Samuel started chuckling. Myra gave him a steely look, which served to aggravate the man’s amusement. He now laughed so hard tears formed in his eyes. Myra looked at him sternly.
“Attempted extortion isn’t funny, Samuel. Whatever in the world are you …?”
The man could barely contain himself and struggled to answer. “‘Zion’s Revenge,’ Myra.” He wiped the tears from his cheek. “You wrote it. Think about it.”
The man’s laugh was contagious, at least to Alexia, who fought to contain herself. “You … you thought I was …” she said. Soon she, too, had tears running down both cheeks.
Myra glanced back and forth between the two, while she failed to get the joke. Then it hit her. Marcus Kolby, the book’s protagonist, used the same phrase to throw people off guard and get their attention when he wasn’t getting what he wanted from them. It never failed to reward him with a return phone call or a favor, even though he knew no secrets. He played on their petty paranoias and family skeletons to move along his own plan. Now, she, too, had been duped, by Marcus Kolby and her own imagination.
Myra reddened and slumped back into the chair, arms and legs relaxing. Her personal paranoia had been clearly on display, but the skeletons remained safely in their respective closets.
“I’m sorry. I don’t really know anything. I figured you’d get it right away and realize I just really wanted to have some time to talk with you.” Alexia looked truly apologetic for upsetting Myra.
“I-I don’t know what to say,” she uttered. She sat upright and addressed the young woman. “Ms. Hamilton, I must apologize for thinking the worst of you. You most certainly have my attention now. So, what can I do for you?”
“Well, now that we’re getting off on the right foot, I –”
“Stop!” Myra shook her head. “Please, no clichés. You should know better if you made it into the USC program. I hate clichés.”
The young woman composed herself and replied, “Okay. I have two requests. Actually, it’s like one request with a part A and part B. I want to do my dissertation on the rise of women as authors of popular fiction and you are my favorite author. As part of my work, I’m hoping to have easy access to you, to learn how you think, how you became the writer you are, stuff like that. Part B came later, to become your assistant for this book, and that was Samuel’s idea. It would help me accomplish the first part. I could help fulltime until my coursework starts in September, and then part-time after that.”
Myra didn’t know whether to be flattered or terrified.
“Learning how I think might be scarier than you can imagine. Besides, I’m not sure I’ve figured that out for myself yet.” Myra pondered the implications of this woman tagging along for her final book. She fully expected a posthumous release of her final novel, when embarrassment would be impossible. Was she actually ready to unveil her personal secrets to a stranger pre-mortem?
“So, what do you have to offer me as an assistant?”
Without hesitation, Alexia offered a list of tasks she could perform from making tea and coffee, to setting up appointments to research to proofreading. After all, she did have the literary chops to make it into the USC doctoral program. Surely, she had the skills to help.
Also without hesitation, Myra found herself accepting Alexia’s proposal. How the word “yes” formed in her mouth, she didn’t understand, because in her mind she didn’t want to accept her need for an assistant. Moreover, she certainly had no desire to have a babysitter. So, where did that word “yes” come from?
“Thank you,” replied the surprised grad student.
“Wonderful,” stated Samuel, clapping his hands twice. “I knew you’d find her helpful. I’ve already booked her flight and into the Mabel Luhan house with you.”
“You did what?”
“Well, I had her make the arrangements. She was quite expedient at it. I’ve arranged a per diem for her, to cover meals and miscellaneous expenses. Her luggage is in the car and I figured she could spend the night here. You know, to make it easier for you both to make the flight together on time tomorrow.”
“Don’t think so,” replied Myra. “I am not prepared for a house guest on such short notice. Besides, I’m flying by private charter, so I’ll be leaving from Monterey Peninsula Airport. Get her a motel room here in town or near the airport and I’ll arrange for the car service to stop by on our way.”
“She’s not a guest. She’s your new assistant and you have so much room here you could house a college dorm load of assistants.”
