Keeping Victoria's Secret

by Melinda Peters

  To her horror, the man raised the shotgun towards Van Winkle’s truck and in quick succession fired both barrels neatly above the cab. Two thunderous booms echoed off the walls of the house.

  She screeched in surprise pushing her chair back to the clapboard wall. She heard the truck quickly accelerate and burn rubber as it took the bend in the road just as Jack had done earlier.

  From the old man came a high-pitched cackle. “Guess we settled his hash, now didn’t we?” He leaned the gun against the rail and said, “This was in the garage, so I borrowed it from Jack. Please tell him I used a couple of his shells. Under the circumstances, I don’t think he’ll mind.” He smiled, looking pleased with himself.

  She was stunned, one hand over her pounding heart and the other over her mouth as she tried not to scream. This old guy was crazy! “Mr. uh, Willet, or whoever you are. You just can’t go threatening people with guns. It’s illegal, I think. That Van Winkle character is probably going to press charges or something.”

  Grinning, the man climbed up the steps onto the porch, righted the chair and sat down. “Don’t you worry about that, Sweetheart. They can’t put a dead man in jail.”

  What next? I wonder what that crazy old man means, but I don’t want to ask.

  “I always wanted to do that Clint Eastwood thing. You know, ‘Go ahead. Make my day.’ Can’t think of anybody better to try it on, then Van Winkle.” He laughed again. “See the way he danced right off the porch?”

  “I guess I should thank you,” she said. “He really made me very uncomfortable. I don’t think he’s a very nice man. You’re a Willet cousin? Did you used to live near here?”

  The wizened old head nodded but he didn’t answer. His gaze moved over the trees as though admiring them. Then he said, “Blossoms are all gone. They’re only here for a short while. That’s about right.” He turned to look at her. “You remind me so much of your grandmother.”

  She leaned towards him asking eagerly, “Did you know her?”

  “Oh yes, I lived here abouts in Pippen’s Grove, way back when she was young. When we were all young. That was a good long time ago though. All that’s a story, I suppose, for another day.”

  His gaze swept over the trees once more where the shimmering new growth of light green replaced the pink blooms of a few days before. He sighed deeply and told her, “Victoria, you do resemble your grandmother. She was quite the looker in her youth.”

  Then the old man rose quickly as though he’d made a decision. He opened his mouth to speak, shut it again and then regarded her with those pale blue eyes. Finally, the wrinkled face split into a grin. “Well then, I have to be off. Won’t take more of your time, but glad I could be of some service. You try and have a good day, Victoria.”

  He rose quickly and took up the shotgun. “Don’t you worry. Life is too short to be worrying about things you have no control over. I’ll return this to where I found it in the garage.”

  As quickly as he’d come, he was gone. Leaving her sitting on the porch wondering about him. What came to her mind was the old Lone Ranger television series. At the end of each episode, the Lone Ranger and Tonto rode off into the sunset with a receding “Hi, Ho Silver, Away!” The folks he’d just helped out of a jam, would always ask, “Who was that masked man?”

   Lemon Pound Cake

  1 1/2 cups butter, room temperature

  1 (8 ounce) packages cream cheese, room temperature

  3 cups sugar

  6 large eggs, room temperature

  1 tablespoon vanilla extract

  1 tablespoon finely grated lemon rind

  3 cups sifted all-purpose flour

  1/8 teaspoon salt

  Preheat oven to 300°F. Use an electric mixer to mix both butter and cream cheese until creamy. Gradually add sugar and beat for 5 minutes, then add eggs one at a time, allowing each to incorporate before adding more. Stir in vanilla. Sift flour and salt and add gradually to the mixer, beating slowly until blended. Remove from mixer and stir carefully up from the bottom to make sure it's blended. Do not over mix. Pour batter into a well greased and floured tube cake pan. Bake cake at 300 for an hour and 45 minutes, or until a toothpick can be removed cleanly. Place pan on a wire rack and cool for 15 minutes, then remove the cake from the pan and complete cooling on the wire rack.

