Sleeping Beauty

by Dallas Schulze

  **Fill this out. Fll need a credit card or cash in advance.''

  Neill pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and handed her a credit card before picking up a pen from the counter and pulling the file card toward him.

  **We've got cable," Dorothy said, as she imprinted his credit card. Now that he'd officially become a guest, she seemed disposed toward friendliness. *'Movies twenty-four hours a day. You like movies?"

  **Haven't had much time for them in the past few months," Neill said absently, his attention on the card he was filling out.

  *l'm not talking about the nonsense they're making these days," Dorothy said so sternly that Neill looked up. He was startled by the fierce glare she'd fixed on him. **They splatter blood and guts all over the screen and call it horror, or show a couple bouncing up and down in bed and think it's erotic. Nonsense. Pure nonsense. Not a filmmaker alive today who knows what he's doing. Know what the blue dahlia is?"

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  She asked the question with such ferocity that Neill couldn't help but wonder if an incorrect answer would cost him his room. Later, he decided that it must have been the pressure of the moment that dredged the faint memory to the surface of his brain.

  * It was the title of a movie, wasn't it? With Alan Ladd?" He was really pushing it now, but there was a challenge in her eyes—a challenge that softened to approval at his answer.

  '*Alan Ladd, Veronica Lake and William Ben-dix. Paramount. 1946." She reeled out the information in a staccato burst. *'Written by Raymond Chandler. Film noir, they call it now. We just called it a danmed fine movie and left it at that. Who's your favorite actress?"

  The question shot out at him, but Neill was not stupid. He abandoned Michelle Pfeiffer without a second's hesitation and searched through mental files for a more acceptable choice. An exquisite face floated into focus. ''Gene Tiemey."

  "Made some fine movies," Dorothy admitted with grudging approval. "Can't beat Laura for sheer suspense."

  "Dana Andrews, Clifton Webb and Vincent Price," he said, on more secure ground. He'd seen Laura on late-night cable just a few months ago.

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  He couldn't quite shake the feeling that he was being tested to see if he was worthy of having a room.

  **What was the name of Clifton Webb's character?" Dorothy asked, immediately depressing any pretensions he might have had to movie buff-dom.

  Neill shrugged. '*He typed in the bathtub. I remember that."

  "Waldo Lydecker," she suppUed with a friendly smile that made it clear that, if there had been a test, he'd passed.

  Thinking about the exchange an hour later, Neill found himself grinning. Dorothy wasn't exactly warm and fiizzy but she was interesting, and there was a sparkle of humor in her eyes that suggested she hadn't come by the title of "eccentric" by accident.

  The room she'd given him was larger than he'd expected. The tiny kitchenette might come in handy if he decided to wait until his bike was repaired. The decor, considering the owner, was surprisingly normal, if you didn't count the movie posters that replaced the usual innocuous prints. All in all, it seemed like a pleasant enough place to spend a couple of days. He'd liked David Freeman at first sight and saw no reason to change his opin-

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  ion, and his landlady promised to provide some interesting conversation.

  It was a small town. If he hung around long enough, he was likely to catch a glimpse of most of the inhabitants. Maybe he would even cross paths with that pretty little blonde with the big gray eyes. Anne. Not that he would have stayed just for that but, when life handed you lemons, you might as well try your hand at lemon meringue pie, and she had definitely looked edible.

  Chapter Three

  -Loving wasn't likely to turn up on anyone's list of top ten places to visit in the state of Indiana. A small farming town surrounded by com and wheat fields, the single main street was lined with the expected assortment of businesses—^a feed store, a couple of caf6s, a tired-looking five-and-dime. There was a bank, and a real estate office with a sign that announced hours two days a week and gave a phone number, in case you had a sudden urge to buy or sell and couldn't wait until Tuesday or Saturday.

