Evening
Beth closely monitored the person she wasn’t certain she knew any more.
Shane took a final look around the kitchen and living spaces of Beth’s cottage and seemed as though he wanted to poke his head in the bedroom. But he didn’t.
Beth wasn’t sure if he’d ever see that room. Or she was worried that if he entered, she wouldn’t let him out. And those conflicting notions continually played in her head.
He quietly lifted his jacket and gazed at the front door, though he didn’t move that direction yet.
“Where are you staying, Shane?”
“Uh, place down at Exit 233. Envie Motel. Named after the lake, I’m told.”
Beth chuckled. “Around here, it’s called Envy Motel.”
“Some jealous husband shoot somebody in there?”
She shrugged. “Just rumors. But I wouldn’t be surprised. There’s some nicer places on the east side of town... around Exit 242. Well, they’re newer, anyway.”
“But farther out of town...”
Beth nodded and briefly considered that he could bunk on her couch, but she did not feel comfortable enough to make the offer. Many possible scenarios and Beth was too unsure how they’d play out.
Shane’s eye movement suggested he’d also wondered about her couch. “Well, on the west end of town, I’m closer to where I’ve guessed Ricks might be burrowed. I need to neutralize him. Sooner the better.”
“Neutralize?”
“He’s attacked me and robbed me, followed you and cut you... and who knows what he would’ve done if that old couple hadn’t shown up.” Shane took a deep breath. “We need Ricks out of the way so we can concentrate on who hired him.”
“And why.”
Shane nodded and consulted his watch. “So what time are your friends coming over?”
“A few minutes.” When Beth touched his bare forearm she could see goose bumps. “I’d like to introduce you.”
“Maybe another day. This Ricks thing is like a real bad boil... and I’m itching to pop it.”
“Shane, don’t do anything... you know, don’t get in any trouble over Ricks. If you do find him, just haul him to the police station. Let them... take care of things.” She peered into his face. “You understand what I mean?”
He grabbed his helmet. “You don’t want me to kill him.”
She mulled over the zeal of her knight. “I meant, don’t hurt him so bad that you face charges. Just do what’s necessary... to get him to the station.” Beth patted his forearm. “No more. Okay?”
“I hear what you’re saying, Bethany. But a lot depends on Ricks... and when I find him. And what he’s done in the meantime.” He leaned over and pecked her cheek. Then Shane moved slowly through the door and down the walkway, swung a muscled leg over his motorcycle, and twisted the ignition key. The 1450 cc engine roared to life. Straddling, he walked it backward enough to turn around, and then took off.
With one hand covering the spot of his light kiss on her cheek, Beth’s other fingers wiped away tears. After three years, Shane was back... but already leaving. He was there looking for the man who’d attacked her. And, if he found Ricks, the result would be ugly. After that was over, where would their relationship be? Resumption of three years ago... or starting over? Or something in between?
About twenty minutes later, Jeff arrived in Tanya’s VW.
“Your car still in the shop?”
“It’ll take an act of congress to sort out the validity of my warranty. Until then, I can’t do anything but make the loan payments.”
“That totally stinks.” Beth motioned to the rocking chair. “Come on in.” She smiled. “So you didn’t want me at your house while Tanya crops with her mother?”
“Sometimes it’s perilous when her mom’s around. Speaking of danger, how’s that cut on your neck?” Jeff squinted but probably couldn’t see anything.
“It still stings, but I probably don’t even need this huge bandage. Not particularly deep. ‘Course, it scared me to death.”
“I can imagine.” Jeff’s Adam ’s apple rose and fell suddenly. “You mentioned Connie... is she here?” He looked around the room.
“She’s coming later. Had to stay late at the dealership.”
“Should we wait for her?”
“No, let’s get started. We need to solve this puzzle.”
“Well, I brought back the diary and the story, but I’m not actually through with them yet. I might need a few more days.”
Beth nodded.
“Did you find out anything from your ex?”
“Shane didn’t remember any missing pages. He thought it was supposed to end like that.”
“Um, speaking of Shane... didn’t you say he was the jealous killer type?” Jeff looked around the room again.
“Relax. He’s out hunting the punk who’s been bothering me.”
“You seem pretty cavalier about it.”
“Shane’s here now... he won’t let anybody hurt me.”
