The Poisoned Pen

by E. Joan Sims

  “Gran’s loving all of the attention you’re getting,” she said, trying a new tactic. “She’ll be very disappointed if you’re not on the front page of tomorrow’s paper.”

  I turned over and sat up, propping my pillows behind me. I took the cup of hot tea Cassie had brought me and winked at her.

  “Then she’s forgotten that old southern adage: a lady’s name appears in print only twice—when she marries and when she dies.”

  “Get dressed, Mom. They’re waiting for you on the patio.”

  Chapter Five

  Cassie and Aggie had rejoined Mother and her guest by the time I slipped on my favorite sweats and old beat-up Cole-Haan moccasins. Last year, after a tornado cut a swath through our town, Mother took advantage of the situation and cleaned out my closet on the pretext of helping those who had lost everything in the storm. It took me three weeks, but I finally found what I was looking for at the Salvation Army store. In return for a generous donation, I managed to retrieve my comfortable “oldies but goodies” and return them to their rightful place in my wardrobe. I wore them on those special occasions when I wanted to make Mother mad enough to lose her cool.

  It worked—almost. Her patrician features, as she watched me walk out to the patio, registered her disapproval, but her words were those of any proud mother.

  “Here comes my darling daughter, now,” she announced, with a strained smile. “Paisley, you remember Bethlehem Davis.”

  “Bethlehem? I don’t remember that!”

  The reporter managed to laugh at what must have been a very tiresome reaction to her unusual name after thirty-something years. The laughter sounded okay; but I noticed her eyes weren’t involved—pale brown, almost amber, they were narrowed against the sunlight in a round face with flat cheekbones and a little pug nose. Her faded brown hair was pulled back in a limp ponytail and adorned with tired artificial daisies and a paper butterfly. Beth Davis appeared nervous and ill at ease, even though—and perhaps because—Mother was trying her best to make her feel at home.

  “Are you sure you won’t have another biscuit, Beth, dear? More ham?”

  Cassie was right—Beth did have on a new outfit. A little round “inspected by #23” sticker still clung to the hem of her bright yellow and orange flowered dress. Her liberal use of Crayola colors and her plain, flat features brought to mind a cartoon character, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out which one.

  “I’ll have a biscuit, Mother,” I said, as I flopped unceremoniously down on the chaise, “and stuff it, please.”

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked, raising one elegantly curved eyebrow.

  I winked at Cassie—only to receive a warning glare from my daughter in return. “Please put a slice of ham inside, thank you, Mother,” I sighed, deciding there would be hell to pay later if I didn’t act at least a little civilized now. I got some hell, anyway.

  “I’ve been telling Bethlehem about your daring rescue of little Nell Jane, Paisley. Do you have anything to add to the story before you change into something more appropriate for your photograph?”

  Beth had me pose under the magnolia, on top of the old well, and finally, on the white wrought iron bench in my moon garden. The last picture was a favor for me. My beautiful, newly landscaped moon garden with it’s heirloom white roses and all white flowers was a private place, and not for prying eyes.

  With Mother out of the way, Beth loosened up and we actually had a rather pleasant conversation—especially pleasant for me because she had read and enjoyed all of Leonard’s books.

  “He’s such a devil, that man! He frightens me—and yet, thrills me at the same time!” she confided in a voice full of barely suppressed excitement. “You have such a command of the English language, Paisley. You’re a veritable magician of the imagination, truly a conjurer….”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said, stopping her from digging any deeper into her mental thesaurus.

  A faint blushed stained her plain cheeks, making her briefly more attractive. “Sorry,” she mumbled apologetically, “I do tend to go on when I wax enthusiastic.”

  I felt instantly contrite. For some strange reason, I was beginning to like this young woman, and not just because she admired me.

  “How’s your own book coming along?” I asked, biting my tongue so I wouldn’t say more than I intended.

  Two hours later, I stood by her car holding four pounds of tattered manuscript bound together by several thick rubber bands and waiting impatiently for her to leave.