  It was a town much like a lot of other small towns Neill had been in, a little more prosperous than some. Loving's only claim to fame was the

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  thousands of letters that poured into the post office every St. Valentine's Day to receive an appropriate postmark. It was something of an annual event, requiring the postmistress to hire on extra help. He had this tidbit courtesy of Dorothy, who had been watering the flower beds in front of the motel when he left his room, Tuesday morning.

  After a brief greeting, she'd demanded to know if he'd caught The Prisoner of Zenda on cable. '*Didn't come on until midnight but it's worth staying up late for. Not the wussy version ihey made in the fifties but the original, with Ronald Coleman and Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. Now there was a man who knew how to swash and buckle."

  Neill admitted that he'd been asleep at midnight but was able to say, truthfully, that he'd seen the movie and liked it. His confession that he hadn't even known there was a second version appeared to meet with her approval. She smiled, revealing a set of suspiciously perfect teeth. This morning she was wearing baggy khaki shorts that revealed knobby knees, a short-sleeved plaid shirt and another pair of red sneakers, though there was no glitter on these.

  *'Remakes are almost always a mistake," she said firmly. **Look at My Man Godfrey. Nothing

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  against David Niven, but he just wasn't William Powell/'

  Neill nodded, feeling as if he was on solid ground with this. David Niven and William Powell had definitely been two different people.

  *'Mutiny on the Bounty is another one." Dorothy leaned on her rake, narrowing her eyes against the sun's glare. **Can't say the Brando version didn't have something to offer, but where was Charles Laughton?"

  **Dead?" Neill offered hesitantly, when die seemed to be waiting for a response.

  There was a moment of silence, then Dorothy chuckled. **Probably. You have to watch me when I get started talking about movies. Truth is, it's something of a hobby of mine."

  Neill raised his brows and tried to look as if this was news to him, but she only laughed again. **Don't get smart with me." She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a battered gimme cap with the words John Deere emblazoned across the front. Tugging it on over her gray curls, she fixed him with a look of bright interest **So, tell me about yourself."

  One thing Neill had leamed in the years since his fifcrst book hit the bestseller Usts was the art of talking without saying much. It hadn't taken him

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  long to figure out that successful writers tended to fall into the same category as train wrecks and alien sightings—they sparked curiosity and inspired questions he soon got tired of answering. Where do you get your ideas? How did you get a publisher? Can you really make a living that way? And his personal favorite: Have I read anything of yours? which always made him wonder if the questioner had mistaken him for a psychic. How the hell was he supposed to know what they'd read?

  He*d experimented with lying—^nothing killed a conversation faster than the announcement that you were a mortician, and short-order cooks generated little interest. But there was always the chance that a new acquaintance might be around long enough to find out the truth, which would lead to hurt feelings and possible recrimination. So he'd developed the ability to tell the truth—or part of it, anyway— and make it sound too dull to merit further discussion.

  When he parted company with Dorothy, she knew he was a writer but was left with the vague impression that he wrote articles for technical journals. He'd told her he was taking a vacation, which was the truth, and that he had no particular schedule, also the truth. He'd also leamed a considerable amount
about his landlady, gotten a brief history

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  of Loving and refused an offer to have a VCR installed in his room so he could avail himself of Dorothy's extensive coUection of movies on tape.

  By the time Dorothy went to answer the phone in the motel office, Neill guessed they'd been talking for close to an hour. Mostly Dorothy had talked and he'd hstened, but he'd enjoyed every minute of it. Like most writers, he had an insatiable curiosity about people and places, and he enjoyed Dorothy's trenchant commentary on the town and its inhabitants. By the time they parted company, he felt as if he'd been given a crash course in local politics, and it amused him to find they were every bit as hotly debated and intrigue-filled as ihey were in a big city.

  The Blue Dahlia Motel sat back from Signal Avenue, which was the main street in Loving. The neon sign with its multipetaled dahlia looked faintly tatty in broad daylight. There were cars parked in front of two of the dozen units, and Neill wondered if the place ever filled up completely. Christmas, maybe, he decided, when people came back to spend the holidays with family.

