Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense

by Luana Ehrlich

  “I love your comic. How did you ever come up with the idea?”

  “Thank you. I –”

  “By the way, I’m Oni Prairieberry.” She must have seen the quizzical look on Betsy’s face. “Not my given name. I guess that’s obvious. When we got married, we decided to change our names to, well, to have meaning. Oni is African for ‘born on sacred ground.’ I loved it. Oni. The last name was just something to be whimsical. A decade later, I learned that ‘oni’ was Japanese for ‘demon,’ but it was too late to change again. I mean, changing your name once is one thing, but doing it again? I’d be as confused as everyone else.”

  Betsy couldn’t help but smile at the soft-spoken brunette with thick-lensed, dark rimmed glasses, tornado whipped hair, and flower-child name. “Nice to meet you.” She hoped the smile reflected friendliness, not her abashed feeling over Oni’s comment about changing names.

  “I’m a writer, too. Well, not like in comics or anything. Couldn’t draw a crooked barn if my life depended on it. I write children’s books. That’s my husband, Chance, over there.” She pointed toward the chamber’s main door. “Would you like to come over to our place for some tea?”

  “Umm, right now?” Betsy was intrigued by the woman’s strange name and apparent free spirit. After the stuffy, conservative crew at Gibson, Oni was a breath of Ozark air.

  “Well, sure. Or later, if you can’t come now.”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  Afternoon or evening?”

  “Makes no difference.”

  “Good. Then come tomorrow about four and join us for dinner. Do you like vegetarian?”

  Betsy started to reply, but Oni continued.

  “I still eat meat on occasion, but I intend to give it up entirely. It’s the socially responsible thing to do.”

  Betsy suddenly felt socially irresponsible. She was a carnivore through and through. Barbecue with Carolina thin tomato sauce, hamburgers, steak, barbecue with Carolina mustard sauce, grilled chicken, prime rib, barbecue with Carolina vinegar and pepper sauce, and in a pinch, Texas barbecued beef. That was real good, too. Thinking about it made her crave a Red’s Giant Hamburg, even with that imitation barbecue sauce from Kansas City.

  “I guess. Can’t say as I’ve ever really tried it, but sure, I’m game.”

  Betsy spent the next week furnishing her new home while Eureka Springs spent the week ogling their new resident, “that cartoon girl.” Betsy loved the thriving arts community and the hills reminded her of home. Even if her art wasn’t of the ‘fine’ persuasion, the community loved an artist who could pay her bills. Betsy loved the town’s eclectic population and the town accepted her into it.

  By the end of the week, Betsy was fast friends with Angela, her mom, and Oni. She paid the girl for her time, bought her several new items of clothes, and gave the girl a personalized and autographed “Sweetie and George” cartoon. The cartoon, she noticed, quickly found a frame and a prominent position over the head of Angela’s bed. Her mom got a new refrigerator for the “rental” home. Oni’s gift? Unlimited conversation.

  Her life at Gibson Cards had garnered some recognition, mainly from the closed group of artists and writers in the creative group, which had boosted her self-image. Her new life in Eureka Springs, however, brought with it a level of acclaim she was totally unprepared for.

  At the hardware store, “Hi, Miss Weston. Love your comic.” At the grocery, “Oh, Miss Betsy, Sweetie is my favorite.” At various eateries, compliments and autograph seekers interrupted her meals. On the street, kids came up to her and asked to be in her comic. She thought this would blow over within a week or so, but after a month, the disruptions continued. Now, the tourists would come up to her after some local pointed her out.

  “Oni, I’m beside myself. I can’t go out without someone pestering me. It’s distracting me and I don’t know what to do.”

  “Sounds like new material to me.”

  “Huh?”

  “There have to be some comments that you could use as source material. I’ve always been told that nothing is wasted on the writer. Everything in life becomes fodder. Figure out how to use it in your strip.”

