Breaking the Chain

by C. D. Ledbetter

"Look, lady, I'm going as fast as I can. The airport is thirty miles outside of town, and the only way to get there is over the bridge. Why don't you just sit back and enjoy the ride?"

  "Why don't you shut up and drive," Elizavon snapped. "Maybe we'll get there faster."

  The sight of her plane gleaming in the morning sun was a welcome sight. Elizavon threw the driver one last glare and climbed out of the car. Dykes stood under one wing, wiping the underside of an engine.

  "Well, is it fixed?"

  "Yes. Good thing I checked. We needed to replace some wiring that was shorted out."

  "Did you keep a copy of the receipts for my business manager? He'll want to turn them into the insurance company."

  "Yes."

  "How soon can we leave?"

  "As soon as I get clearance from air traffic control. I figured you'd be ready to go the minute you got here."

  "Well, you were right. Get my bags out of the car. I don't trust that buffoon of a driver to do it. And be careful--that's expensive leather."

  As Dykes stowed her suitcases, he wondered how anybody could stand being around Elizavon for any length of time. The old bat could've at least said thanks. God, what a bitch. He'd only been employed for six months, but that was long enough to realize how fortunate he was. He only had to put up with her on the rare occasions when she traveled by plane. His spirits lifted when he realized that after the disastrous ride they'd had yesterday, she probably wouldn't be traveling again anytime soon. What a shame.

  Elizavon buckled her seatbelt and listened for Dykes to start the engines. When she didn't hear anything other than their familiar hum, she allowed her body to relax. She was getting too old for this kind of jaunt. She flexed her left shoulder and winced as a stab of pain shot down her arm. This kind of weather wasn't good for her arthritis, and yesterday hadn't helped matters. Wave after wave of pain radiated down her arm, and she grabbed her purse from the storage compartment.

  Where had she put those damn nitroglycerine tablets? Maybe her doctor was right. Maybe she ought to think about travelling on commercial airlines, instead of a small plane. Her thin lips spread into a smile as she calculated the profit she'd make if she sold the plane, but her smile faded when she realized that she'd be at the mercy of the airlines. They cancelled flights on a whim. One little bit of bad weather, and she'd be stranded in some God-forsaken airport for who knew how long. Not only that, she'd also be forced to travel with dull, boring passengers whose only goal in life was to inundate her with the details of their equally boring jobs and family. No, that definitely would not do. She'd rather die than give up her independence.

  A hand on her shoulder shook her out of a light doze.

  "Ms. Phelps, we've landed. Your limo's waiting," Dykes whispered. "You feeling okay? You look kinda pale."

  She straightened her glasses, brushed away his hand. "Of course I'm fine," she snapped. "Even if I wasn't, it's none of your business."

  "Will you be traveling anywhere else?"

  Elizavon's eyes raked his face. "I haven't decided. Make sure you're accessible through the weekend. That's what I pay you for. Five days a week, weekends if needed." She pushed past him. "Get out of my way; you're blocking the exit."

  Her chauffeur greeted her with a tip of his hat. "Afternoon, Ms. Phelps. How was your trip?"

  She silenced him with a cool stare. Why couldn't the idiot understand that staff should be seen and not heard? God, it was hard to find good help these days. "Load the bags into the trunk; I'm ready to leave," she ordered.

  When the limousine rolled to a stop in front of her mansion she tried to stand, but her legs buckled and she fell back. Damn the frailties that came with old age! All her life she'd prided herself on not needing anyone's help, and now she couldn't even get out of the car. She called for her wheelchair and gritted her teeth at the bitter pain that washed over her as Taft lifted her out of the car and into the motorized chair.

  "Shall I ring for the doctor, madam?" he asked.

  "Tell him to come around this afternoon."

  "Very well. What time?"

  Elizavon's chair inched forward, picking up speed as cramped fingers activated the control switch. "Don't bother me with the details. I want to see him now." She steered the wheelchair down the hall, her maid trailing behind.

  "I want to take a bath. Let me know when it's ready," Elizavon ordered as the maid helped her into her bedroom.