  “Oh, Paisley! You don’t know how much this means to me—to have you, a true word smith—a laudable literary lion—reading, nay critiquing, my puny efforts!”

  I sighed deeply, trying to maintain the semblance of a smile. My warm feelings for Bethlehem Davis were rapidly turning tepid. “Don’t expect feedback any time soon,” I warned her sourly. “I’m….”

  “I know! I know!” she cried gaily. “Busy, busy, busy! But just being able to think that you are the temporary caretaker of my tome gives me such a thrill! You’ll never know how much I appreciate this.” She pointed to the first page of fully packed, single-spaced sentences. “I do hope it isn’t too hard on your eyes. We poor aspiring young novelists have to save on paper, you know.”

  “And printer ink, too, I noticed,” I added dryly.

  She smiled and blew me a kiss as she turned her little yellow Volkswagen bug around in the drive and headed out to the highway. I had started up the walk when I heard her slam on the brakes and back up rapidly, scattering gravel in her wake.

  “Paisley!” she called.

  “Oh, God! What now?” I muttered, turning around with a forced smile.

  She leaned out of the car window, an earnest inquiring look on her face. “I almost forgot to ask you,” she called out. “Did that little girl say anything to you about a strange man in the woods?”

  I walked back to her car so I wouldn’t have to yell. “What man?” I asked.

  “I went out to the Bradley’s house last night to get an interview for the paper. Mrs. Bradley wouldn’t let me talk to her daughter; but she told me that Nell Jane said a big man with a black beard and one eye chased her into the woods. I just wondered if the child said anything like that to you.”

  I tried to keep the surprise from showing on my face, but apparently didn’t succeed.

  “I was astounded, too,” Beth agreed. “But the mother was very insistent—and angry that the authorities weren’t taking the child’s story seriously. She threatened to call the FBI if Chief Joiner didn’t investigate more thoroughly!”

  “Can I give you an answer off the record, Beth?”

  “Well…I’m not supposed to suppress the news.”

  “This isn’t news,” I sighed.

  “Okay, then. Just this once—for you—I promise!” she said, raising her hand and then crossing her heart with her fingers. “Cross my heart, and hope to….”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I interrupted. I still didn’t trust her enough to protect my privacy, so I chose my words very carefully. “It was dark, and the little girl was terrified. Crawling out of that thicket and finding half the town and every squad car in the county must have scared her even more. She probably felt she had to place the blame for causing so much trouble on someone other than herself—when the truth is—she probably got lost chasing a rabbit into the brush. I find it hard to believe her story.”

  “Me, too!” declared Beth. “But her mother sure is running with it. I feel sorry for that child when the truth comes out. Mrs. Bradley seems to be a ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ type of parent.”

  “Is there a Mr. Bradley,” I asked curiously.

  “Instead of answering, she quickly consulted the old-fashioned bracelet watch on her right wrist. “Must be off,” she announced abruptly. “Thanks a bunch, Paisley!”

  I watched her head down the drive and turn into the highway; almost wishing she would come back so I could ask some questions of my own.

  “What’s in tha
t package, Mom?” asked Cassie with a sly smile as I opened the screened door to the back porch. “Don’t tell me the redoubtable Miss Bethlehem Davis finally convinced you to read her masterpiece?”

  I threw the hefty packet in the corner—and watched in dismay as the rubber bands popped and the manuscript exploded into a small mushroom-shaped cloud.

  “Good job!” observed Cassie. “I hope for your sake the pages were numbered, Mom.”

  “Oh, my God! Surely she had the good sense…thank heavens!” I swore in relief as I picked up a handful of pages and looked them over. “What a mess!”

  “Are you really going to read it?”

  I sat down at table and started sorting out the pages. “I guess so, I promised—even though I had no choice, thanks to Mother.”

  “Thanking me, dear?” asked Mother, as she joined us. “Whatever for? Not that there aren’t many things for which you should show your appreciation.”

  “Well,” I said with a wicked grin, “then perhaps I should begin by letting you have first go at Bethlehem’s manuscript ”

  “That’s lovely of you, Paisley. I think I just might take you up on that.”