A long pause. “Beth, your confidence is remarkable, but your boyfriend isn’t Superman... he can’t be everywhere and know everything.”
“You’re right.” When Beth got up to lock the front door, she saw Connie’s gleaming demo pull into the driveway behind the VW. With all three vehicles in her driveway, Connie’s tail stuck out. Of course, she did that herself sometimes, just to attract attention. Ha. “Go tell her to wait a minute and I’ll pull into the garage.”
Jeff extracted keys from his pocket. “Okay, I’ll scoot up, too.”
After all the vehicular movement, everyone was inside the living room.
“Well, I’m frankly disappointed,” said Connie as she shrugged off her jacket.
“About what?” Beth.
“Where’s your biker boyfriend?”
“He came by after work, but didn’t want to hang around here while Ricks is still out there.”
“Ricks being...”
“Oh.” Beth pointed to the bandage on her neck. “My stalker finally showed himself, and nearly cut my head off.” It was a slight exaggeration, for sympathy.
Connie rushed over and hugged her carefully. “Why didn’t you tell me, sweetie?” She drew back without breaking contact and searched her friend’s eyes.
Beth mumbled through an explanation but Connie wasn’t paying attention to her words anyway.
After they got settled again, Jeff asked a few questions about Shane. Frankly, Beth couldn’t remember how much she’d told Connie and how much Jeff already knew. So she briefed both of them about her ex-boyfriend and how he appeared to have changed, at least physically.
“Does your biker wear tight leathers and have tattoos all over?” Connie watched too many movies.
“Actually, he does have a couple of tattoos. One is the airborne patch just below his shoulder, of course. But the most distinctive is on his chest—a star inside a clock face... with only a second hand.”
“What does it mean?” Connie seemed to hold her breath.
“With Shane, everything’s about timing. The star is for the Bronze Star he was awarded during the first Gulf War... when he helped rescue some wounded guys in Kuwait.”
“Wow.” Jeff’s eyes grew large. “What happened?”
Beth briefly explained the parts she knew about, but realized her friends had gotten distracted. “Y’all didn’t come over to talk about Shane.” Beth pointed to the papers in Jeff’s lap. “Connie, just to bring you up to speed, Jeff has determined the end of the story is missing.” She placed the typescript into Connie’s hands.
Connie was already reading when Jeff began his explanation.
“In the missing conclusion, the drummer’s interjection would be completed and should disclose something about the fourth man—though it’s not obvious what that will be. I’m pretty sure the drummer will be revealed to be none other than Mr. Jones.”
“Oh, yeah.” Beth’s eyes lit up. “The drummer was from St. Louis, he has imported cigars, and he became a peddler of sorts.”
“Hopefully, the missing portion also reveals a motive for Mr. Brown to kill Mr. Blank.” Connie was a fast reader.
“That could logically come from the mysterious fourth man, since he was present at Brown’s demise.” Jeff tapped his notes. “And hopefully the fourth man reveals how and why he was a witness to that death.”
Connie held out the typed pages.
“It’s a wonderful campfire tale, but there’s lots of problems if you think of it as a bona fide short story.” Jeff reached for the sheets. “Too many literary holes... too much detail missing. Besides, any writer would want her—or his—name on their manuscript.” Jeff scanned his notes. “In fact, hardly anybody in the story has a name. The person who got hanged is only Jones. The murdered man is Mr. Blank. The guy who left the money to Jones is Mr. Brown.”
“And those are generic names, aren’t they?”
“Like Colonel Mustard and Professor Plum...” A slight smile accompanied Connie’s erudite contribution.
Jeff ignored the board game reference. “In fact, the only character with a full name is the sheriff who hanged Jones... unsuccessfully, of course.”
“So the sheriff’s name must be meaningful... somehow.” Beth closed her eyes to think harder.
“Like I say, it’s a clever tale,” Jeff continued. “But it lacks the structure and completeness necessary for a literary short story. It requires the reader—or listener—to willingly suspend disbelief at a preponderance of coincidences. I mean, what are the chances of four people at random being connected by knowledge or involvement in a single incident which took place many years before?” He checked his notes. “And we need an explanation why half a dozen witnesses allegedly saw Jones—supposedly innocent—with Mr. Blank that night of the murder. A solid literary story would reveal that Mr. Brown had anonymously bribed those six witnesses. Let’s see... another biggie—robbery alone does not seem like adequate motive for Brown to kill Blank... business rivalry or romantic jealousy are more likely. And finally... two months is not nearly enough time for all this final business to take place... it would require many months for the necessary correspondence, arrangements, and travel. Not even counting the possibility that some—or all—of the other men in that party may have also been contacted by the lawyer.”