  The faint scent of lavender tickled her nose as she lowered her tired body into the steaming tub, allowing the velvet soft water to envelop her like a scented envelope. As she sank further, she lifted her head so the maid could place a pillow beneath her neck. "I'll call you when I'm ready to get out."

  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, allowing the light fragrance to permeate her lungs. There was something innately soothing about the smell of lavender, and it never failed to fill her with a sense of inner peace.

  A light knock on the door dispelled any illusions of tranquility.

  "I'm sorry, madam, but the doctor's here," the maid whispered in a timid voice.

  "Well, don't stand there gaping like a fool. Help me get dressed."

  The doctor entered her bedroom as the maid plumped her pillows. "Leave us," Elizavon ordered.

  He placed his black bag on a chair and removed a stethoscope. "I see you've overdone it again."

  She eyed the cut of his gray jacket, which accented the whiteness of his hair. "How do you know I've overdone it? You haven't examined me yet."

  He clicked his tongue. "Elizavon, Elizavon. How long have we known each other? Twenty, thirty years? I don't have to examine you. One look at your face tells me everything I need to know."

  "Yes, well I always knew you were a quack. Now you've proven it."

  He chuckled and a mischievous twinkle appeared in his brow eyes. "And you're nothing but a crabby old woman, so that makes us even." He ran a wrinkled hand through his hair and placed the tips of the stethoscope in his ears.

  Elizavon allowed herself a tiny smile. Doctor Bruin was one of the few people she trusted, and the only person she allowed to talk to her that way. "Just give me a stronger pain prescription. That's all I need."

  He pushed the sleeve of her nightgown away from her thin wrist to check her pulse. "No, you're not getting me out of here that easy. I charge extra for a house call, so you might as well get your money's worth." He finished his examination, then pulled a chair closer to the bed.

  "You've got to take it easier, Elizavon. For God's sake, woman, you're seventy-eight years old, not thirty-eight. You've got to slow down, or I won't be responsible for the consequences. Your blood pressure's too high; you have a weak heart. Didn't I tell you not to fly in your condition? You could've had a stroke. I've a good mind to admit you to the hospital. At least that way I know you'd get some rest."

  She snatched her arm out of his grasp. "I'm not going to any hospital. Just give me some different pills."

  His smile faded. "There aren't any other pills or a higher dose that I can give you."

  She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "Then I guess it's time you left. Tell Taft to get my attorney on the phone. And close the door on your way out."

  He stuffed his stethoscope into his bag and snapped it shut. "One of the days you're going to go too far, Elizavon. Even old friends have their limits."

  She raised one eyebrow. When did he become so sensitive? "I didn't mean to offend you."

  He studied her face for a moment, then shook his head. "I'm afraid you did, Elizavon. You never say anything you don't mean. That's always been your biggest problem."

  Elizavon watched the door close behind him, wondering if she'd overstepped the line. Maybe she ought to call him back in and make nice for a little while--she certainly didn't want to break in a new doctor.

  She heard a knock on the door, and waited.

  Taft entered and lifted the receiver from its cradle. "Your attorney is on line one."

  She grabbed the receiver a
nd motioned for him to leave. "Charles? I have a job for you. Find someone to do a background check on a man called Jack Windom. He's married to my niece. I want to know everything there is to know about him, in detail. And, Charles, I want it yesterday."

  11

  "Don't forget to pick up the groceries Mrs. Milliron wanted," Mary said as she followed Jack through the terminal. "And remind Justine and Sadie that they're guests, not hired help. I want them to enjoy their stay, not do housework."

  Jack squeezed her shoulder. "Don't worry, love. I'm sure I can handle anything that comes up. Besides, Mr. and Mrs. Stein are scheduled to leave in the morning, and the next lot's not due until after you get back from Kansas."

  "I hate to leave you with all the work, but Mac said this was an important job."

  He nudged her toward the boarding ramp. "That's why he asked you to do it; you're the best curator he has. Go on--you're holding up the line. I'll see you in a few days."