“No, not this time, Samuel. I don’t need help packing. She starts that job effective upon our arrival tomorrow at the airport.” She turned toward Alexia. “Sorry, nothing personal. I-I just think I need the rest of the day to be alone. To get some things done that I truly don’t need, or want, help with.”
She stood up and moved toward the front door to usher them out. Samuel and Alexia followed. As they walked past the living room, Alexia pointed to all the flowers and said, “You know, those are going to be a big mess when you come home.”
Myra turned to Samuel. “She’s right. Could you arrange to have them sent to some nursing homes or someplace?”
“Sorry, Myra, not in my job description.”
“Alexia, could you do that?”
As Samuel opened the door and led Alexia outside, he responded, “Sorry, Myra, you made it quite clear she’s not your assistant ‘til tomorrow. We’re going to find a nice place for lunch, so’s I can fill her in on all your eccentricities and pet peeves. Then I’ll find her that room for the night you asked me to find.” He stopped a few feet from the door and turned back. “However, if she stayed here, she could no doubt handle that for you. Probably take all afternoon. Plus, there’s a good chance you’ll be getting more. She could arrange to divert any future deliveries to the locations of your choosing, out of your generosity and good name, of course.”
Myra stood speechless, exchanging glances between her agent and the floral menagerie overflowing from her living room. She hated to surrender them to the compost pile before their time, but the thought of coming home to a room, or worse, a houseful of rotting flora held no appeal. An even worse thought hit her – her diva’s crown must be slipping. Samuel actually got the better of her this time.
Seventeen
**********
Emory Albritton had just finished his speech at a fundraiser when the phone in his jacket pocket vibrated. He suspected who was calling, but had to delay returning the call until he sat in the back of his campaign’s SUV. The driver had instructions to take him back to the motel in Charlotte. Being careful with his words, he returned the phone call.
“You saw what?” barked Emory Albritton. Dewey had his full attention.
“Just what I said. Some guy in his fifties picked up the Hamilton gal early this morning. He arrived about dawn. Overweight, bad rosacea, thinning hair. Expensive clothes, though. Hadn’t seen this guy before and he seemed out of place with the girl, so I sprinted to my car and made it back to her apartment in time to watch her load some luggage into his trunk and leave. I followed them all the way to Carmel. Pretty sure the car’s a rental, and I’m thinkin’ the guy might be Mitchell’s agent. He’s been in town with her in the hospital.”
The man paused and Albritton felt the full impact of this disclosure, more than Dewey could have imagined.
“They ended up at a gated community in Carmel, a place called Tehama. Very upscale. I couldn’t follow past the front gate, but I learned that’s where Mitchell lives. I waited and finally saw the guy leave, alone. I can only assume the girl’s now staying with Mitchell.”
Albritton drummed his fingers on the car door’s armrest. “Okay. Let me think on this and I’ll call you back. See if you can find a way to watch the house.”
Back in the motel, he found his suite empty. Misty was at a Democratic women’s function, but he expected her return soon. He would be freer to talk while she was gone, but he didn’t want to rush his ans
wer. Instead, he paced between the front room and the bedroom. After a few minutes, he approached the bar and poured two fingers of fine single-malt, neat, into an Old Fashion glass. He then opened the French doors onto the balcony and looked out over Charlotte’s skyline and its night-lights. His schedule required his return to Raleigh in the morning, where he would become too busy to attend to the matter at hand.
He felt two hands run softly up and over both shoulders from behind. He smiled and turned to his wife of thirty years and college sweetheart for the four years before formalizing their relationship. He hadn’t heard her enter the suite.
“Deep, weighty matters of state?” she asked in a playful tone.
“What?”
“You’ve spent the evening glad-handing and drinking with the big boys and now you’re out here with scotch in hand. Must be something heavy on your mind.”
He shrugged. Heavy? Only if you consider losing everything heavy, he thought. “Only the usual conundrum wrapped in enigma, but without the riddle.”