  With nothing better to do, he wandered toward the main part of town. There wasn't enough of it to call it a downtown, he thought, walking past a hairdresser's and a drugstore. The businesses were

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  all of the mom-and-pop type, with straightforward window displays that focused more on information than artistry. He exchanged hellos with a young mother pushing a baby carriage, a grizzled old man wearing coveralls, two young girls who looked too fresh-faced and cheerful to be teenagers, and a deep-bosomed matron wearing a floral print dress that looked Uke it dated to the 1940s.

  Time warp, Neill decided, stopping beneath a shade tree whose branches arched over the sidewalk. That was the only possible explanation for what he was seeing. He hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and contemplated the possibiUty. Smiling, friendly faces, tidy little businesses—^he'd obviously passed through a time warp and landed in the fifties. Or maybe, considering his landlady, he'd fallen into an old Blondie movie.

  It had just occurred to him that he was hungry when he realized that he was standing in front of a grocery store. Bill's Grocery was written in plain block letters across the front of the building. There was an appealing simpUcity to that, a stolid refusal to pander to those who might want fancy names or curlicues on their letters. After two years of living in Seattle, where there was a specialty **empo-rium" or "market" on every other comer, there

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  was something pleasantly honest about the chunky block of a building with its plain name.

  He'd planned on eating at the diner down the street, but now he thought of the kitchenette that had come with his room. It had been awhile since he'd cooked himself a meal, unless you counted reheating Chinese take out. He liked to cook—had actually spent a few months working as a short-order cook once upon a time—and it occurred to him that it had been too long since he'd set pan to stove. Letting the impulse carry him, he pushed open the door of Bill's Grocery and went inside.

  Anne hefted a cantaloupe and tried to remember the trick for telling if it was ripe. Was it supposed to have a yellow spot where it had rested on the ground and sound hollow when you thumped it? Or was that watermelons? There was something that was supposed to feel heavy for its size—^lettuce or cantaloupe?

  **Try smelling the stem end," a masculine voice suggested behind her. Startled, she turned and found herself staring up into smiling blue eyes. Recognition was immediate. It was the stranger from the gas station, the one she'd assumed was halfway across the country by now. Surprise had her blurting out the first thing that came to mind.

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  "What are you doing here?"

  **Buying vegetables," he said, as if there was nothing odd in her abrupt question.

  *'No, I mean what are you...?" Anne stopped and bit her Up, feehng color flood her cheeks as she heard the echo of her own words. *'I just...I thought you'd be...somewhere else by now."

  **In the junk food aisle, maybe?" He sighed, looking regretful. '*I get that a lot."

  '*No, I meant somewhere else." She waved one hand as if to indicate distance. ''Another town or state or something. I didn't know you were staying here. In Loving."

  **I hadn't planned on it, but it looks like it's going to be a few days before my bike is fixed. Your friend, David, is going to have to track down parts."

  *'0h, Fm sorry. I hope you didn't have somewhere you needed to be today."

  ''That's what you get when you have an old bike," Neill said, shrugging. "And I'm not on any kind of schedule, so it's not a problem to hang out here for a little while."

  In fact, at the moment, this unexpected stopover was starting to look rather promising. He'd thought about Anne with her big gray eyes, pretty smile and rather spectacular legs several times over the

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  last twenty-four hours. When he'd realized that he was going to be stuck here for a while, he had wondered if their paths might cross again. It was a small town, after all, and it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. When he'd seen her studying the cantaloupe display with such a serious expression, it seemed like his luck was running high. He decided to push it a Uttle further.

  '*Lunch hour?" he asked, looking at her slim black skirt that ended several inches above her knee and Ulac silk blouse whose color was reflected in her clear gray eyes. Simple black pumps with slim, tapered heels that displayed those killer legs to perfection, and her dark gold hair was pulled back in a soft twist. A few baby-fine curls had escaped to lie against her nape—a look he found ridiculously tantalizing.