  Smiling, she hugged his neck one last time. "What would I'd do without you?"

  "You'd be lost, and we both know it." He glanced at the stewardess, who stood at the check-in counter, tapping her nails on the side of the podium. "I think you'd better get on board; the natives are getting restless." The stewardess flicked a bored glance in her direction, so Mary blew him one last kiss and hurried to her seat.

  As the plane taxied down the runway, her thoughts wandered back to the plantation. What would her guests think about her leaving so abruptly? Well, it couldn't be helped--the plantation wasn't paying its way yet, and the money to run it had to come from somewhere. Elizavon had made it very clear that she wasn't investing another dime in the bed and breakfast. It was up to Mary and Jack to make a go of it. Jack would just have to make her apologies.

  The slight change in cabin pressure alerted her to the fact that they'd left the ground, so she tilted her seat and shoved a pillow behind her head. When sleep was elusive because of the thoughts whirring around in her head, she pulled her seat back to its upright position and retrieved her laptop from the overhead compartment. If she couldn't sleep, she might as well get some work done. The sound of clicking keys filled the air as she finalized the details of the Morrison job, completed less than forty-eight hours ago.

  She'd been surprised when Mac called to give her another assignment. When he'd mentioned that she was the only one of his curators who could do this assignment, an odd inflection in his voice set off warning bells in her brain. She'd pressed him for clarification, but all he'd said was that she'd understand when she got there, and the information packet would be waiting for her at the front desk.

  The taxi driver appeared startled when she gave him the name of her hotel, and she couldn't help but wonder what kind of situation Mac had duped her into. When they passed the main section of town, she leaned forward. "I thought the hotel was close to the airport?"

  "No ma'am. It's a couple miles down the road, in the old part of town. Won't take us long to get there. Used to be a real nice area, but it ain't so hot now. Lots of folks moving out, lots of empty buildings. I guess Mrs. Cogrell's nephew will probably sell the property. He ain't gonna make no money trying to run the hotel, 'cause nobody will stay there."

  "Is there some kind of problem with the hotel?"

  The driver switched on a small map light attached to the dashboard, then twisted around to glance her way before turning his attention back to the road. "No ma'am. It's just that you don't seem the type to stay there, that's all."

  "What do you mean 'the type of person to stay there'?"

  In the dim light inside the vehicle she watched his right hand reach out to adjust the mirror, and noticed the slight tremor as he grasped the silver metal.

  "Surely you'd tell me if it was dangerous?"

  The taxi slowed to a crawl, and he twisted in his seat. "Well, ma'am. It's just that most folks don't want to stay there. Leastways, not since..."

  The faint scent of his aftershave drifted toward her as her fingers gripped the back of his seat. "Since what? Please, tell me."

  He swallowed, then took a deep breath. "Since that woman died there and funny things started happening." He took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. "There, I've said it."

  Oh God, not ghosts! Fear, then anger flooded her veins. Of all the dirty, rotten stunts. She wanted to reach out and wrap her hands around her boss' throat, then squeeze her fingers together until he turned blue and his eyes popped out. She felt a sharp pain in the palms of her hands and realized that her fists were clenched so tightly her nails had drawn blood.

  "Are you trying to tell me the hotel's haunted?"

  He refused to make eye contact. "Maybe, maybe not. The police report says old Mrs. Cogrell died of natural causes, but most folks think her nephew murdered her for her money. And, since he's buddy-buddy with the chief of police, they didn't even bother to investigate her death. Anyhow, ever since she croaked, been some funny stuff going on there--lights that won't go off, even after you flip the switch, footsteps on the stairs in the middle of the night, that kind of thing." He glanced at her reflection, then cleared his throat. "You want me to take you somewhere else?"

  She thought about it for a moment, but decided that two am wasn't exactly a good time to start looking for somewhere else to stay. "No, thanks. I think I'll take my chances and stay there."

  "Whatever you say, lady. At least you been warned," he muttered as the car slowed to a stop.

  Mary's lips twitched as she watched him jump out, open the trunk, and dump her two suitcases onto the row of wooden planks that served as the front porch to the hotel--all while the motor kept running.

