| SKULL MUSIC |
Skull Music
by Billie A Williams
ISBN 1-59088-417-5 (electronic)
ISBN 1-59088-618-6 (print)
CHAPTER ONE
The flashing red lights played off the tall brick buildings in the alley behind the Worth Manufacturing Complex creating shadows and macabre
dancing splotches over the bloodied body lying tangled with gray canvas tarps and black plastic bags.
“What we got here?” Sam asked the uniformed police officer as he and his partner approached the scene.
“Well, it’s definitely a murder. Apparently the body was dumped here. She wasn’t murdered here. That’s as far as we got so far. Forensics just beat
you here and they’re gathering evidence now before we put her on the gurney for transport to the morgue,” the officer said, wiping the sweat
beading on his brow.
“You look a little green around the gills, kid. Maybe you better take a walk to the end of the alley—sit in the squad for a bit.” Damn rookies, he
thought. Sam brushed by him and leaned over the body.
“Thanks, Sergeant,” the rookie mumbled as he took off running for the squad car.
Detective Jeremy Foxwilder laughed a loud, mocking sort of laugh.
Sam glared at him. “You’ve been there. Give the kid a break. Or, maybe you don’t remember how it felt seeing a person cut apart like a slab of
meat.”
Foxwilder hung his head. “Sorry,” he said.
“Tell him,” Sam said pointing down the alley to the squad car. “Holy mother of God, oh jeez—It’s Professor Mavis Henderson. Oh my G...” Sam’s
voice trailed off. He turned his back and walked a few steps to the edge of the alley. He took some deep breaths and walked back beside Foxwilder.
~ * ~
Marblesque bounced across Charlie’s stomach jarring her out of a rather pleasant encounter with Prince Charming. The scanner across the room
squawked loudly. A murder—she heard the codes. Anyone who listened to a scanner as much as she did soon learned all the police codes. A
murder was not something that happened in little towns like Ironwood, Michigan.
She couldn’t let this get by—her reporter’s instincts were on alert and already questioning. “Mrs. Wentworth will surely want the scoop on this one,”
she said to her cat, Marblesque, as the animal sat with a quizzical expression on her calico face. Charlie quickly jotted down the address and
reached for her jeans. As she wriggled into them she pulled a pair of socks and a sweatshirt from a bureau drawer. Forty acres away from everyone
she could have dogs, horses, all the creatures she had always wanted, but they took care. Cats, on the other hand, especially those as
independent as this one who preferred no human interference unless she came looking for it, needed little care. She seemed to know that when the
scanner went off, Charlie wouldn’t be home for long. She sat on the dresser and watched her squiggle into her clothes. Then Marblesque would
race to the door to stand and wait while Charlie slipped into her cowboy boots and denim jacket.
“Be back soon, Marble,” she said as she swung a backpack purse over her shoulder and headed out the door. Marble was in the bay window
watching as the lights from her Ford Escort caught the huge pane of glass, her tail twitch-twitched as though she were waving goodbye. Charlie
waved back at her.
It was only then that she noticed the time. Three a.m. People never picked a respectable time to make the headlines.
She couldn’t help but wonder if maybe big city crime hadn’t dropped down on the doorstep of the residents of the lethargic little Michigan town. It had
been coming, following the influx of those fighting to escape the clutches of the city. In the steady line that oozed from the metropolises of Illinois and
Wisconsin to the south, she could see the signs, but like everyone else she hoped it was only her overactive imagination.
Charlie pulled up to the alley that ran behind the line of industrial plants that were the sole source of employment for the majority of the people here
since the iron ore mines closed. The scene was already alive with red and blue flashing lights; police cars and an ambulance blocked the entrance
to the alley. She clipped on her press pass, grabbed her notebook and searched for the familiar face of Sam. She knew if it was a homicide, lead
detective Johnson would have to be in the thick of it.
Charlie and Sam had been friends for several years. They always seemed to be on the same beat, he for the police department and she for the
press. She saw the forensic crew bagging a bloodied body, the alley roadway the deep grungy color blood leaves on pavement where a body had
lain. She saw Sam. He looked distraught, was it someone he knew? She knew he had been a detective long enough that he had become slightly
hardboiled about violent crime or at least he hid his emotions very well—not this time though.
“I knew Professor Henderson from my days at the University of Illinois at Chicago. I knew that she’d had her fingerprints scraped off and tattoos put
in their place during the sixties’ Vietnam War protests. See these,” he said motioning to Foxwilder. “They’re not even faded after thirty some years of
chalk dust, ink pens and folk guitar strings.”