  Stir together 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice and some powdered sugar and glaze cake.

  Chapter 11

  There was someone else in the tent. She’d awoken with the distinct feeling that she was no longer alone. The narrow space between stacked trunks and crates where she lay filled with the overpowering smells of rum and sweat. Rising cautiously from the pallet, her eyes searched in the dim light, struggling to see. She could sense the evil presence before she saw the danger.

  She shrieked as a hand grabbed her roughly, pulling her to her feet so that she found herself face to face with the leering pirate. Clutching her silken wrap, she shrank away from him in fear. Futilely she twisted in his grasp struggling to free herself, but as she did so, the silk poured from her trembling hands threatening to leave her naked and defenseless in his grasp.

  “So Captain Jack had ye hid away here to keep all to himself,” he rasped. “We was wonderin’ where he’d stowed your loveliness.” Before she could scream again, a rough hand covered her mouth. “You’re comin’ with me now, and you’ll come quiet, or you’ll be sorry.”

  Light spilled into the tent and a voice like gravel thrown against a tin roof growled. “Take your filthy hands off her, McGee or I’ll blow a hole in your guts big enough to drive a team of horses through.”

  The drunken pirate swayed uncertainly and then released her. She sank abruptly to her knees, lovely breasts spilling out seductively towards the Captain as she knelt on the silk pooled around her. Long red hair flowed down the smooth pale skin of her back stopping just above the soft peach of her round bottom. She tried franticly to cover herself by gathering the loose silk about her, as she looked to her savior.

  Just beneath Captain Jack’s thunderous scowl was the round black muzzle of the biggest pistol she’d ever seen, cocked and aimed at her assailant. For the moment, she was safe from being ravaged, but for how much longer? Where did the real danger lurk?

  From "Caribbean Fire", by Tori Baxter

  * * *

  Alarmed at the news of Jonathan Van Winkle’s suit, Elvira felt sure that Fred Douglas couldn’t be right. Jonathan just couldn’t be the heir. Something nagged at the periphery of her memory. Something her mother had mentioned to her long ago. She recalled carefully packing away keepsakes in a drawer when her mother passed away and hadn’t looked in there since. Though she was gone many years, it went against Elvira’s nature to pry into her mother’s private life, but this was good reason to do so.

  Removing her mother’s diary from her bottom dresser drawer, she sighed, set the book on her desk and sat down to read. Surely one of the five year diaries her mother had faithfully kept as a young woman must reveal facts about the years after the war when Victoria Willet had married. She opened the book, and began to read.

  * * *

  While his wife searched through her mother’s things, Doc Sweeney was rocking on his porch after dinner, nursing a glass of local apple brandy as he contemplated Victoria and Jack’s situation. After speaking with Fred Douglas that afternoon, he'd returned from town with the news that Jonathan Van Winkle had started legal proceedings to try to gain ownership of the Willet farm. Watching the sunset, he sighed deeply as he wrestled with their problem. There was nothing constructive he could do that Fred wasn’t already doing.

  On the other hand, he’d been a bit of a matchmaker all his life; and Jack needed a sweet wife like his Elvira. Vicky was such a nice young lady and he considered the pair well suited to one another. Young folks today don’t seem very bright about these things.

  * * *

  Despite the hour, Fred Douglas was still in his office, ensconced in a deep leather chair, frowning at the ceilin
g. He’d sent to the State Bureau of Vital Statistics for birth, death, and adoption records for both names of Jonathan Van Winkle’s father, Theodore Willet and Theodore Van Winkle. He’d sent a letter off to Van Winkle’s attorney in Albany informing him of their intention to contest the case. Sitting at his desk mulling over the problem he turned it around in his mind as the sun sank towards the western horizon. Then on impulse, he also sent for Betsy Willet’s marriage records.

