His real interest was in finding Alice Cummings. He had learned from Amos that she’d witnessed him killing those two people. He couldn’t leave such a loose end untied. Folks, including the sheriff and DA all believe her to be dead. He needed to make sure they were never proven wrong. She could put the noose around his neck. There was no statute of limitations on murder.
He nibbled on corn chips and sipped a soda as he waited. He had one other dilemma to solve. That cartoon in the diner. It looked like Alice’s work, but the name on it said “Betsy” somebody. On his way home, he would detour back to Asheville and claim that cartoon for himself.
Dewey glanced at his watch. No visitors to the cemetery and the Post Office would be closing soon. He started his truck and headed back to town. He barged into the Post Office and ahead of the line of last minute customers.
Dewey slammed his fist onto the counter. “She show up?” His scowl left those in line silent.
The clerk looked nervous as he nodded. “Yes, Sir. Around two-thirty. Yellow mustang, like you said. I did just as you asked. I gave her directions to the cemetery.”
“She didn’t show up there.”
“What can I say? She left in that direction. I couldn’t force her to go there. She must have kept driving east.”
Dewey wanted to wring a neck. Anybody’s neck. But he knew better. This was a small town, backwoods Post Office. The clerk probably had a shotgun behind the counter. He growled and stormed back out the door.
Headin’ east, he thought. Back to Asheville. He had no chance of catching up to her, but he had to get that cartoon anyway. He could afford one more day of watching that whorehouse and diner. Maybe he’d even make use of their services.
Twenty-three
**********
Betsy had found a clean residential area that looked safer than the environs of The Rest Stop and parked in front of a house with a bright front porch light. For the second night, after her routine journal entry, she slept in the back seat. Tonight, though, she would have to spring for a motel room. She needed a shower, change of clothes, and a bed, not necessarily in that order.
That morning, she rose early and drove north, out of Sevierville where a newer road led north to the new Interstate Highway System. She’d heard about this highway project started by President Eisenhower, and had seen the cars and trucks speeding through Asheville on the recently completed Interstate 40. No way was she confident enough in her driving to compete with those high-speed idiot drivers.
Now, however, following a detailed consultation with her road map before sleeping, she knew she must brave these new highways if she wanted to cut down on her travel time. Her meager funds mandated an expedited trip, and Cincinnati was her destination. Of the top three greeting card companies, Gibson Greetings in the Queen City was the closest and therefore, first on her list.
She crossed over the Interstate and pulled off at the top of the entrance ramp. Below her, cars and trucks of every size zipped by at speeds she found dizzying. She exited the car and paced beside it, taking deep breaths while periodically glancing at the road below. She glanced over her shoulder at one point and upon seeing a long break in the traffic, decided to go for it. She raced back to the driver’s seat, put the car in gear, and started down the ramp at 35 m.p.h. As she moved into the near lane, she managed to take her eyes off the road ahead and glance into her rearview mirror in time to see an eighteen-wheeler bearing down on her. At that moment, the rig’s air-horn blasted the driver’s displeasure with her with one long blast, followed by her heart racing to Indy 500 track speeds.
Her knuckles blanched on the wheel as she prepared to die in the impact, but the semi whizzed past her in the adjacent lane, the driver throwing her one more irritable blast of the horn for her dastardly driving. She kept her eyes forward, preferring not to see death coming from behind and slowly increased her speed.
After a few miles and dozens of additional sonorous snorts from passing vehicles, she realized the lanes were wide, the pavement smooth, and the curves tamed so that higher speeds were more comfortable than the slow speeds she was accustomed to on the mountainous two-lane widow-makers where she learned to drive.
She crept up to the speed limit in time to slow down for the Knoxville city limits. A new panic set in. She needed to take I-75 north. How did that work? She noticed a sign above the lane announcing the northbound and southbound exits for I-75 and wondered if she would have to exit or come to a stoplight to make the turn.
