by J. L. Salter
“I think his timing was off... and it threw him.”
That didn’t make sense to Beth, but she didn’t care. “Back there, in the hotel room, you had such cold eyes.”
“It was too dark. You couldn’t have seen my eyes.”
“But I did. And it scared me because I knew you’d kill those guys.” Beth paused. “But it was also reassuring... for the same reason.”
Shane didn’t speak for a moment. “Are my eyes cold now?”
“No...” She peered closely. “In fact, they look incredibly warm.”
He smiled. “A mountain lion has cold eyes when it’s hunting... or fighting.” He reached for her hand and pulled it toward his mouth.
“Is this particular lion going to eat me?”
“Maybe later.” Shane grinned again and kissed her fingertips.
“Hmm. You look very hungry. What are you hunting now?”
“You.” Shane kissed her deeply, despite his pain.
Those kisses brought back memories but Beth interrupted them. “Shane, have you been with... anybody else?”
He was silent for another moment. “You already know about Sophia.”
Beth also knew there had been several women before Sophia. “No, I mean since we... since I moved here.”
Many men would have deflected such a question. Some may have made a light-hearted reply. Perhaps a few would have become defensive or even slightly angry. But Shane looked deeply into her eyes and didn’t blink. “There were plenty of girls around...”
Beth’s throat felt tight. Yeah, at the biker bar and the Harley shop.
“... but it was always the wrong timing.” He smiled. “And never the right woman.”
Tears fell down her bruised cheeks and she hugged him, trying not to touch his cut arm, gouged shoulder, or bruised sternum. “You waited for me?”
Though he groaned in pain as they hugged tightly, he held their embrace for several silent moments. “Anybody I need to know about?”
Beth searched her mind for the right image. “Well, some guys tried to crowd the plate a few times.” She grinned. “But I brushed ‘em back.”
“Guess I taught you well.” Shane shifted in his seat. “Beautiful woman... new to a small town—you must have had lots of uh, chances. Might’ve been some you didn’t want to brush back. Why?”
She kissed him deeply again. “I was waiting on you to drag that old Harley a couple thousand miles... and come rescue me.”
“Don’t you like my new Harley?”
“Yeah... for the highway. But for short rides, I’d still prefer the shovel head.”
Shane’s eyes, visible in the moonlight, warmed. “Let’s go home, Bethany.”
“Which home?”
“My home’s wherever you are.”
“Uh, how—?” Beth could imagine his brain flooded by calculating the logistics of selling, packing, moving, finding a job, et cetera.
Shane seemed to read her thoughts. “For three cases of beer, my cousin Stan will help with everything... and he’s got an enclosed trailer that could haul Sherman tanks.”
“What about the house on Pine Avenue?”
“For a dozen cases of beer, Cousin Stan will stay on long enough to get it sold.”
“He must love his beer.”
“We’re closer cousins than brothers could be.”
“Shane, would you do the same for him?”
“Would’ve three weeks ago.” Shane grinned and started the Shadow’s engine. “But not now.”
“How come?”
“I found you again, Bethany... way over here in Verde-town.”
Beth lightly stroked the bruised and cut knuckles of his right hand. “You’d really leave Long Beach... after all those years?”
“This little burg grows on you. Besides, Doc said Nashville has lots of chopper shops.”
“But there’s so much to do,” Beth sputtered slightly. “Too much to think about...”
“Stop thinking.” Shane embraced her. “It’s all good.”
Beth held him firmly. Blood oozed from the bandaged wound just above his elbow, he felt damp from rain and sweat, and Shane could definitely use some mouthwash. But at that moment Beth couldn’t fathom how she’d endured three long years apart from her protector.
Yeah... it’s all good.
Postscript
The next morning, Beth unpacked her hand-painted porcelain birds and finally displayed them on the mantle of her rental cottage’s non-working fireplace. Her new Phoenix was the centerpiece. Shane rose early and scrambled some eggs which were a bit too dry for Beth’s taste, but she didn’t complain.
With considerable hassle, a lot of explaining about certain aspects of his California record, and $165, Shane got his 2000 Road King five-speed out of VPD impound. It carried a new Greene County tag. Still safely inside the locked saddlebags were his treasured revolver and hunting knife.
Despite a strong undercurrent of voyeuristic expectation, no significant dirt was slung publicly by either campaign in the big senate race. But four days before the November eighth election, Dillon was arrested in connection with campaign finance fraud and quickly agreed to spill everything in exchange for partial immunity. Caught completely flat-footed by the sensational headlines from Dillon’s explosive revelations, Candidate Durocher simply froze like an ice sculpture and her campaign sputtered to a pitiful stall. Before she could spring her late October surprise, The Nancy became defensively snarled in the wreckage of her intended offensive.
Senator Fitch returned to his office in the State Legislature to begin his final term before intended retirement.
