The Poisoned Pen

by E. Joan Sims

  “Yes,” he admitted.

  “Why the warp speed?”

  He turned and grinned at me over his pipe stem. “Because I was having the time of my life. And because sometimes it’s more meaningful to enjoy your own freedom to the fullest when you are about to encounter others who have lost theirs. I intend to drive back in the same ‘hell bent for leather’ fashion. If you’ll let me, that is.”

  “Let you? Horatio, I’ll hoot and holler with you. It must be awful to be locked up inside those thick stone walls. Uggh!” I shuddered “What did he do?”

  “Bradley? I can’t recall, exactly.”

  “Juvenile delinquent?”

  “All of the old clichés,” he said with a sad smile, as he puffed fragrant ‘O’s’ out over the river. “Impregnated his high school sweetheart, shotgun wedding, another baby on the way before the first was out of diapers, lost his job when the textile mill closed—drinking, carousing, in trouble with the law, and finally—jailed, leaving his uneducated, untrained wife to support three children on food stamps and hand-outs from her church—all the elements of one of your country western songs. ”

  “Nell Jane seems bright,” I observed hopefully. “And creative.”

  “Perhaps, too creative,” he laughed. “Jake Bradley was a bright child, also. The Bradley’s had a big tobacco farm—several hundred acres. Lemuel Bradley had big hopes for his only son, and he became quite a bitter man after Jake dropped out of high school to marry the Holster girl. When Lemuel’s wife died, he sold the farm and left town. Nobody’s heard from him since.”

  “Not even when his son got into trouble and went to prison?”

  “Sad, isn’t it? Pride, as they say, goeth before….”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I grinned. “I’ll do better, I promise.”

  Horatio tapped his pipe on the heel of his handmade Italian loafer, and smiled. “Not every homily is aimed at you, my dear,” he observed.

  “Just in case, Horatio, just in case.”

  Chapter Seven

  I waved farewell to Horatio in the parking lot of the Dairy Queen and scooted over to take my place behind the wheel for a cautious drive home.

  “Have fun, Mom?” asked Cassie, as I plopped down beside her on the front porch swing. “Enjoy your weekly self-indulgent intake of fat grams and calories?”

  “I think I’m gonna puke again,” I admitted, and told her about Horatio’s wild ride through the hills. “And the most unbelievable thing of all was the way he enjoyed it so! I’d be willing to swear he winked at me when he said goodbye.”

  “Wow!” was her reply. “Is he great, or what? Where are all the young Horatios hiding these days?”

  “I honestly don’t think they’re making them like that any more,” I sighed.

  The white wicker swing creaked pleasantly as we relaxed against the green and pink-checked cushions to enjoy the sweet afternoon breeze. It was still too early in June to get really hot, and the temperature was hovering in the comfortable mid-seventies.

  I was pleased to see that the front yard had almost recovered from the aftermath of last year’s tornado. The grass was as green and thick as ever. The surviving lilacs were blooming like crazy, and three small dogwoods and all the evergreen shrubs around the house were thriving. And to prove that all was well, several pairs of fat, red-breasted robins had returned with the spring and found ample spots for nest building.

  “Nice, huh?”

  “Umm,” Cassie agreed in a lazy voice.

  “We should sit out here more often.”

  “Umm.”

  “The birds are almost as much fun to watch as the bunnies.”

  “Umm.”

  I got up and lifted her feet into the swing. “Take a nap, Toots. I want to ask Mother a couple of questions.”

  “Good luck,” murmured Cassie sleepily. “She’s nose deep in that crazy book.”

  I opened the front door and almost stumbled over Aggie as she bounded out and jumped up in the swing with Cassie. I smiled fondly at the two of them as I turned to enter the house.

  The front hall was dark after the sunshine outside and I bumped my knee painfully against an open drawer of the hall table that stood just inside the door.

  “Damn!”

  I closed the drawer with more force than necessary and limped my way through the house. Mother was curled up on her favorite chaise lounge on the back porch with Bethlehem Davis’s manuscript on her lap—and a large magnifying glass in her hand. The magnifying glass was usually found in the drawer of the table in the hall.