  * * *

  Jonathan Van Winkle sat brooding in his old easy chair with the remote in one hand, and a can of beer at his elbow. Damn Jack Conner and that old fart, whoever he was. His right hand went burrowing down behind him, massaging his aching hip, where he’d strained something when he went careening off the porch. I can’t wait to see the look on that bastard Jack’s face, when I walk in and kick his ass off that farm. Grandmother was a fool to let those Willets have the place. It should have been mine all this time. That Vicky woman’s gonna be mine too. She’ll be begging for it when she realizes the place belongs to me. A little bit plain, but what a nice body she’s got. Hell, if I don’t get that farm, by God, I’ll go in some night and burn the place to the ground. See if I don’t. The hand snaked down and kneaded his sore muscle again. Next time he went for a beer he’d get two more aspirin.

  * * *

  Jack grinned. He felt guilty, but not that guilty. It was impossible to resist peeking out his window at Victoria. Should I tell her that there’s a clear line of sight from my window into her new bedroom at the back of the house? Naw! I can’t let her know I can see directly in, that would be admitting I’ve been a peeping Tom. Grinning again, he realized he couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop.

  Yesterday he’d watched as she toweled off after her shower, patting that lovely skin all over. Then she’d slipped into the pink bra and panties prancing around in her room, bending over to use the blow drier. Sweet! Talk about eye candy.

  He paced around his large studio apartment above the three-car garage, trying to cool off. The apartment room measured about twenty by thirty feet. One side was taken up with bathroom and closets, but there were windows on the three other sides. In one corner was a kitchenette with two-burner stove, a wall mounted microwave, and a toaster oven on the counter. Underneath was a small bar refrigerator. The rest of the room was dominated by a king-sized bed surrounded by assorted bookshelves with a large flat screen TV centered there. Everything a single man could want or need. Satisfied with it, he'd grown used to a solitary existence.

  He returned to the window, watching for her. Where is she? What’s she doing? Maybe there won’t be a show this morning. He drew back. Oh God! What’s the matter with me? He ran his fingers through his hair making the smooth waves poke up at odd angles.

  Ever since he’d stepped out of the shower, naked as the day he was born, and found Victoria staring at him, there hadn’t been a dull moment in his life. He smiled again, remembering. Yeah, she’s already seen me stark naked. And she took a good long look too. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t take the occasional peak into her bedroom window. Fair is fair, right?

  He grinned to himself recalling the old guy with the shotgun yesterday scaring Van Winkle off. Victoria had related the whole story when he’d returned from Fred’s office. He only wished that he’d been here to see it for himself. Checking on the shotgun, he’d found it in its proper place, a rolled up note protruding from the barrel. Removing it, he read

  Jack,

  Thanks for the loan of your twelve gage.

  Victoria will explain.

  Don’t worry about this property.

  Van Winkle will never possess it, if I can help it.

  Yours,

  Willet

  Willet who? Puzzled Jack.

  * * *

  Vicky woke that morning with the sun streaming in through her window. The knowledge that today was May 22nd and her 26th birthday brought her no particular joy. She was alone. With Nanna gone, and no prospects of ever meeting someone she could fall in love with and marry, she was destined to remain alone.

  Unable to afford the better nursing homes and support herself at the same time, she’d spent the past ten years taking care of Nanna. Her grandmother’s dementia had slowly escalated as the years passed, making it impossible for her to leave the old woman alone.

  She’d managed to make a living for them both by writing rather explicit romance novels and romantic short stories that appeared in woman’s magazines. It had taken a good deal of work and persistence to break through the wall of literary agents and publishers, and she had a drawer full of rejection notices to prove that. Her personal life had suffered as all her time was devoted to writing and being full time caregiver. Every day she became more painfully aware that she’d never had a relationship with any man and probably never would. Her dreams of a husband and family were just that, dreams.

  Since it was her birthday, she decided to take the day off and pamper herself. First I’ll bake myself a little cake. Then take a long bubble bath and dress up, just for me. I’ll make myself something extra special for dinner and maybe open some wine.

  She went down to the kitchen for toast and coffee, and while she ate, decided to indulge herself by making one of her decadent chocolate cakes. Tying on an apron, she set to work, measuring and mixing.