“Amazing. Was she in trouble with the cops? Is that why she did it?” Foxwilder asked, staring at the images on the bloodied hand.
“Mavis had made her mark then and she still was setting the pace for others. Seemed she was always just shy of being arrested. As far as I know,
she never crossed that line. She was a very popular figure in the university scene then. Even now, her students adore her for the most part. She
was always a rebel. A good person you could count on. Who would have wanted to kill her? Why did someone mutilate her body like this?”
“Sam, don’t you read the newspaper or listen to your own briefings down at headquarters?” Jeremy Foxwilder said.
“Well, call me naïve but I never thought those stories about black market body parts had any merit. I’m not afraid to admit it when I’m wrong,” Sam
had been on the force long enough to have earned every gray hair on his half bald head and he hated the smart ass attitude of the new rookies he
was forced to break in every six months. Couldn’t anyone have a little work ethic, a little stick to it backbone? “They sure don’t make ‘em like they
used to,” he mumbled under his breath.
“What’d ya say, Sarge?” Foxwilder asked.
“I was wondering about this X-ray of a skull they found in her car. It’s not human, that’s for sure—and what are these strange markings?”
“Hi, Sam,” Charlie said as she eased by Foxwilder. “What in the world have you got here? Oh my God,” she said as she saw the forensic crew
covering the face of Mavis Henderson as they zipped the body bag. “I heard on the scanner you had a murder. The professor—who would want to
harm her? You and she were an item once as I recall. Are you okay?” she said, knowing by the agony in his face he wasn’t. She hoped if she could
get a response he could deal with it out in the open instead of letting it eat away at his insides. He needed to release some of his grief.
Charlie glanced at the X-ray that was being passed to Foxwilder. “That sure isn’t human.”
“Any ideas?” Sam asked.
“Darned if I know. Looks like a metal plate with a signature on it. Did Henderson teach anthropology?”
Sam didn’t answer, he was deep in thought, holding on to the memories of Mavis Henderson while wishing the pain would fade as their love had.
“What about this tape—it’s not labeled. We should listen to it. Maybe it has some clues,” Foxwilder said. Sam brushed Foxwilder away and plodded
past Charlie like a zombie.
“I’m sorry, Charlie, I’ll call you later. This case is too close to the bone for me to discuss it right now,” he said.
Slowly, as if in a daze, a blank stare in his deep blue eyes, Sam turned around and started wearily toward the squad car.
“We’ll have to wait until we get back to the office. Maybe the coroner can tell us what this skull X-ray is. We’ll listen to the tape and then decide what
to do. No witnesses, at least none have stepped forward so far. We’ll have a couple of the undercovers come down here tonight. The undercovers
can question the homeless. They may have seen something.” His voice was a monotone monologue of the routine investigation. Thoughts turned
into words that seemed to spill, not thought about, from his mouth.
Charlie could feel his tension like an over-wound watch mainspring. She worried he was about to snap.
A shadowy figure ducked back into a doorway in the alley and Sam saw him with unthinking eyes. Foxwilder got in the blue, four-door sedan that was
the undercover vehicle assigned to them. “Did you see someone just duck back in that second doorway down there?” Foxwilder said, pointing down
the alley.
“Thought I saw a shadow, but the blues have questioned everyone around the scene so I doubt if it’s significant.”
Sam knew he should try to apprehend whoever it was, in case he had slipped through without being questioned. He knew also at some level in his
police academy training that serial killers, like pyromaniacs, sometimes got as much thrill out of seeing the crime scene worked, as they did doing
the actual crime. Somewhere he knew this but somewhere deeper he guarded his sanity as he felt himself creeping precariously close to a
precipice—a breath of wind, another glimpse of his beloved Mavis could be the push over the proverbial edge. He knew, but he was in shock over
discovering the body of the woman he had once loved so desperately, hacked to pieces by some deranged mind. No, he couldn’t chase anyone
today. He eased himself into the car and started the engine.
Was being an English instructor and the adviser for the college newspaper that dangerous, he wondered. The college paper was called The Grit
and they usually dug pretty deep into any thing they investigated. But what she was teaching was investigative reporting and it was her livelihood.
Did that have something to do with this? he wondered. Who would want to kill Mavis and why?
~ * ~
Back at the precinct, Johnson slipped the audio cassette into the player. The player screeched like something stuck in one of the reels. He quickly
snapped it off. He took the cassette out and examined it; finding nothing wrong, he reinserted it in the player and switched it on. The same squealing
greeted his ears. Work stopped in the outer office where the mishmash of desks haphazardly strewn about the room made it look congested and un-
navigable. Everyone’s eyes were on the sergeant. He shrugged and snapped it off again.