  “You left the drawer open,” I groused.

  “Sorry, dear,” she replied absently.

  “Book good?”

  “Umm.”

  I abandoned my mission to question Mother about Nell Jane Bradley’s family history and went to the library to work on Leonard’s own manuscript. This one was about international jewel thieves and diamond smugglers. I had just decided the book needed a wild ride or two through the crowded streets of Manhattan to spice it up. After this afternoon, I felt like I could do it justice; but just when I had Leonard on Forty-second Street in his souped up vintage Mustang, the Dairy Queen carbohydrates caught up with me. I stumbled over to one of the big red chintz-covered sofas in front of the fireplace, kicked off my shoes, and flopped down for a snooze.

  “Very funny, Paisley. A little sophomoric, but amusing just the same. Now give me back the book.”

  “Ummph, wh…what?” I struggled up from the depths of a slightly erotic dream starring me and Pierce Brosnan to find my mother standing over me with stern, angry, disapproval written all over her face.

  “The book, dear. Give me back the book,” she demanded insistently. “It was just getting interesting.”

  “What book? I don’t have any book. Beth’s book?”

  “Yes, of course, Beth’s book. I dozed off for just a moment and when I opened my eyes it was gone. Cassie’s sound asleep in the front porch swing with Aggie so it must have been you who took it. Give it back now, please.”

  I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and wiped the drool off my chin. Mother had both fists planted firmly on her trim waist and was actually tapping one foot impatiently on the Oriental rug. She looked mad and slightly ruffled—something that didn’t happen often. I laughed.

  “Paisley Sterling! What has gotten into you?” she snapped.

  “I don’t have Beth’s book, Mother,” I sighed, ending with a chuckle. “But whoever took it did me a favor. If it’s really missing, I don’t have to keep my promise to read it.”

  “Maybe, Cassie…” she began, a worried frown line only slightly creasing her smooth brow.

  “Maybe, Cassie what?” asked my daughter from the doorway. She stretched her slim arms over her head and yawned, then crossed over to open the French doors so Aggie could take a run in the back yard. “What?” she repeated, as she turned and looked at us quizzically.

  “Someone is playing a silly juvenile joke,” observed Mother. “Only it’s not very funny.”

  “Let me in on it,” suggested Cassie. “I’ll decide for myself if it’s funny or not.”

  “Beth’s book disappeared while Gran was asleep on the back porch.”

  “You think somebody broke into the house?”

  Mother stared at her in amazement. “Well, maybe. I don’t know. What do you think, Paisley?”

  “Impossible!” interrupted my daughter. “Aggie didn’t move a muscle. She would have barked if someone had tried to get in.”

  “Hah! The only thing that dog is good for is to make sure I keep my tetanus shots up to date.”

  “She only bit you three times, Mom!”

  “Three times is right!” I retorted. “Just listen to yourself and imagine anyone else saying, ‘my dog only bit my mom three times,’ and see how stupid it sounds.”

  “Girls! Girls! Behave yourselves.”

  “We are not ‘girls,’ Gran. We are women,” pontificated Cassie.

  “Cassie’s right, Mother. A
nd you started this whole mess. I bet the manuscript pages slid off your lap while you were asleep. They’re probably all in a heap under the chaise. You messed up the best dream I’ve had in months for nothing. It’s not often that Pierce and I….”

  “Who?” asked Mother with raised eyebrows.

  “Never mind,” I grumbled, as I stomped barefoot through the house, stubbing my toe painfully on a chair leg in the kitchen.

  I got down on my hands and knees and peered under every table and chair on the back porch, but I didn’t find even as much as a chewing gum wrapper.

  “See!” demanded Mother righteously. “It’s not here.”

  “You must have taken it inside and forgotten where you put it, Mother. Nobody came in here. The screen door is still hooked.”

  “She’s right, Gran,” said Cassie, as she crossed over to the door to let Aggie inside. “Hey, wait! Look at this! Somebody’s slit the screen right at the edge of the door frame. The hole’s just big enough to slip in a hand and unhook the door.”

  “And then take the time to hook it back?” I laughed. “Come on! What kind of joker would do a thing like that?”