  After mulling this over for day or two, Betsy had an idea: Sweetie and George would take to the old Route 66, before it completely disappeared from the maps. Chicago. Springfield, Illinois. Saint Louis. Springfield, Missouri. Oklahoma City. Shamrock and Amarillo, Texas. Albuquerque. Kingman, Arizona and the treacherous hairpin curves through the Black Mountains. Finally, Los Angeles. Betsy took a working vacation to make the road trip by herself over a two-month span, without curious neighbors and tourists, and the material became her first “Sweetie and George” book. Her series took off faster than Sweetie gunning it down Sunset Strip and her bank account quickly required professional management.

  The following year saw Sweetie and George across the U.S. On Broadway in New York. On the beach in Miami. At the U.S. Capital and Washington Monument in Washington, D.C. The Alamo in San Antonio. Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco. Pike Street Market in Seattle. Plus, more from Chicago and L.A. A year later, her syndication managers had her touring the National Parks.

  Yet, the traveling, exhilarating at first, became drudgery. The pace of maintaining a weekly cartoon, along with the expected yearly book, drained her. More importantly, Betsy tired of being alone. Coworkers and tour leaders didn’t count. She missed having someone “at home” to share life with. After the divorce, she knew better than to rush into any relationship, but her self-imposed reclusion had ended long ago, only to find a work-imposed seclusion replacing it. She traveled the country, spent hours in exciting cities and beautiful national parks surrounded by a sea of people, and felt more isolated and alone than ever.

  Her latest tour had ended and now, on a rainy mid-September day, she flew into Little Rock, and drove home, alone.

  “Welcome home, stranger,” said Tammie, standing at her front door with a plate of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and fresh green beans. “I saw the lights come on and figured you to be home again.”

  “Hi. Nice to be back. I just finished unloading my car and unpacking some groceries.” Betsy welcomed Tammie into the house and took the plate. “Ever been to Mount Rushmore?” Tammie shook her head. “Absolutely beautiful, but I feel as cold and alone as those stone faces. It’s nice to be back among friends.”

  Betsy pointed to the dining table, where she sat the plate of food. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  Tammie shook her head. “No, thanks. Really. I need to get back to Angela. I’m helping her with a school project.”

  “Oh.” Betsy deflated at the thought of another meal by herself. “Okay. Um, thanks again for the food. You know I love your fried chicken.” She walked Tammie to the door. “Say, if you and Angela had a favorite National Park you’d like to see, which one would it be?”

  Tammie smiled. “That’s easy. Angie loved your postcard from Yellowstone. Me? I’ve always wanted to see the ocean, any ocean. I loved the pictures from that place in Maine, on the coast.”

  “Acadia.”

  She smiled again. “That’s the one.”

  Betsy smiled. “Both were beautiful. I’m sorry you both couldn’t join me on the trip. Hey, why don’t you go help Angie and when you need a break, come on over for ice cream. I crave some company.”

  “It’s a deal. See you in awhile.”

  Betsy rushed through dinner and hastily set up her easel. Within an hour she had cartoons drawn of Angela by Old Faithful and Tammie on the rocky Maine shore. Both sketches had Sweetie and George in background cameos. With that surprise completed, she continued unpacking until a knock on the door interrupted her.

  She opened the door to find not only Tammie and Angela, but Oni and Chance as well. She relished the hugs of her friends. “Yay, it’s a party. Come in, come in.” Suddenly her house was full of chatter and good friends. She soaked it all in.

  She and Tammie set up an ice cream buffet with all the fixin
gs for just about any sundae the imagination could conjure. Cold soda sated their thirsts.

  Oni spoke up. “Okay, tell us all about the trip.”

  Betsy complied.

  Oni fidgeted on the couch as Betsy described each park in one or two sentences. They all laughed as Betsy displayed some of the rough sketches of cartoons from the trip.

  “Okay, okay. Enough,” said Oni. “Get to the good part. Did you meet anyone special?”

  Betsy sighed and shook her head. “You’re insane, you know that.”

  “What? Me? Insane?”

  “Sure. Einstein defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. You ask me that every time I return from a trip, and the answer is the same.” She shook her head.

  Oni smiled. “Well, who can argue with a genius? Insane or not, I have someone I want you to meet. There’s a new artist displaying at the gallery. A sculptor. Meet me there tomorrow after we open.”