  This guy must really be spooked! What did he expect--ghosts jumping out and screeching at him? Some perverse side of her nature made her delay payment as long as possible. Even though she had the money for the fare in her jeans, she searched both pockets of her jacket, then rummaged around the bottom of her purse for several minutes. When he shifted from one foot to the other and cleared his throat for the fourth time, she decided she'd tortured him enough.

  He snatched the money out of her hand, leaped into his taxi, and sped away like a frightened rabbit. The sound of her chuckles echoed in the darkness. Gee, was it something she'd said?

  As she turned to take stock of her surroundings, her laughter was quickly replaced by irritation. How could Mac do this to her again? Her fingers itched to wrap themselves around his scrawny neck for sending her to yet another run-down dump.

  The Cogrell Hotel was an old, thirties-style boarding house, with a sloped front. Even in the middle of the night, with porch lights blazing, it wasn't a pretty site. What little paint she could see in the dim light was cracked and peeling, and the smell of rotten wood assaulted her senses.

  What was that old saying? Everything looked beautiful bathed in the pale glow of the moon? Well, whoever penned that one must never have stayed here. Swallowing her disappointment, she picked up her suitcase and stepped onto the porch.

  The narrow wooden boards creaked and groaned under every step. Great, just great. All she needed to top off this wonderful assignment was to crash through the porch and break an ankle. With her luck, nobody'd hear her cry for help and she'd have to crawl all the way back to town on her stomach, dragging her broken ankle behind. Damn you, Mac!

  As her fingers closed around the glass doorknob, she breathed a sigh of relief. At least she'd made it across the porch. Taking a deep breath, she twisted the knob and pushed the door with her shoulder.

  The inside wasn't as bad as expected. The foyer, although dingy, was decorated to resemble an old-fashioned hotel. Four barrel chairs with stained cushions circled a round, claw-footed table in the center of the room, and an old saloon-style bar dwarfed the rear wall. She noted a large wooden frame mounted on the wall, intersected with wooden slats that crisscrossed to form small squares. A small metal number on the bottom of each square identified rooms. A set of keys lay inside each square. The numbers stopped at twenty, but some squar
es remained unnumbered on the bottom row.

  The sole occupant of the room was an older man with a shock of white hair who lay slumped across the far end of the counter. She could tell he was sleeping, because every time he exhaled, the stack of papers opposite his face rustled. She cleared her throat, but he didn't awaken. The thump of her suitcase when she dropped it didn't rouse him either.

  How much worse could this get? Not only was this place a dump, now she had to contend with some old geezer sleeping off a drunken stupor. She mentally chalked up another mark against Mac and decided that this trip ought to equate to two extra weeks of vacation. No, make that three weeks. He owed her big time, and the debt just kept getting bigger.

  A small metal bell sitting to the left of the old man's elbow caught her eye. Maybe he was just hard of hearing instead of drunk. It was worth a shot. She pressed the button, and a loud ping broke the silence. Ah, some sign of life at last!

  The old man stopped snoring, then lifted his head. Watery blue eyes blinked a couple of times, and once they registered the fact that she was standing in front of him, he shot up.

  "I'm sorry to frighten you, but I did try to get your attention before I rang the bell," she murmured in her most apologetic voice.

  "Sorry, I must have drifted off. We don't get many customers these days. What can I do for you?"

  "I believe I have a reservation. My name's Mary Windom."

  "You must be that estate woman they told me about. Come to figure out how much this place is worth." His eyes roamed across her face, then swung to her case on the floor.

  "Yes, I'm a curator for Markis Brothers Estate Company."

  "Well, take it from me, there ain't much here, 'cept for the building and some banged up furniture," he said. "Let me see. Seems like I'm supposed to do something when you arrive. Oh yeah. There's a package for you. It's here somewhere." He rummaged under the counter for a moment, then waved an envelope through the air. "This what you looking for?"

  "Yes, thanks," she said, grabbing the elusive package. "I don't mean to sound rude, but do you think you could show me to my room?"