  “The kind who would think Miss Davis’s book was worth stealing, I guess,” answered Cassie.

  “Yeah? What’s up with that?” I chuckled, as I eased down into Mother’s favorite chaise while she wasn’t looking. I lay back in the cushions wondering if I could tempt Pierce into another dreamland rendezvous.

  “Maybe the thief needed a doorstop,” suggested Cassie, with a barely suppressed giggle.

  “Or a….” I began.

  “Stop it, you two,” interrupted Mother. “You are being unkind—and quite without reason. Neither of you knows anything about the quality of Bethlehem’s literary efforts.”

  “Okay, Mother. I’ll buy into that,” I allowed. “Just how good was Beth’s book?”

  “Yes, Gran. What was it about?” asked Cassie, moving my feet aside to sit on the end of the chaise.

  “I had not arrived at the, er, plot, just yet; but I think it could have been quite interesting. She had a few too many words in each sentence, perhaps…Paisley, that smirk is quite unattractive.”

  “Go on, Gran,” urged Cassie.

  “Well, the characters really held my attention, especially since some of them seemed very familiar.”

  I had closed my eyes, trying to conjure up a mental image of broad shoulders and a handsome, all-knowing smile; but something Mother said penetrated my daydream.

  “Familiar? How so?”

  “I’m not positive, you understand, and I didn’t get a chance to read very much; but I thought I recognized several people by her rather thinly veiled descriptions. And some of them, most of them as a matter-of-fact, were not very flattering portraits.”

  I sat up next to Cassie, all thoughts of dark, good-looking men forgotten. “You mean this was a ‘tell all’ book? My God! Maybe that’s why it was flicked!” I jumped up and slapped my leg in excitement. Aggie raised her head from the cool flagstone floor and growled. “The sneaky little twit was probably privy to all sorts of juicy information she would never be allowed to publish in a small town newspaper –a newspaper whose income depends on advertisements from the local bigwigs she has the dirt on; but a racy novel about those same characters with fake names and a mustache or two…Wow!”

  “That’s motive enough for someone to steal the book, all right,” breathed Cassie.

  “Yes, my girl!” I laughed. “Now I’m sorry I didn’t take first dibs on the book myself. There are quite a few people in Rowan Springs I would like to see roasted slowly over the coals. I wonder if Beth has another copy.”

  “Perhaps you had better call on her and explain what has happened, Paisley. If she doesn’t have a copy, she’ll be quit distraught and will need a friendly shoulder to cry on.”

  “Oh, great! You lose the book and I become the bearer of ill tidings—and the owner of the damp shoulder. How come you can’t go instead?”

  “She needs a fellow writer—someone sympathetic who will understand her loss,” explained Mother stiffly.

  “Good grief!”

  “Come on, Mom. Quit being a baby. I’ll go with. After all, Miss Davis may not believe you, but I can back you up.”

  Chapter Eight

  Where she acquired the knowledge I can’t imagine, but Cassie knows where every single person in Rowan Springs lives. I drove while she gave me directions to a quiet cul-de-sac near the City County Park where Beth Davis resided. The shabby little brown cottage was set deep within a long, narrow lot filled with ancient water oaks and a jungle’s worth of overgrown bamboo.

  “Spooky,” I observed, with a theatrical shudder.

  “Mom, don’t you dare!”

  I stared at her with wide-eyed innocence. “What?”

  “You know what! You’re trying to scare me into leaving, so you can get out of fessing up to poor Miss Davis.”

  “I feel no qualms about telling Beth Davis what happened. I did absolutely nothing wrong. For once,” I added under my breath.

  Cassie had ears like a bat. “Okay, maybe you just don’t want to have to explain why Gran was reading the book instead of you.”

  We got out of the car and walked slowly down the long winding path through the trees to the front door. On the way we passed a moss garden filled with plaster gnomes and painted mushrooms. A fake owl, eternally patient, sat on a bench watching the little people’s endless frolic.

  I shuddered—for real this time—and reluctantly followed Cassie up the walk.

  “I’m not kidding, Cassie,” I whispered. “This place gives me the creeps! It’s like Hansel and Gretel’s worst nightmare.”