She found herself distracted by the city’s buildings. While Asheville had seemed big, Knoxville appeared enormous. Another blaring car horn brought her attention from the skyline back to the road where she suddenly realized the exit for the next leg of her journey was upon her. She veered into the exit lane, narrowly missing a car coming up behind her in that lane, and a minute later found herself on northbound I-75. She smiled at the seamless transition and admired the efficiency of this new highway system, despite her near miss as a motor vehicle fatality headlining the evening news.
Three hours and one gas stop later, she found herself driving past towns named Erlanger and Fort Mitchell. They had been little more than names on the map of northern Kentucky, but as she passed through she knew they signaled the beginnings of urban development for a city larger than anything she’d experienced before, her final destination, Cincinnati. She entered a sweeping, downhill curve through a cut in the hill and the downtown skyline appeared, dominated by a tall building with a large orange “Central Trust” sign at the top and a taller building behind it.
Awed by the tall buildings, confused by the Interstate signage, and dazed by the traffic, she had made two wrong turns, stopped for directions three times, and found herself heading toward Columbus on I-71. She pulled off to the side of the road at the first spot she thought as being safe to do so. Traffic whizzed past her as she stood by the trunk of the car, trying to make heads and tails of her map.
Flashing lights caught her peripheral vision and she turned to see a State Highway Patrol car pull in behind her. The officer donned his hat as he emerged from the car.
“Are you okay, Miss? It’s not really safe on the side of these highways.”
“I’m sorry, officer. I’ve never been to a city this big and I’m totally lost.”
The officer smiled as if she’d said something funny. His look confused her. “So, where are you heading?”
She showed him the map and pointed to a spot on it. “This place. I need to go to Gibson Greeting Cards in the morning.”
“Easy. You just go …” He gave her simple directions. “By the way, there’s a motel just a half mile or so north, here on Reading Road. It’s called the Carousel. You might find it acceptable.”
She smiled. “Why, thank you, Officer ...” She scrutinized his nametag. “… Mueller. I will surely look into it.”
He gave her that funny smile again and she stepped toward the road, heading toward the driver’s door. That second, the patrolman’s arms grabbed her and pulled her back, just as a garbage truck careened past, close enough to have trashed her with one more step.
The following morning she left her room at the Carousel Inn and walked down the steps to the motel’s front office. Despite clear directions, ones she thought she had understood, it had taken her almost an hour the previous afternoon to find the motel and the little community of Roselawn, which was supposed to be only a twenty-minute drive from where she’d stopped on the highway.
“Good morning, young lady,” said the clerk as she entered the office. “How may I help you?”
“I’m looking for a good place to eat, not too expensive, and a bank.”
He pulled out a small assortment of local menus and prepared to present them to her. “Couple of banks along Reading Road here – Provident, Fifth Third, and a couple of savings and loans. Just head south. That way.” He pointed to his right. “Here visiting?”
“No Sir. Job hunting. I’m applying for a job as a writer at the greeting c
ard company.”
He looked her up and down and gave her the same funny smile as the highway patrolman. “Have you applied already?”
“No, Sir. I just arrived in town yesterday.”
“Know anybody who works there?”
“No, Sir.”
“I see.” His manner became abrupt. “Well, uh, here’s what I have in way of local menus.” He handed them to her and gave her time to peruse them.
As she handed them back, she asked, “If I might ask, why did you ask if I knew anyone there, at Gibson?”
“Just wondered. It’s a solid company and folks seem happy there. I don’t see many ads for jobs there and I know ‘cause I’m always lookin’ for something better than this. I figure folks who know someone there might just have a better chance.”
Betsy scrutinized the man. She read between the lines that he hoped to find an “in” for himself as well.
He smiled and said, “Anything else?”
“No, Sir. Thank you for your trouble.”
He chuckled and repeated that same odd smile. “Love the accent.”