Beth felt quite disappointed. “In other words: a good story idea, but not a great piece of literature.”
“Exactly. In my opinion, this is a campfire tale likely meant to be recited orally. And it’d be terrific in that context. But in written form, I think it’s actually just a context in which to conceal a few important nuggets.”
“What nuggets?” Connie squirmed in her seat.
“Impossible to say without more information. But there’s something mighty fishy about the sheriff having the only full name.”
During a lull, Beth searched in her cabinets for some kind of snack. All she found was a bag of unsalted, roasted peanuts. Though she couldn’t recall purchasing them, she poured the contents into a medium bowl and placed it on the coffee table. “Jeff, what have you concluded about the writer?”
“Thought you’d never ask.” Jeff pulled out another sheet and began reading. “Presumably male. If he actually rode steamers during the 1920s and witnessed some men sitting around swapping tales, he could have been at that time anything from a boy to a grown man. However, the handwriting has a lot of flourish and some of the descriptors sound a bit feminine.”
Beth interrupted. “Do you think this draft could’ve been written by Lynette herself?”
“Remotely possible... but not likely.” Jeff pointed to his backpack. “I’ve checked her known handwriting... the diary. I’m no graphologist, but it doesn’t look even close to me. That said, Lynette’s travels could easily have placed her on river steamers in the earliest part of the 1900s and she could have heard tales like this one... or maybe even heard this particular story.”
Beth picked up a peanut and cracked the slightly dusty shell. “So why did Lynette have a copy of this interesting, but flawed, little story?”
“Well, unless we could interview the dumpster divers who recovered the material, we’ll never know for certain that it did ever belong to Lynette.” Jeff cleared his throat and settled back in his chair. “Lots of people use dumpsters. And lots of people in whichever neighborhood could’ve been just as old as Lynette... or older.”
“No, I’m certain it was Lynette’s story... or at least her copy of that story. Whatever.” Beth touched her stomach. “Gut instinct and woman’s intuition.”
Connie tried one of the peanuts and spit it out immediately. “Beth, these are horrid!” She rushed to the bathroom and rinsed her mouth... quite noisily.
Beth discreetly put back the nut she’d de-shelled. “Was there actually a steamboat by that name?”
Jeff pointed to his tablet. “I couldn’t find a boat named Cherokee anywhere.”
“Was Lynette ever in... or near... Hickman, Kentucky?” Beth removed the bowl of stale peanuts.
“No way to tell... I mean, not from the programs I saw in the suitcase.” Jeff shrugged. “But Hickman did have some minor historical significance, and I found the name of its newspaper during that period—the Courier. If I can find time to search through a few issues, no telling what we might find.”
After more discussion about the story and related aspects, it had gotten rather late.
Jeff departed about nine o’clock, requiring Connie to move her demo. She lingered, apparently hoping Shane would show up again. About an hour later, Connie gave up waiting and went home.
Not long after Connie’s departure, Beth heard the rich, deep rumble of Shane’s motorcycle in her driveway. She had the front door open before Shane booted down the kickstand.
“You missed my guests... Connie even waited on you.”
“Why?” He entered and placed his helmet near the door. “What’s she want?”
Beth smiled slyly. “On, nothing. I think she just wants to see what a real biker is like. She’s probably picturing leathered outlaws.”
“You want me to scare her a bit?” He grinned.
“No... just be yourself.”
“So, you figure that’ll scare her enough?”
Beth touched the side of his face, still cool from his ride.
Shane clasped her hand to his cheek and slid it down to where he could kiss her knuckles. “I don’t mind meeting your friends, Bethany. But don’t count on us becoming good buddies or anything. From what little you’ve told me, I don’t have much in common with either one.” Shane grunted as he removed his leather jacket. Outside temperature was in the mid-fifties but it was warm inside the cottage. “I couldn’t find Ricks, but I could almost smell him at times. I could swear—some of the time—that I wasn’t more than an hour behind him.”