  ''Yes. I work at the bank." Anne reaUzed she was still clutching the cantaloupe and turned to set it back with the others, using the moment to try to gather her scattered senses. When she turned back, she felt her smile achieved just the right amount of friendly distance. "I was going to pick up groceries and run them home."

  "Have lunch with me," he asked-

  *'What?" She stared at him, her eyes wide and startled. '1...I can't."

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  *'Why not? You have to eat. I have to eat. Why shouldn't we eat together?"

  Why not eat together? All the reasons why not tumbled through Anne's mind and finally came out as one simple protest. "I don't know your name."

  '*Neill DevUn," he said promptly.

  **Anne Moore." The response was automatic, as was accepting the hand he held out, but she had to struggle not to jump at the electricity that arced from that casual touch. Her eyes shot to his face, wondering if he'd felt the same thing. The awareness in those clear blue eyes told her that the sensation had not been one-sided. Her cheeks warming, she pulled her hand back, resisting the urge to rub her fingertips against her tingling palm.

  *'Now that we've been introduced, have lunch with me." Neill's tone was light, easy, making it seem ridiculous to have doubts, foolish to refuse. When she still hesitated, he gave her a crooked smile. **Take pity on me. I'm a stranger in a strange land, and I hate to eat alone."

  Anne's teeth worried her lower lip as she considered the idea. It was crazy, of course. She didn't do things like that—Shaving lunch with a strange man, even if he did happen to have smiling blue eyes and a truly beautiful mouth.

  *1 told you how to pick out a cantaloupe," he

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  reminded her. *'Lunch seems like the least you could do to repay the favor."

  A smile tugged at the comers of her mouth. ''Cantaloupe is one of my favorite foods."

  "That makes it a debt of honor," Neill said sol-enmly. "You definitely have to save me from a lonely lunch."

  "I...there's a diner down the street," Anne said slowly, feeling excitement curl in the pit of her stomach. It was crazy, of course. It was completely out of character. Then again, just lately, she'd started to think that her character was pretty
damn dull.

  Luanne's Cafe looked like a movie set from American Graffiti. Worn black-and-white checkered Unoleum and red vinyl booths, patched here and there with duct tape, a long counter with a speckled gray surface and backless red stools. The walls were covered with framed photos of various sports teams, ranging from the local Little League to pro teams from all over the country and, from the look of the uniforms, dating back into the forties.

  Business appeared to be good, with all the seats at the counter filled and only one booth open. Neill took it, sUding into the seat that faced the door.

  •%1

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  wondering if Anne of the pretty gray eyes was going to show up. He was inclined to think she would, but he wouldn't have bet his next royalty check on it.

  She was an odd little thing, he thought, as he took a packet of crackers from the basket on the table and tore open the plastic. Not shy, exactly, but...skittish. Like a kitten who wanted to be petted but was cautious of getting too close. He hadn't imagined the way her eyes had brightened when she saw him and knew, without ego, that she'd thought of him a time or two since their brief meeting the day before. When he'd suggested lunch, she'd wanted to accept. He'd seen that in her eyes, too. Yet she'd hesitated, as if he'd suggested a torrid weekend, which, he had to admit, didn't sound half-bad.

  Neill trusted his instincts. As a writer, he had to. More often that not, particularly when he was starting a new project, they were all he had. And his instincts told him that there was a lot more to Anne Moore than what you saw at first glance. They'd also told him that she'd show up, he thought, smiling as he saw her walk through the door.

  Her teeth tugged at her full lower lip as her eyes skimmed the restaurant, and NeiU found himself wondering how she would react if he offered to do

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  the nibbling for her. Her eyes brightened when she saw him, and her mouth curved in a shy smile that, for some reason, made him want to drag her into the booth and kiss her senseless.

  Definitely too much time alone, Devlin, he thought, rising as she approached.