“What? No riddle? Where’s the fun in that? You should have this solved in no time.”
He took her hand and pulled her closer, kissing her on the cheek. “Got a phone call to make. Then, if you’re willing, we could go upstairs to the club for a little dancing.”
She kissed him back, on the lips. “I was thinking of something a little more private,” she whispered in his ear before turning and walking into the bedroom. He remained a prisoner of her charms, but the stress of the previous few weeks had forced him to get a confidential prescription for Cialis™. He knew his performance problem was all in his head, but how could he share this problem with Misty? No, he would not threaten his marriage by confessing to past sins.
Earlier, on his way to the balcony, before Misty had arrived, he had caught sight of the day’s Raleigh News & Observer on the coffee table. He retrieved it as he returned to the bedroom, but had not taken time to peruse the pages. As he tossed it on the bed, he noted a story headline on the bottom half of the front page – “Chief Justice Hoglund Retiring.” He now picked up the paper and began to read.
“Ending months of rumor and speculation, State Supreme Court Chief Justice Michael W. Hoglund has announced his retirement with the end of the current court session. Justice Hoglund, who recently turned 82, has served the high court for over twenty years and …”
Albritton scanned the story as it listed the Justice’s contributions to the state. However, as he undid his tie, the final paragraph caught his full attention.
“The Justice will leave for Santa Fe, New Mexico to live with his son and family, a move he makes with great sadness in leaving the state he served well and loves so much.”
Albritton felt a lightening of the load on his mind as he realized his problem might no longer be so critical. With the Justice leaving the state, one crucial dot would become more difficult to connect to the remaining ones. Not impossible, just more difficult. The unknowing role played by then Superior Court Judge Hoglund in a certain legal trust case would require a few more steps to ferret out. After all, not everything pertaining to the case could be found in publicly available records. Only a sharp memory would recall some of the behind-the-scenes maneuvering. The Justice had such a memory, but maybe, just maybe, the details of the official court record would not arouse enough suspicion to warrant an investigator’s cross-country trip to visit a retired justice.
So, again, he faced his conundrum wrapped in enigma. Just what had Alexia Hamilton discovered? Could she connect the dots leading back to the Umfleet trust? He hoped not. Maybe she knew nothing.
Yet, the senator knew better than to rely on hope and maybes. He quickly returned to the balcony, out of earshot from his wife, and quietly placed his call. Dewey held few scruples and had never shown a drop of remorse in prior dealings.
Eighteen
**********
By suppertime, Myra had come to respect several good qualities in Alexia. She was highly efficient, having found “homes” for all of the floral arrangements, as well as transportation to those homes at no cost to Myra. Alexia had reclaimed the living room without need of a machete. The woman had also arranged for future deliveries to go straight to a deserving charity that promised to note the type of floral array on the card accompanying the piece and to hold all cards for collection at a later date, should Myra chose to individually acknowledge receipt of the gift, as Alexia suggested. The PR potential of sending such “thank yous” hadn’t crossed Myra’s mind, although in her current circumstance the PR advantage would make little difference.
Myra greatly appreciated Alexia’s not being intrusive. The gal acted when called upon, but otherwise stayed to herself and out of Myra’s way. Not once had she inquired about Myra’s health or about what had happened to lead to her hospitalization. She seemed quite bright and Myra had no doubts that, one, Samuel had given her some account of the situation, or two, she simply added up easy observations – Myra’s pastel pumpkin color, her public reputation as a hard partier, and Samuel’s instructions to keep Myra clear of any and all alcohol. He had given that instruction clearly in Myra’s presence on two occasions before leaving, just so there would be no confusion.
Alexia also knew her way around a kitchen.
“This is absolutely delicious,” said Myra. She twirled her fork in the air. “How in the world did you put this together from my pantry?”