  Betsy frowned. “Oni … I don’t –”

  “No excuses. I’ll expect you around nine.”

  Chance pointed to his wristwatch.

  “Okay, okay.” She turned back to Betsy. “We gotta go, but I mean it. Tomorrow morning. I expect to see you.”

  Betsy made no promise as she showed the couple to the door and exchanged goodbye hugs. She turned back toward the room to find Tammie and Angela standing behind her.

  “We should probably go, too. School tomorrow.”

  Angie rolled her eyes.

  “Don’t go yet. Wait right here.”

  She scurried to the loft and retrieved her gifts.

  “Here. These are for you.”

  Mother and daughter broke into wide grins and giggled. Angie gave Betsy a tight squeeze.

  “How? When?” Tammie paused. “You did these after I left earlier? You had to have. How?”

  “I just wanted you to have something to show how much I missed you two. I’m glad to be home.”

  Yet, as she waved goodbye to Tammie and Angela and watched them walk across the yard to the adjacent home, that sense of isolation returned. She loved Eureka Springs, but she never seemed to be there with all the traveling. Perhaps she needed a year off from the large book projects. But staying home posed a separate problem. She knew all the locals and found none of the single men appealing. And with her increasing wealth, she found herself suspect of every man’s motives when asked out socially. She was a big fish in a small pond and traveling was her only way of moving into the ocean. She had certainly found a new life, one she loved, but her dream for a happy family seemed to be fading.

  Thirty

  (Present Day)

  **********

  Myra sat in the passenger’s seat while Alexia drove, enjoying the wind in her hair and the sense of freedom only a convertible on the open road could provide. She’d never liked being the passenger, subject to the whims of another driver who commanded pit stops, speed, or whatever else Myra preferred to control. Yet, Alexia had proven herself a competent driver and willing to stop whenever or wherever Myra wanted. Plus, her endurance, or lack thereof, had affected her time at the wheel more than she would have ever expected. Actually, it had affected her time in the car, period. There would be no all-night drives.

  Following U.S. Highway 64, they’d made it only as far as Clayton, NM the previous afternoon where she opted to stay at the newly reopened Ecklund Hotel. Rooms were scarce in the town’s chain motels due to wildfires forcing home evacuations in the area and she’d hoped the historic stone hotel would reek of history and keep Alexia occupied. Unfortunately, the town’s only real historical “claim to fame” was being the home of Thomas “Black Jack” Ketchum – “one of Clayton’s most famous outlaws” as described by the only highlight on the city’s “History” webpage. She’d thought the city fathers had neglected to add more history to the page until she got the bill for lodgings and food and realized the train robber heritage continued through the city’s less famous outlaws’ heirs.

  Myra watched Alexia as she drove. Her face reflected conflict, which Myra couldn’t quite fathom. They were riding the open plains, top down, the sun beating down on them. What could be better?

  Actually, the sun held them in a sizzling sauté. Mid-August on the Great Plains. Alexia was sweating, she noticed now, despite the air rushing past them like a gale force wind.

  “Sorry.”

  “What?” replied Alexia.

  “I’m sorry. The heat. Putting the top down is usually the best I can do since this car was made before air conditioning became standard on cars.”

  “Actually, I think putting the top up and leaving the windows down would be better.”

  Myra liked the top down. She liked the heat, sort of, and never sweated. Besides, it was her car, she was the boss, and Alexia had been so compliant yesterday. Moreover, she was the boss. Oh, she’d enumerated that already.

  “Okay, pull over and put the top up.”

  Surprise pushed aside conflict on Alexia’s countenance.

  “What? Yesterday, you were barking out commands, dictating speed and when I should start braking if we came up on a slower car, and telling me how many flashes of the turn signal I should give before turning. Giving me grief if I hit the rumble strip. Today, you’re giving in to my simple comment?”

  Myra felt the flush and knew she’d be blushing, if you could tell through the persistent jaundice. “I wasn’t that bad.” She paused. “Well, I could be, but I wasn’t. Was I?”

