir. He, uh … Actually, he did his job real well. Your wife came to my rescue and …”

  “Uh-oh. Forgot to mention you to her.”

  “Um, yes, Sir. Once she let me by, I guess Roscoe figured I was allowed to be here. Then I discovered we’re both Elvis fans and we’ve been friends since.”

  Lester’s hearty laugh echoed off the walls. “I’ll be. ‘All Shook Up’ is his favorite.”

  “So I learned,” replied Betsy and Lester hooted and slapped his thigh.

  “All my fault. Shoulda trained him better.”

  “Lester!” Hilda’s yell pierced the barn walls and ricocheted through the rafters.

  “Better go clear this up. There’s a broom o’er there and that short metal bin. If’n you put it right under the bottom step, you can sweep the trash right into it. We need to sweep it out first, then clean windows and seats, and finally mop the floor. I wash the outside, luggage compartment, and wheels, too, if they need it. We can probably pass on that tonight.”

  “Lester!”

  “Be right back.”

  Betsy retrieved a straw broom that had seen better days and the stout rectangular metal tub. She slid the tub in place and found she couldn’t climb past it to enter the bus. So she slid one end askew, hopped aboard the first step, and used the broom handle to pull the tub back in place. Within minutes, she had the floor swept and the tub half-full of candy wrappers, napkins, empty potato chip bags, and the like. This trash was a whole lot easier to deal with than some of the things she found outside the rooms at the Rest Stop.

  Lester returned and glanced into the bin. “Pretty typical. You can empty it into the dumpster just outside those doors there.” He pointed to the exit doors. “If it’s too heavy for ya, there’s a dolly over there you can use to move it.”

  “It won’t be. I can lift that.”

  Lester nodded. “Look, the old lady’s not too happy ‘bout my offerin’ you this work, but I talked her into one week. If she sees a benefit, then we might be able to extend it. ‘Course, I’m the one usually doin’ all the work, so I’m not sure what she’s gonna count as a benefit. Just so you know.”

  Betsy wasn’t sure what to think. Despite the warnings, the man had been straightforward and pleasant, and the work didn’t appear daunting. She’d done harder chores at home, things her pa should have done but never did. If the man remained businesslike, she hoped the work would continue. Of course, if he became the “handy” man of earlier warnings, her outlook would change.

  Over the course of the next two hours, Lester showed her how he liked things done and when she finished, he gave her his nod of approval, and her ten dollars. So far, this job lived up to her expectations.

  Betsy hurried back to the Rest Stop. She noticed cars parked in only half the slots as she tried to slip past unseen. Already beer bottles and more littered the gravel drive. She arrived at her door to find a note from the front office taped to the outside. She grabbed it and rushed to unlock the padlock and door. Inside, the room appeared as she left it. She checked on her valuables and found them as she had left them. She sat on the bed and unfolded the note.

  “Mr. Mathews will see you at ten o’clock sharp. Don’t be late.”

  Twelve

  **********

  The morning presented Betsy with a dilemma. A front had moved into the area overnight and scattered showers fell across Asheville. Currently the sky was dry, but should she risk a sudden soaking in the rain or should she arrange for other transportation? She had no umbrella. To buy one would add yet one more modest expense to her growing chain of minor purchases. These everyday expenditures were adding up too fast, and the item would be something else she would have to carry when she moved on. Did Asheville have taxicabs? She wondered what that would cost.

  At nine-twenty Betsy opened her door and scanned the sky. She decided to take a chance on the weather. Dressed in a straight skirt and blouse given to her by Mary, along with her only pair of nice shoes, she placed her important papers in her purse but left most of her cash in its hiding spot in the room. She performed her ritual of securing the room and scurried out to the street. A block down the road she picked up a newspaper left behind on a bench and figured it would provide some protection from the rain, if needed.

  Fifteen minutes later, she started looking for the road where she’d have to turn right, but after two, three, four blocks down the road, she had not seen the street she needed. She stopped and retrieved her map. In her hurry, she had missed the turn and now backtracked six blocks. When she came to the right intersection, the name on the street did n
ot correspond to the map. She stepped into a nearby dry cleaner’s shop and stepped up to the counter.

  “Excuse me. I’m looking for Wright Street. I figure this should be it, but the street sign says Wesley Boulevard.”

  “You’re okay. Street name got changed to honor some politician but the maps don’t have the switch yet. To make matters worser, soon as you leave the city limits, the name changes back to Wright Street. Leave it to politicians to muck up the simplest things.”

  Betsy noticed the clock on the rear wall and realized she needed to hurry. “Thanks.” She rushed from the building and raced toward the law office. Breathless, at nine fifty-eight she entered the front door and presented herself to the receptionist. She had made it on time and dry.

  Promptly at ten, a prim lady in her mid-forties appeared from a hallway to Betsy’s left and called her name. The woman ushered Betsy to an office at the end of the corridor and opened the door. Betsy entered the walnut paneled room with bookshelves lining a long wall and fancy fringed carpets on the floor. A tall striking man who appeared to be in his early forties rose from behind an old oak desk and adjusted the rimless spectacles on his nose. He towered above Betsy wearing a well-tailored gray serge suit, dark maroon bow tie, and expensive looking shoes. His full head of short-cropped brown hair added to his military bearing.

  “Miss Weston. I’m Thomas Mathews. Please have a seat. May we get you something to drink? Coffee, perhaps, or a soda.”

  Betsy hadn’t had the luxury of a soda pop in as many weeks as she could remember. Though she normally wouldn’t indulge in such before lunch, the thought of the sweet drink enticed her gut to purr in approval. “A Coca-cola would be nice. How much is it?”