She smiled and headed out the door. Her accent? She climbed into the Mustang and drove south until she found a small bagel bakery. She’d never had a bagel before, but soon found herself imitating others around her in slathering cream cheese onto a warm cinnamon, raisin bagel and devouring it. Her belly satisfied, she drove further south until coming upon a Fifth Third Bank. She opened a passbook savings account with all but a hundred dollars of her cash and took a small safety deposit box for her important papers and her great, great grandmother’s necklace.
As she left the vault, the young woman assisting her commented, “Love that accent. I bet it drives the guys crazy.”
Betsy laughed. “I wouldn’t know. Back home we don’t have any accent.”
She tucked her box key into her wallet, but then thought better of it and moved it to a zippered compartment in her purse. Moments later, she sat in her car, contemplating her next move. She had dressed for a job interview, unsure but hopeful that she would get one on the spot, and now realized she had another potential asset besides the samples of her writing tucked into her purse. “My sweet southern drawl,” she said aloud, laying it on thick as sorghum, as she had when she had called the Umfleet house and talked with the deputy. She wondered how Curt and his kids were doing without Mary. She made a mental note to call him, once she had a job and some money rolling in. She also needed to send Sally a forwarding address, once she had one.
She noted the time on a clock in the bank window and took a deep breath. It was time.
She drove north and turned east onto the road where the bakery sat. Less than a mile later, she turned into the long drive down a grassy slope to the Gibson Greetings, Inc. headquarters. Gibson was number three behind Hallmark and American Greetings, but she found her confidence flagging at the thought of trying the top two companies. Besides, Hallmark was another long day’s drive west to Kansas City, and American was in Cleveland. Who’d want to live in a place where the river catches fire?
She found her way to the employment office where a middle-aged woman in a perfectly fitted, skirted suit greeted her from behind a cluttered desk.
“Good morning, Ma’am. My name’s Betsy Weston and I’d like to apply for a job as a writer.”
The woman paused for a moment, gave Betsy an amused glance, and looked about before answering.
“Mr. Gordon isn’t available today, and I don’t believe we’re looking for any new writers right now.”
Betsy shuffled her feet a bit. She felt like a small town country bumpkin at that moment, but she had done her research. The thought came to her that she’d stopped a cold-blooded killer, why was she feeling so timid? Where the surge came from she had no idea, but her confidence soared. “I see. Might I ask you a question?”
The secretary nodded. “Sure, sweetie.”
“Well, I, uh, I’ve read maybe a hundred of y’all’s greeting cards in the past week, so I think I’ve got a pretty good feel for your writers’ work. They’re all men, aren’t they?”
Betsy noted a slight gleam in the woman’s eyes as a brief smile crossed her face.
“As a matter of fact, I think you’re right.”
“And they’re all middle-aged or older, right?”
The woman’s smile returned and stayed. “Right again, sweetie. You picked this all up just reading our cards?”
“Yes, Ma’am, and I bet other folks can tell, too, subconsciously anyway. I think y’all need some young blood and a female perspective on that writing staff of yours.”
The older blond woman took a deep breath and eyed Betsy from head to toe and back. Betsy knew the woman had underestimated her and sat there now, re-evaluating the young girl with the southern drawl.
“And you’re just the woman to fill the bill, right, Sweetie?”
“Yes, Ma’am, I am. Can I make an appointment to meet with Mr. Gordon?”
“Hmmm. Sweetie, I want you to know that I agree with you one hundred percent, but good luck selling yourself to Mr. Gordon. He plays golf with those middle-aged writers. He and his wife socialize with those writers and their wives, and he’s as old-fashioned as they come when it comes to hiring.” She leaned closer to Betsy and whispered, “That means he’s as chauvinistic as they come about hiring women.”
She sat back in her chair. “But I’ll be happy to make that appointment for you. Do you have any samples of your writing?”
“Sure do, Ma’am.” Betsy opened her purse and retrieved the samples she had created. They were dog-eared and crumpled, so she placed them on the edge of the desk and tried to flatten them out with the palm of her hand. “Sorry. I didn’t think they’d get so wrinkled in my purse.”
“Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll take care of them before he gets to see them. May I?” She held up the top two sample cards. “Did you draw these as well?”
Betsy nodded.
“Wow, you draw very well. Maybe you’re applying for the wrong job.” She opened the first card and smiled. She repeated the process through all dozen samples, giggling at a couple of them. “I must say, I’m impressed. Sweetie, tell you what. Mr. Gordon will be back day after tomorrow. Why don’t you come in after lunch, say one-fifteen and I’ll make sure he meets with you. That’ll give me time to work on him.”
Betsy’s smile illuminated the room. “Thank you, Ma’am. Thank you.”
At that moment, another woman, younger and brunette, entered the room and the lady behind the desk stood to give up her seat to the new arrival. The younger woman handed some papers to the older blond lady.
“Thank you,” said the blond lady. “Carol, this is Betsy Weston. I promised her an appointment with Mr. Gordon for one-fifteen the day he’s back.”
Carol looked at the older woman and narrowed her eyes, questioning her.
“I take full responsibility. I’m taking these samples with me. I’ll make sure he sees them. Well, I have to get to the Woman’s Club.”
Betsy looked back and forth between the women, confused.
The woman she had assumed to be the secretary approached Betsy and held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Betsy Weston. I’m Georgia Gordon, and I promise to work on my husband as soon as he gets back from Memphis. I look forward to seeing you again.”
Betsy was not accustomed to sweating. No matter how hard she worked, played, or worried she rarely broke a sweat. It wasn’t in her nature. Yet, she sat in the employment office at one-ten, five minutes until the biggest appointment in her life, feeling as if someone had drenched her with a bucket of water. She worried that it showed and longed for a mirror to check her armpits, neck, and any other place that might display her nervousness.
She had spent the previous day and a half working on new cards. When she blocked on ideas, she got into the Mustang and drove, both to familiarize herself with the city and to gain confidence driving in city traffic. She also looked for a place to rent, preferably furnished, and foun
d several possibilities in Roselawn and nearby Gulf Manor. Mostly, though, she worked on her goal of a dozen new cards.
At one-fifteen precisely, by the clock on the wall, the phone rang and Angie nodded to whatever she heard after picking up. She stood and took three steps to her boss’ door.
“He’s ready for you.”
Betsy took a deep breath and stood.
“Hey, you look fine. Don’t be nervous. He’s really a pretty good guy, just old fashioned. Besides, you have Georgia on your side. If anyone can soften him up, she can. Good luck.”
Betsy thanked her, held her head up, and walked through the door. Greg Gordon stood at his desk and beckoned Betsy to have a seat. To Betsy’s eye, he stood just shy of six feet tall, erect with the bearing and short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair of a military officer.
“Good afternoon, Miss Weston. I’m Greg Gordon. Please, have a seat.” He sat on the corner of his desk and looked her over. “Can we get you something to drink? Water? Tea? A soft drink?
Betsy sat in the straight-backed chair, knees together and hands folded on her lap. “No, thank you, Sir. I’m fine.”
“Well, I must say, you have won a strong advocate in my wife. I don’t know what you did to bewitch her, but she chewed my ear off about needing some fresh perspective on our writing staff.”
Betsy looked him squarely in the eyes. “I can’t say as I know why either, Sir, except that she liked my work. Isn’t that really what it’s about? The quality of the work.”
Mr. Gordon laughed. “Well, Miss Weston, when my wife said you were a straight hitter, she meant it. Right to the point I see.”
“Yes, Sir. Your time is valuable and I don’t see a need to waste it.”
Mr. Gordon smiled and focused on her.
“How old are you?”
“Almost nineteen, but I’m legally emancipated. I have the papers to prove it.”
“Any family?”
“No, Sir.”
“Well, if we get to the point of hiring, we’ll worry about confirming your status.” He walked behind his desk and sat down. “Okay, so you’re nineteen, almost. Creating cards for the wide variety of life events requires some life experience. What makes you think you have what it takes to work here?”
Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense Page 69