  “You will?”

  “Why, of course! Miss Davis is quite an interesting young woman. She could use some guidance in her style of dress, but she’s headed in the right direction. At least she has the good sense to eschew jeans in favor of a skirt. Yes, I think our Miss Davis has possibilities. I would definitely like to explore the world of her imagination. After all, I do so enjoy her articles in the Gazette. Her chef d’oeuvre could prove very enlightening.”

  “Well, here then!” I declared petulantly, plopping the hodge-podge of pages down in front of her.

  “Where are you going, dear?” called Mother, as I slammed the porch door and headed for the carriage house.

  “The Dairy Queen!” I shouted over my shoulder. “What’s it to ya’?” I muttered angrily under my breath.

  Chapter Six

  The Dairy Queen out on Highway 62 was Rowan Spring’s favorite fast food eatery—the truth is—it was the only fast food joint in town. When I arrived at half past noon I saw the drive-thru lane was already filled with a stream of hungry and impatient office workers. Cursing my luck, I drove around to the back searching for a parking spot and spotted Horatio Raleigh’s big silver Bentley stationed majestically aloof at the far end.

  I placed my order at the counter, then squeezed my way through the crowd to a quiet corner in the back. Always the gentleman, Horatio stood and bowed slightly, gesturing for me to sit opposite him in the booth.

  “Congratulations, my dear!” he said, raising his chocolate malt in salutation. “I understand you are the woman of the hour.”

  “Hopefully fame will prove to be as fleeting as they claim!” I answered ruefully. “So far, it’s brought me nothing but a peck of trouble.”

  “Your mother told me about the upcoming article in the Gazette. I suppose that is the trouble to which you are referring?”

  “Yep! Not only do I have to suffer the invasion of my well-deserved privacy by having my photograph plastered all over tomorrow’s early edition, but I also have to read fourteen-hundred and fifty-two pages of a single-spaced, barely legible autobiography written by a thirty-three year old spinster with no life.”

  “Oh, my! That is a fate worse than death,” he chuckled.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I explained. “Beth Davis seems to be a very nice person. She’s articulate—maybe a little too articulate—and smart; but that doesn’t always add up to talent. Look at me! I’m not that smart, and according to Mother, I’m practically tongue-tied.”

  “And yet you are the successful novelist Miss Davis aspires to be. Did anyone extend a helping hand on your road to success, Paisley?”

  “Why, of course! Pam, my agent, helped me do everything; but you know that, Horatio.” I looked up and saw the chiding look on his handsome, aristocratic face. “Oh, I see—I’m being a spoiled rotten brat again, aren’t I?”

  “Certainly not now that you’re aware of your fall from grace,” he answered with a smile.

  “Oh, well,” I sighed. “I guess you’re right. I’ll read it when Mother finishes.”

  A short, plump woman in a Dairy Queen uniform walked up to our table. “Miz DeLeon. I have your order.”

  “Goodness! I would have come to the counter if you had called me,” I protested.

  “Well, I wanted to thank you in person for what you done last night.”

  I looked carefully, but didn’t see any of Nell Jane’s thin, sharp, features in the woman’s broad face and stout body. “Are you related to the little girl?” I asked.

  “No, no,” she laughed. “I’m Darlene Hanson—Tiffany’s mother. But I was there last night. Those little girls was mighty upset until Nell Jane got found. It would’a killed them if that man had made off with her.”

  “Did you see the man?” I asked curiously.

  The two little half-moons she had drawn above her eyes with a cheap black makeup pencil came together as she tried to remember. “Maybe.…It was dark, ya’ know. I thought I saw a man’s shadow just on the far side of the goal—so did Tiffany, and a couple of the other little girls.” She smiled sadly. “They’re so scared now—I guess they’ll wanna do all their practicing in the morning. Tiffany may even have to drop off the team unless I can swap hours with somebody on the night shift.”

  Darlene gave me a quick pat on the shoulder. “Anyway, thanks again,” she said, and hurried back to the front. I unwrapped my cheeseburger and took a bite while I reflected on her words. Horatio seemed to be doing the same thing.