He took the tape out of the machine and headed downstairs, down to the sound guy. Let him try to decipher it. He had hoped that perhaps it was a
comment from Henderson that could shed some light on her death. Obviously, it wasn’t. It could, however, be a link to her death since they found it
in her car cassette player.
by Billie A Williams
ISBN 1-59088-417-5 (electronic)
ISBN 1-59088-618-6 (print)
CHAPTER ONE
The flashing red lights played off the tall brick buildings in the alley behind the Worth Manufacturing Complex creating shadows and macabre
dancing splotches over the bloodied body lying tangled with gray canvas tarps and black plastic bags.
“What we got here?” Sam asked the uniformed police officer as he and his partner approached the scene.
“Well, it’s definitely a murder. Apparently the body was dumped here. She wasn’t murdered here. That’s as far as we got so far. Forensics just beat
you here and they’re gathering evidence now before we put her on the gurney for transport to the morgue,” the officer said, wiping the sweat
beading on his brow.
“You look a little green around the gills, kid. Maybe you better take a walk to the end of the alley—sit in the squad for a bit.” Damn rookies, he
thought. Sam brushed by him and leaned over the body.
“Thanks, Sergeant,” the rookie mumbled as he took off running for the squad car.
Detective Jeremy Foxwilder laughed a loud, mocking sort of laugh.
Sam glared at him. “You’ve been there. Give the kid a break. Or, maybe you don’t remember how it felt seeing a person cut apart like a slab of
meat.”
Foxwilder hung his head. “Sorry,” he said.
“Tell him,” Sam said pointing down the alley to the squad car. “Holy mother of God, oh jeez—It’s Professor Mavis Henderson. Oh my G...” Sam’s
voice trailed off. He turned his back and walked a few steps to the edge of the alley. He took some deep breaths and walked back beside Foxwilder.
~ * ~
Marblesque bounced across Charlie’s stomach jarring her out of a rather pleasant encounter with Prince Charming. The scanner across the room
squawked loudly. A murder—she heard the codes. Anyone who listened to a scanner as much as she did soon learned all the police codes. A
murder was not something that happened in little towns like Ironwood, Michigan.
She couldn’t let this get by—her reporter’s instincts were on alert and already questioning. “Mrs. Wentworth will surely want the scoop on this one,”
she said to her cat, Marblesque, as the animal sat with a quizzical expression on her calico face. Charlie quickly jotted down the address and
reached for her jeans. As she wriggled into them she pulled a pair of socks and a sweatshirt from a bureau drawer. Forty acres away from everyone
she could have dogs, horses, all the creatures she had always wanted, but they took care. Cats, on the other hand, especially those as
independent as this one who preferred no human interference unless she came looking for it, needed little care. She seemed to know that when the
scanner went off, Charlie wouldn’t be home for long. She sat on the dresser and watched her squiggle into her clothes. Then Marblesque would
race to the door to stand and wait while Charlie slipped into her cowboy boots and denim jacket.
“Be back soon, Marble,” she said as she swung a backpack purse over her shoulder and headed out the door. Marble was in the bay window
watching as the lights from her Ford Escort caught the huge pane of glass, her tail twitch-twitched as though she were waving goodbye. Charlie
waved back at her.
It was only then that she noticed the time. Three a.m. People never picked a respectable time to make the headlines.
She couldn’t help but wonder if maybe big city crime hadn’t dropped down on the doorstep of the residents of the lethargic little Michigan town. It had
been coming, following the influx of those fighting to escape the clutches of the city. In the steady line that oozed from the metropolises of Illinois and
Wisconsin to the south, she could see the signs, but like everyone else she hoped it was only her overactive imagination.
Charlie pulled up to the alley that ran behind the line of industrial plants that were the sole source of employment for the majority of the people here
since the iron ore mines closed. The scene was already alive with red and blue flashing lights; police cars and an ambulance blocked the entrance
to the alley. She clipped on her press pass, grabbed her notebook and searched for the familiar face of Sam. She knew if it was a homicide, lead
detective Johnson would have to be in the thick of it.
Charlie and Sam had been friends for several years. They always seemed to be on the same beat, he for the police department and she for the
press. She saw the forensic crew bagging a bloodied body, the alley roadway the deep grungy color blood leaves on pavement where a body had
lain. She saw Sam. He looked distraught, was it someone he knew? She knew he had been a detective long enough that he had become slightly
hardboiled about violent crime or at least he hid his emotions very well—not this time though.
“I knew Professor Henderson from my days at the University of Illinois at Chicago. I knew that she’d had her fingerprints scraped off and tattoos put
in their place during the sixties’ Vietnam War protests. See these,” he said motioning to Foxwilder. “They’re not even faded after thirty some years of
chalk dust, ink pens and folk guitar strings.”