Partly as a result of Dillon’s exhaustive disclosures, federal authorities were actively grilling Kaser, AKA Juan Milkovich, in connection with at least three murders [one of his hireling thieves, Mr. Barkley, and Mrs. Bier, the attempted murder of Mrs. Ross, and several other criminal incidents. Formerly prepared to flee the country with an enormous amount of cash, Kaser was instead confined in an undisclosed location with extraordinary rendition.
Ricks eventually went to Folsom Prison in California. He was not a happy camper.
After examining the body of the hooded robber, Nashville Police revealed he was a well-known character in South Nashville... where he dived in a regular route of dumpsters as his livelihood. That finally explained his repugnant smell.
The federal agents were so glad to get their hands on Kaser that they lowered their charges about Jeff falsely reporting a bomb and placed the librarian on unsupervised probation. Assuming he had no further improprieties within a specified time, his record would be expunged.
Jeff’s wrist was badly sprained and had to be in a sling for several days, plus a heavy, tight wrap for an additional week. Several regular patrons brought home-baked cookies and candies to the Reference Department and he shared some with his library colleagues. Tanya wondered what had happened to Jeff’s supper appetite and thought she’d noticed a few extra pounds on his normally slim midsection.
Unlike Jeff’s prediction of her reaction to his injury, Tanya characterized his actions in the hotel as “heroic”... which, after all, they were.
Steve Packard’s wife finally tired of him staring at her, so she nagged him into seeing an ophthalmologist. Turned out Steve was so myopic that he could barely see to drive even the short and quite familiar route between office and home. Anything as far away as Beth’s desk would be hardly more than blurry colors and moving shapes.
After Helana Harte Ross fully recovered from Kaser’s attack, she began corresponding with Beth. When everything was photographed and inventoried—with Jeff’s considerable help—Shane shipped Lynette’s belongings to Helana. After five years under his protective custody, the actress’s mementos were finally going home.
Corporal James was credited with much more than he actually did, merely by being first officer on the scene.
Connie was currently dating Arnie the medic. She realized she needed to learn a lot about first aid since he
r friends sustained so many injuries.
Afterword
A mere acknowledgment to Dean Spradlin would not do justice to his involvement in this project. Inspiration for a central thread of this novel—Lynette’s various belongings—came directly from examining items which Dean brought to my attention. Together, we pored over those scattered bits and pieces looking for clues as to what, if anything, a few might have in common. Some items apparently are not related and were simply in the same dumpster in about 1994.
I should also point out that the real life items were not in an overnighter, but were scooped from the dumpster and tossed into two small boxes. Dean truly did acquire these items from dumpster divers he knew, but the details of that transaction are irrelevant to our purposes. To protect these treasures, Dean placed them in an old suitcase he already owned. He asserts that only one other person besides me had ever viewed these belongings since he’d obtained them.
Dean’s excitement about this material was contagious and we both eagerly examined everything in the suitcase. Me for the first time with fresh eyes, and him for the umpteenth time with renewed zeal. Some of the crucial clues were found by Dean and some of the critical links were made by me. It was truly a team effort to uncover as much of this individual’s story as we could.
There actually was a silent movie actress who inspired my character, Lynette Harte. Many years after Lizette Thorne’s death, a family storage facility was broken into. Several valuables were stolen and someone—whether the thieves themselves or possibly the storage facility’s employees—actually did discard items like those I’ve described. It’s also very possible the dumpster contained many other Thorne family pieces which Dean never even saw. Through our—may I say, immodestly—brilliant detective work, we truly did establish links among four distinct sets of material. I cannot adequately describe our excitement over those discoveries.
To Dean and me, these were not merely papers and pictures which had been scattered and trashed. In someone’s lifetime, they had been carefully maintained and valued... and now were, we believed, the sole surviving representation of this actress’s life and career. [We later learned the family still possessed other of Mrs. Thorne’s mementos.] We both found it nearly miraculous that any of this material was discovered—and recovered from that filthy dumpster—and that we had the honor of reassembling what we could.
It’s being valued... again.
As we marveled at this fascinating woman and obviously talented actress—Lizette Thorne really did work in the same studio as Chaplin during 1916—we both developed a hunger to “do something” with these scattered belongings. Dean maintains he just hoped I would appreciate them, as he did. But I suspect he knew, deep down, that his interest would be contagious and I’d have to write about it... somehow.
And, as Dean likely predicted, I was affected by the life of this actress. My brain played with the notion—off and on for a couple of weeks—of my new story being about someone finding such discarded material. But I could not arrive at any well-paced plot which might develop from that rather lackluster springboard. And I worried that unfamiliar characters poring over the musty contents of a dusty suitcase would be a very slow opening chapter. [Am I right?]
So, I needed to establish the characters doing something else—hopefully interesting—before I could expect readers to care what was inside the suitcase. The main characters needed to be already at work on something exciting before they even cracked open the overnighter.
As a central thread, I selected an ominous mystery many decades removed—the “Hanging of Jones”. Yes, an unsigned, handwritten hanging story manuscript actually exists, and was acquired by Dean in this same batch of items. We later learned it was written by Frank Thorne Jr., only child of the actress, Lizette Thorne. The real manuscript was also missing its final page or pages. [I have abridged Thorne’s story for use in my novel; Frank Thorne’s daughter granted me permission to use it.]