  She stopped until I caught up with her, then turned and shook her finger angrily in my face. “Mom, I told you not to do that!” she hissed. “You are not going to scare me into leaving!” She grabbed my hand and pulled me the rest of the way to the front door.

  “Knock!” she ordered, crossing her arms and staring sternly down at me.

  “Why should I use my dainty knuckles when there is a perfectly good wrought-iron vampire bat….”

  “That’s a swallow, not a bat!”

  I lifted the swallow/bat doorknocker and tapped loudly three times. “Nobody’s home. Let’s go.” I turned and started walking away from the door.

  Cassie reached out and grabbed my shirt tail. “Not so fast! Give her a chance to answer. She might be in the shower, or taking a nap, or….”

  “Or asleep in a coffin in the basement?”

  “I’m going to see if her car is in the garage.”

  “Cassie!”

  But she had disappeared around the corner. I started to follow, then thought I heard a sound on the other side of the door. I placed my ear up against the wood and almost fell inside as it swung open into the gloom of a long hallway.

  “Damn!” I stood still for a minute, listening. Somewhere water was dripping from a faucet, but that was the only sound I heard. “Beth?” I called tentatively, as I peered down the hallway into the darkness beyond. “Beth, it’s Paisley Sterling. Are you home?”

  An arm snaked out of the darkness and came to rest on my shoulder. I turned and screamed into Cassie’s face. She jumped half a foot straight up, then screamed back at me.

  “Mom! I told you not to do that! You scared me half to death!”

  “And what about me, for God’s sake! I’m an old lady! I could’a had a heart attack!”

  “Yeah! Right!” She gave me a shove in the small of my back—propelling me down the dark hallway. “Get a move on. The car’s in the garage. She must be in here somewhere.”

  “But….”

  “But, nothing. I want to get this over with so we can go home. I could use a little normal right now, and I’m hungry. It’s almost dinnertime.” She paused and sniffed disdainfully. “Ugh! What’s that smell?”

  “Dusty rugs, sour mops, and old cooked cabbage.”

  “Miss Davis,” she called out impatien
tly. “It’s Cassie DeLeon. I’m here with my mom. Are you home?”

  Cassie’s voice echoed hollowly throughout the house. There was no answer.

  “Let’s go,” I begged.

  “Maybe she’s in the back yard.”

  “Didn’t you just go back there?”

  “I went to the garage. The back yard’s fenced in. I couldn’t see over it. Come on.”

  “Cassie! Damn it!”

  My intrepid daughter forged ahead and out of sight, leaving me alone again. It was getting dark outside, and even darker inside, but I had no choice. I crept down the hallway after Cassie. I was almost at the end when I heard her frightened call.

  “Where are you?” I shouted back.

  “Here! In the kitchen. Please hurry, Mommy. It’s Miss Davis. She’s had an accident. I think she may be dead.”

  I burst out of the hallway and into a dimly lit old-fashioned kitchen. My white-faced, terrified daughter was kneeling in the middle of the floor over the body of Bethlehem Davis.

  “Is she dead?” I breathed.

  “I…I don’t think so,” she answered. “I just saw her eyelids flicker.”

  “Well, don’t just sit there—slap her, or something!”

  Cassie sat back on her heels and looked at me indignantly. “You slap her!”

  “Fine! I knelt down and raised my hand.

  “Stop, Mom! I think she’s coming around.”

  “Ummph!” moaned Beth Davis, dramatically—a little too dramatically, I thought. “Who am I?”

  “Aren’t they supposed to say, ‘where am I?’” whispered Cassie.

  “Yeah, I thought so, too,” I told her.

  “Miss Davis, what happened? Did you faint? Are you hurt? Should we call the ambulance? Do you have a doctor?”

  “For Pete’s sake, Cassie! Give the poor thing a chance.”

  The ‘poor thing’ fluttered her scant eyelashes rapidly, and tried to sit up. I placed a hand on her shoulder and held her down. “Not so fast, Beth. Let’s be a trifle cautious here until we know what happened.”

  “What did happen, Miss Davis?” repeated Cassie.