  “Very interesting,” he observed. “Mass hysteria would not be an uncommon phenomenon under the circumstances—a group of prepubescent females worked into a frenzy by the physical stresses of a highly emotional game—suddenly one of their own vanishes. It would be devastating.”

  “She wandered off after a bunny, Horatio,” I mumbled over a mouthful of fries.

  He made careful packets of his burger wrappers and folded them on the tray, then pulled a spotless linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands.

  “You saw the child first, Paisley. At least, that’s my understanding. Is that what she told you?”

  “Well…no.” I wadded my own waste papers in a messy ball and tossed them on the tray next to his. “I did most of the talking,” I admitted. “But I was just trying to calm her down. She was pretty scared.”

  “Of a bunny?” he asked, raising his own immaculately groomed eyebrows.

  “It was dark! And I don’t mind telling you I was frightened, too. Geez, Horatio, there were snakes and worms and spiders in that thicket. It was a ten year-old girl’s worst nightmare!”

  “There are worse things than spiders, worms, and snakes, Paisley.”

  “Worse than spiders?” I asked with a grin. “Not in my book!”

  I tagged along behind my elegant friend as we made our way out of the busy restaurant. He paused to speak to several acquaintances while I shifted impatiently from one foot to another, aching to get out of the pressing crowd.

  When two toddlers in the middle of a ketchup war plodded heedlessly over my toes in their teeny-weeny combat boots, I turned and ran for the nearest exit, vowing never again to indulge a salty grease attack at rush hour.

  Horatio caught up with me as I was buckling up my seat belt.

  “Sorry about that, my dear. In my business you never know when you’re meeting a prospective customer. His Honor the Mayor, looked a trifle jaundiced, don’t you think?”

  “Horatio!”

  “I thought that would make you smile!” He patted the edge of my window. “Nice buggy, your Watson. You know, I’ve never taken him out for a spin. Do you mind, Paisley?”

  “You? Now?”

  “Why not!” he declared. “No time like the present. Scoot over my dear, and let an old man have some fun.”

  I don’t know what I expected—perhaps a tentative, m
eandering drive through the hills around the lake, but Horatio surprised me yet again. He climbed behind the wheel and took us on a silent, completely focused, and very fast roller-coaster ride which came to a screeching halt on the bluff overlooking the state penitentiary and the river down below.

  “They call it the Castle on the Cumberland. Did you know that?” he asked, as he turned off the engine.

  “Wha…what?” I gasped, trying to get my breath.

  “Why, Paisley! Are you all right? You look positively ill. Too many French fries, perhaps?”

  “Where did you learn to drive like that, Horatio? I’m still trying to catch up with my liver.” I opened the car door and stumbled out. “I need some fresh air.”

  I staggered over to the small sandstone wall surrounding the edge of the cliff and sat down, swinging my legs over to the other side. The wall, intended to protect the foolish from getting too close to the edge, was used by young daredevils as a diving platform. The tumbling surface of the wide surging river was forty windswept feet below.

  The view across the Cumberland and into the valleys and fields beyond was spectacular. A hundred different shades of green—from pale celadon to dark greenish-blue—tinted a forest of trees in the distant hills. The fields were planted in a fertile patchwork of soybeans, sorghum, and corn—with a scattering of white farmhouses and red barns in between. Directly beneath us, dry yellow bulrushes and fuzzy brown cat’s tails danced in the wind against the background of the mighty river.

  “Mind if I smoke?” asked Horatio, as he spread a handkerchief on the wall and sat next to me.

  “You know I love the smell of your pipe, Horatio. Can you really see two states from here?”

  “I truly doubt it,” he answered with a smile. “But the view is breathtaking, nevertheless.”

  “Even the old prison is picturesque—if you squint your eyes and ignore all that shiny new barbed wire.”

  “That picturesque old prison is the present address of little Nell Jane Bradley’s father.”

  “You’re kidding!” I looked at the forbidding stone walls and tall gray towers with renewed interest. “That’s why you brought me out here!”