Only after establishing the mystery and introducing the fictional villain could I allow my characters to discover the treasures in this overnighter. I hope the reader senses some of the same excitement which Dean and I felt as we stood in his garage and inspected nearly every scrap.
During this entire project, each of us has begun to feel as though we know this former actress. And we have—quite intentionally—dealt very respectfully with her life and legacy.
I was not ready to begin another novel manuscript at that point—since I needed to work on revisions of two other novels and prepare queries for both. And I kept telling this to Dean. But he’d just give me that look... like he knew I was going to drop everything and write this.
And I have.
And I’m glad.
****
Dean did not do any writing on this novel. However, he has been very helpful in providing plausible background material, helping me fix various plot problems, and reading—or listening—and providing feedback. But primarily, he encouraged me to write a story inspired by the belongings of this actress.
His praise and encouragement concerning one of my previous novel manuscripts led directly to the afternoon in his garage when we jointly explored the contents of the suitcase... which contains so much about the life of a fascinating individual.
Inevitably, I suppose—because of our extensive give and take about this overnighter’s contents—Dean also became the inspiration for one of my fictional characters in this story. I’ll leave it to readers to guess which character.
One final statement before I close this portion. My character Jeff McCabe was inspired by my dear friend Jeff McDay, who died of pancreatic cancer near the end of 2004. We were library co-workers for several years and prayer partners for some twelve years. My friend did not, however, resemble Denzel Washington as much as Jeff resembled a young Martin Luther King Jr.
Special Note from the Author
On the day I first examined the belongings in Dean’s overnighter—April thirtieth—I posted on the International Movie Database a message seeking information about collectors of photos from silent movie sets. And I mentioned the actress who we’d identified as their former owner—Lizette Holdsworth Thorne.
On July twelfth, after I’d written approximately 77,000 words on the first draft of this manuscript, I received a notice indicating my IMDb message finally had a response. I eagerly opened the link and was positively stunned to see a reply from Tia Sanders, the actual granddaughter of that real life movie actress!
I took pains to have this respondent verify her identity, since I reasoned anyone could claim to be that movie star’s descendent. But Tia knew everything I knew—from the diary and family photo album which had been recovered—which included her full name and birth date, plus names and dates for the rest of her family.
So I gleefully told her about my work in progress and related how Dean came into possession of her grandmother’s belongings—approximately twenty-five years after Mrs. Thorne had died—from the dumpster divers previously noted.
Tia and I began corresponding. Dean freely volunteered to give her all the personal belongings, including about seventy-five still photos of silent movie sets ... which Dean had originally acquired as an investment.
Another very pleasant surprise was that at least one of the items is quite special: an affidavit which finally provided genealogical proof of the Madigan connection with the Thorne family line.
I consider it practically a miracle that Tia Sanders happened upon my post at the IMDb site and, consequently, was reunited with some of her grandmother’s lost belongings. To borrow my friend’s phrasing, “It blew me away!”
After making this connection, Dean and I had hoped to meet Tia in person, but it was not possible due to the distance and expense involved.
****
Disclaimer
It should not be necessary to state this, but from a legalistic standpoint I’ll reiterate that this is a work of fiction with characters I’ve created. I was inspired by examining the real
life belongings already noted, but the entire novel’s plot, setting, characters, and dialog are all of my own creation.
Hickman KY is a real city on the Mississippi River and at one time was a popular stop for steamboats and other watercraft. That city did have a newspaper called the Hickman Courier and I examined a few copies from 1889 which had been scanned and digitized. I did not, however, find any reference to a botched hanging. The newspaper article in this novel is completely of my own invention.
Let me add that I have absolutely no knowledge of any real public officials in Tennessee. I made up fictional politicians for an imaginary city in an invented county. The only factual aspect of my fabricated setting is that it’s near three real landmarks: Nashville, Interstate 40, and the Cumberland River.
Lizette Holdsworth Thorne was born Elizabeth Margaret Madigan in Birmingham, England, on November 24, 1882.
A few photos are currently held in the Library archives of the University of California at Santa Barbara.
http://digital.library.ucsb.edu/items/show/2804
Acknowledgements
No one would be reading this if Astraea Press CEO Stephanie Taylor had not given me a chance... and if Senior Editor, Kay Springsteen, had not given her endorsement.
I appreciate the patience and hand-holding from my editor, Kay Springsteen, as we went through some five stages of the editing process (and I learned about Track Changes, among other electronic complexities).
Special thanks to author and talented artist Elaina Lee, who designed my excellent cover.
I certainly want to thank my primary beta reader, Charles A. Salter, for his prompt, perceptive, detailed, and valuable help with an early draft of this story (plus components of the submission package and extensive re-writing of a key scene). And thanks to Denise W. Salter for reading, proofing, and providing important feedback. I also appreciate Terrie Mulligan’s and Doris R. Salter’s willingness to read the manuscript.