“I didn’t. I only needed five minutes in your kitchen to realize you never actually cook anything in there. I stopped at the market while I was out.” She scooped up some pasta and chicken, placed it in her mouth, and chewed. A minute later, she added, “And don’t worry, this is within the guidelines of your prescribed diet. I took the liberty of surfing the Internet for information on diet restrictions in liver failure, as well as finding a few recipes to get us started.”
Myra raised one eyebrow and looked at the girl. So, Samuel was a snitch. “How much did Samuel tell you about me?”
“Not much really. Unfortunately, this isn’t my first go around with someone in liver failure.”
Myra heard a subtle chime and looked about the room in confusion. Was she hearing things? She thought the DTs were over. She relaxed when Alexia pulled her smart phone from a back pocket.
“What’s that?” Myra asked.
“My iPhone.”
“No, I meant the chime.”
“Oh. I subscribe to a handful of RSS feeds. They get channeled to my phone so I can keep up-to-date on news events and such.”
“RSS? Sorry, but I’m a bit old fashioned. I still wrote my books freehand on paper until a few years ago when Samuel bought me a laptop and lessons for a Christmas gift.”
“RSS – Really simple syndication. It’s just a format for sending out news updates across the Internet. This one’s a blog update from an old coworker back in North Carolina. The state Supreme Court Chief Justice is retiring. I interviewed him once, when I was volunteering for Project Innocence. We were looking at a couple cases where he presided. Interesting man. He actually started in a law practice near where I grew up.” She paused for a moment, caught up in the blog. “Wow, this is interesting. He’s moving to Santa Fe to live with his son. Gee, I wonder when he’s arriving. Maybe I can connect with him again. How far is that from Taos?”
Myra looked at her new assistant, wondering how her writing career might have been affected by today’s technology.
“Hendersonville.”
Alexia looked up. “What?”
“Hendersonville, North Carolina. That’s where you grew up, right?”
Alexia looked startled, and upset.
“H-how do you know that?”
“Dear, you don’t get to my level of writing without a network of resources. Why’d you give up journalism?”
Alexia didn’t answer right away and Myra felt her glare from across the room. How much information she’d share with the young woman was yet to be determined. A single phone call to USC not only provided Myra
with Alexia’s complete resume but with it, a faxed copy of her application to the creative writing program and an invitation to sit on Alexia’s doctorate committee. Celebrity certainly had its perks at times and leverage was good to have at all times.
“What? Don’t look at me like that. I am on the board for your program at USC. Did you think I’d let you stay on as my assistant without checking you out? I was busy while you were out.” She paused. “You’re still here, by the way. Reflect on that.”
Alexia finally answered. “I found it interesting, at first. But, it became as clear as the nose on my face that –”
Myra held up her hand to stop the woman, and slashed her finger across her neck as she gave Alexia a stern look. She mouthed, “No clichés.”
Alexia rolled her eyes and continued, “I realized a career in journalism was never my goal, but it was a means toward getting there. Tent making, to use a Biblical concept. The Apostle Paul made –”
“Yes, I’m familiar with the term.”
“I want to write fiction, to tell stories.”
“And having a doctorate is somehow going to make that easier?” Myra made a habit of keeping her past life a private matter, as attested to by Samuel a week earlier. However, life no longer held promise to be long and healthy. “Alexia, as we get to know each other over the next few weeks, I’ve decided to share some things with you that less than a handful of people know about me. The first of which is that I have no high degrees. I didn’t even finish college, but my life experience taught me, gave me insight into people that I used to craft characters, and sometimes even the stories to tell. Don’t expect a fancy Ph.D. to magically transform your career.”
Alexia mulled that over for a few minutes as she finished dinner. “I believe that. All stories come from life in some way, shape, or form. The doctorate isn’t for that so much, as I’d rather teach than chase newsworthy events, if I have to fall back to something other than writing.”
“Then, I think you’ve made a good choice.” Myra stood and began to clear her dishes.
Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense Page 65