Beth provided some highlights from Jeff’s analysis of the Jones story... and cautioned Shane not to eat the peanuts.
“A peanut’s a peanut.” He quickly shelled one and plopped it into his mouth. Just as swiftly, he loudly spit it into his hand. “Bethany, these are poison!”
Beth pointed to the kitchen trash can in the corner next to the rear door. “Tried to warn you.” Beth started smiling. “But you wouldn’t listen.” In fact, as she just then realized, Shane’s stubbornness was nearly as aggravating as his propensity for fighting. She watched him drink from the sink’s faucet. He let the stream run into the palm of his hand and then he slurped what had collected. Twice.
Their relationship had been on hold for three long years and suddenly Shane was in her kitchen and living room. Beth was reasonably certain he also wanted to spend time in her bedroom. But she couldn’t let that happen. Not now, not with Ricks on the loose and all the strangeness of the past ten days. But what about afterwards? After Ricks was locked away. What would become of them after this crisis?
She studied his face as he ripped a paper towel from the roll and roughly dabbed his mouth. A few shreds of damp towel got stuck in his beard stubble. “Something on your chin.” She pointed.
Shane absent-mindedly combed his blunt fingertips over his lower face. “Did that get it?”
“Here... let me.” She stood quite close and tried to avoid his eyes as she plucked three small scraps of moist paper from his short bristles. She thought she could hear his heart beating. No, maybe that was her heart. Might have been both. Beth figured Shane still carried some of his hurt from when she left him. She did too. But there were also psychological bruises from their time together prior to her departure. Sometimes in their four-and-a-half years together, she had felt more like a possession than a partner. Sometimes Beth had been frightened over Shane’s jealousy and what seemed like his capacity for violence against others.
She’d often wondered if Shane ever had any real closure about Sophia. He had told Beth that she’d helped him get over his previous lover. But Beth was not at all certain. Sophia’s tragedy had partly un-hinged Shane and shaped him into a gladiator of sorts. No—more like a combative knight with hereditary orders to protect the lovely princess and slay any dragons that ventured near. Right now Beth only knew about one dragon—Ricks. Though Ricks was more of a scavenger, a meth head vulture.
When Beth backed away from Shane, standing in the wide archway between kitchen and living space, she sensed he was gazing into her soul. Or mind. Maybe both. She could tell he wanted her, physically, perhaps even emotionally. But not now, not under these circumstances. If Shane the knight were to bed this damsel, he would have to wait until after the artificial intensity of all the recent problems. The kind of intensity which often got two people in bed together was typically a huge mistake. And it would certainly be a blunder if Beth allowed it now. All that said, she felt the electricity of being near him again.
Shane seemed able to read her mind. “Bethany, if I’d been here last evening, Ricks wouldn’t have attacked you. And if I’d been here before that, he wouldn’t have followed you. And nobody would’ve broken into your place.”
“You couldn’t have known, Shane.” She felt that familiar tightness in her chest again. “I’ve been fine here, by myself, for years. Nobody’s bothered me. Well, my boss seems a little weird at times, but he’s never done anything.”
Shane seemed to want to say something, but didn’t. He just looked sad. Was it residual grief over the loss of Sophia? Or was he anxious over Beth’s safety? Or was he just ticked that she hadn’t invited him to stay over? She guessed it could be any of those, or possibly parts of all three.
Beth sat on one end of the couch and related the remainder—greatly condensed—of what she and her friends had learned about the Jones story. But Shane seemed too distracted to absorb much of it.
When Shane stood and reached for his jacket, he looked like someone who’d just lost his best friend... or maybe lost his favorite dog and the friend.
“Before you go, can I borrow a hug?”
He opened his grizzly bear arms and pulled Beth so close, so tightly, that they almost formed one body.
She’d nearly forgotten his raw strength. Beth could barely breathe, but she hugged as far around his thick chest as her arms could reach. If her slender body didn’t require oxygen, Beth figured she could stand there inside his protective limbs for a new lifetime. But she did need to breathe. Plus, her brain figured there was a fifty-fifty chance that Shane would be back in California in a day or two. Pull away. She hated the voice inside which shouted that retreat, but she heeded it anyhow.
Shane picked up his helmet, struggled into his jacket, and left for his lonely motel room.