  Jack had taken the tractor from the barn at first light to plow a few more acres and plant pumpkins. He returned to his apartment and checked her window to see if Victoria was doing anything interesting in her bedroom.

  After showering, he made a couple of phone calls, found his keys and wallet, and went bounding downstairs to his truck.

  * * *

  Vicky glanced up as she was taking the cake from the oven to see Jack's truck go hurtling down the drive.

  She placed the cake on a wire rack and sighed. Where’s he off to now? She’d vaguely hoped to share dessert with him later. She didn't want to be alone. Then remembering Jack’s arrogant statement about how women bringing him pies and cakes were angling for something, she decided against it. I certainly won’t give him any. If he wants cake, he’ll have to come and ask for it. While it cooled, she made a quick stop at the bookshelf for something to read, and then slipped back into bed with another cup of coffee.

  Propped up on pillows in her new bed, she realized with a sigh that the only thing missing was a man in her life. The truth was she was lonely. What’s Jack doing today and where was he going? Why do I even care?

  * * *

  The four conspirators sat around their favorite table at the back of Paulding’s Rest. Jack had called his three friends to ask their help and now they sat together with pints of beer before them, waiting to hear what he had on his mind.

  The dark paneled walls of the taproom and the heavy oak tables were scarred and stained with many years of hard use. At the other side of the room a half dozen regular late afternoon drinkers occupied their usual places at the bar. Most of the tables were filled with the early dinner crowd. The best restaurant food in Pippen's Grove could be found here.

  Paulding’s Rest was a tavern where, as legend had it, John Paulding celebrated with friends after his capture of British Major Andre’. During the American Revolution, the British Major conspired with Benedict Arnold to obtain information about George Washington’s forces and the fortress at West Point. While trying to escape to New York City at night, Andre’ was apprehended by Paulding and two other Colonial militiamen. It was very unlikely that the three local heroes quaffed ale in this very tavern, but it did make a good story, lending Paulding’s name to the establishment.

  Vincent Cangelosi was one of Pippen Grove’s small force of police officers. He sat opposite Jack in the booth with his friend John Van Wart. John owned the only service station in town and was a member of the volunteer rescue squad. John claimed to be a descendant of Isaac Van Wart, one of Paulding’s fellow militia, so naturally the tavern was his favorite watering hole. Beside Jack was Jimmy Smith. The four men often met at P
aulding’s Rest for beer and conversation.

  “So Jack, you say Jonathan Van Winkle is claiming he owns the farm because he’s related to the Willet family?” asked Vince.

  “Here’s everything I know. Uncle Charley left me the farm, but it wasn’t his to leave and the old bastard had to have known it. Victoria’s grandmother owned it and left everything to her. Okay now this is where it gets confusing. Her grandmother had an older brother named Alexander who would have inherited, but was killed in World War II. Apparently before he left for the army, he was married and they had a son. Who it turns out, was Van Winkle’s father. He’s claiming he’s the grandson of Alexander and legal heir to the Willet property. Fred Douglas is looking into everything. Van Winkle is generally a snake about most things, so it only makes sense that he’s trying to pull a fast one, now that Uncle Charley is gone. Then, this old guy shows up the other night claiming his name is Willet and he says the property belongs to him.”

  “Why do you think Van Winkle didn’t make a claim sooner?” asked Van Wart

  “It seems like he waited for Uncle Charley to die, or maybe he wasn’t aware of the connection to the Willet family until recently.”

  “The plot persists in thickening,” said Jimmy sipping his beer, interested.

  “Right. Victoria gets this letter from Van Winkle’s lawyer yesterday, and then Jonathan shows up in person and threatens her. Then the old guy pops up out of nowhere again, and with my shotgun runs Van Winkle off. He actually fired both barrels as Jonathan was driving away. Victoria says Van Winkle had the shit scared out of him.”

  At this, the police officer raised his eyebrows. “That’s not good Jack. Somebody could have been hurt.”