  Alexia raised both eyebrows and rolled her eyes. “Oh no, not at all.” The sarcasm seeped from her voice. “This morning all you’ve done is complain about the lodgings, which you picked. The rooms were nice, clean, and very reasonable in cost, but nooooo, her diva-ness has to pick apart every flaw.” She glanced from the road to Myra. “And did you not tell me, several times, to only let the turn signal flash four times before turning? That four flashes gave other traffic plenty of warning.”

  Myra did recall saying just that, but giving in for the second time in as many minutes was not in her nature.

  “Eww, touchy we are this morning.”

  “Eww, cranky we are this morning,” retorted Alexia in perfect Yoda mimicry.

  Myra crossed her arms over her chest and huffed. “Okay, fine. When we get to Tulsa, we’ll get you a ticket to fly back to L.A. I can finish this trip on my own.”

  Alexia screeched to a halt on the shoulder and turned to Myra. “Whatever.” Then her shoulders sagged and she let out a long breath. “Look, I-I’m sorry. I want to stay. It’s just, well, back in Taos you were so laid back and I thought we were connecting, actually developing a nice relationship. Since we left … well, wow, what a difference a day makes.”

  “Cliché,” whispered Myra. She studied her assistant, but realized the car had become like a frying pan without the wind factor. She felt a trickle of sweat form on her brow. But, was it just the heat? Something was bothering her. She just needed to put her finger on that ‘something.’

  “And there’s, uh, one other thing I’m not sure how to bring up. So, I’ll just say it. I know you don’t put much stock in God and all my Christian hokum, but as I was praying last night, I felt that God told me to tell you that before this trip was over, He would fill your oldest, deepest, most secret desire to prove to you He is real.”

  Myra sat there, sweating and feeling as if her stomach had bottomed out. She didn’t know how to process Alexia’s comment. She chose to ignore it.

  “Help me put the top up. We’re going to dehydrate sitting here like this.”

  Myra stepped out of the car and began to unbutton the boot covering the convertible top. After a moment, Alexia joined her, removing the boot on her side of the car and placing it in the back seat. Together they lifted the top into position and returned inside to latch it shut. Myra knocked over her purse in the process and her cell phone spilled onto the floor. She picked it up and glanced at the screen to discover she had no cell service.

&nb
sp; “Shoot.”

  In response, Alexia grabbed her phone to discover the same. Like Black Jack’s “Hole in the Wall Gang,” they had disappeared into a cellular blind canyon. Without saying a word, she sped off.

  “We need to get you back into cell coverage. What if they found a donor? Would you hand me the road map, please?”

  “Not while you’re driving. I’ll look,” replied Myra.

  She rifled through the glove box, and then felt around under the seat. Nothing. She was sure she had a map somewhere, but then, she’d traveled this route before and didn’t need a map for the trip. She knew the way by heart.

  “Check under your seat.”

  Alexia cautiously lowered one hand and checked under the seat. She pulled up a loose quarter. “So, you don’t have a map.”

  Myra sighed. “Guess not. It’s not like I use this car every day.”

  Alexia slowed to a stop, pulled a three-point turn, and started back the other way.

  “What’re you doing? We’ll reach service if we keep going straight.”

  “Maybe, but when? We need to move down into the I-40 corridor if we want to keep 24/7 service. That’s an hour or so south and we just passed a route to get there.”

  Ten minutes later, Alexia turned south onto U.S. Route 83. Fifteen minutes after that, they neared the town of Perryton, TX and both phones pinged with service.

  Myra looked at Alexia and said, “I apologize. I recognize now that I’m uptight about getting all these labs done and the risks of a transplant. In Taos, I could forget that and relax. Now, I’m waiting for a call that might never come. I-I shouldn’t take that out on you.” She paused. “And you’re right, we were developing a relationship in Taos and that scares me. My track record on relationships is not on the level of an Olympic meet. Maybe not even Junior High track.”

  Then Myra’s phone signaled awaiting messages. More than one. Her heart rate galloped to match the speed of her Mustang. Had she missed the call?