“Amazing. Was she in trouble with the cops? Is that why she did it?” Foxwilder asked, staring at the images on the bloodied hand.
“Mavis had made her mark then and she still was setting the pace for others. Seemed she was always just shy of being arrested. As far as I know,
she never crossed that line. She was a very popular figure in the university scene then. Even now, her students adore her for the most part. She
was always a rebel. A good person you could count on. Who would have wanted to kill her? Why did someone mutilate her body like this?”
“Sam, don’t you read the newspaper or listen to your own briefings down at headquarters?” Jeremy Foxwilder said.
“Well, call me naïve but I never thought those stories about black market body parts had any merit. I’m not afraid to admit it when I’m wrong,” Sam
had been on the force long enough to have earned every gray hair on his half bald head and he hated the smart ass attitude of the new rookies he
was forced to break in every six months. Couldn’t anyone have a little work ethic, a little stick to it backbone? “They sure don’t make ‘em like they
used to,” he mumbled under his breath.
“What’d ya say, Sarge?” Foxwilder asked.
“I was wondering about this X-ray of a skull they found in her car. It’s not human, that’s for sure—and what are these strange markings?”
“Hi, Sam,” Charlie said as she eased by Foxwilder. “What in the world have you got here? Oh my God,” she said as she saw the forensic crew
covering the face of Mavis Henderson as they zipped the body bag. “I heard on the scanner you had a murder. The professor—who would want to
harm her? You and she were an item once as I recall. Are you okay?” she said, knowing by the agony in his face he wasn’t. She hoped if she could
get a response he could deal with it out in the open instead of letting it eat away at his insides. He needed to release some of his grief.
Charlie glanced at the X-ray that was being passed to Foxwilder. “That sure isn’t human.”
“Any ideas?” Sam asked.
“Darned if I know. Looks like a metal plate with a signature on it. Did Henderson teach anthropology?”
Sam didn’t answer, he was deep in thought, holding on to the memories of Mavis Henderson while wishing the pain would fade as their love had.
“What about this tape—it’s not labeled. We should listen to it. Maybe it has some clues,” Foxwilder said. Sam brushed Foxwilder away and plodded
past Charlie like a zombie.
“I’m sorry, Charlie, I’ll call you later. This case is too close to the bone for me to discuss it right now,” he said.
Slowly, as if in a daze, a blank stare in his deep blue eyes, Sam turned around and started wearily toward the squad car.
“We’ll have to wait until we get back to the office. Maybe the coroner can tell us what this skull X-ray is. We’ll listen to the tape and then decide what
to do. No witnesses, at least none have stepped forward so far. We’ll have a couple of the undercovers come down here tonight. The undercovers
can question the homeless. They may have seen something.” His voice was a monotone monologue of the routine investigation. Thoughts turned
into words that seemed to spill, not thought about, from his mouth.
Charlie could feel his tension like an over-wound watch mainspring. She worried he was about to snap.
A shadowy figure ducked back into a doorway in the alley and Sam saw him with unthinking eyes. Foxwilder got in the blue, four-door sedan that was
the undercover vehicle assigned to them. “Did you see someone just duck back in that second doorway down there?” Foxwilder said, pointing down
the alley.
“Thought I saw a shadow, but the blues have questioned everyone around the scene so I doubt if it’s significant.”
Sam knew he should try to apprehend whoever it was, in case he had slipped through without being questioned. He knew also at some level in his
police academy training that serial killers, like pyromaniacs, sometimes got as much thrill out of seeing the crime scene worked, as they did doing
the actual crime. Somewhere he knew this but somewhere deeper he guarded his sanity as he felt himself creeping precariously close to a
precipice—a breath of wind, another glimpse of his beloved Mavis could be the push over the proverbial edge. He knew, but he was in shock over
discovering the body of the woman he had once loved so desperately, hacked to pieces by some deranged mind. No, he couldn’t chase anyone
today. He eased himself into the car and started the engine.
Was being an English instructor and the adviser for the college newspaper that dangerous, he wondered. The college paper was called The Grit
and they usually dug pretty deep into any thing they investigated. But what she was teaching was investigative reporting and it was her livelihood.
Did that have something to do with this? he wondered. Who would want to kill Mavis and why?
~ * ~
Back at the precinct, Johnson slipped the audio cassette into the player. The player screeched like something stuck in one of the reels. He quickly
snapped it off. He took the cassette out and examined it; finding nothing wrong, he reinserted it in the player and switched it on. The same squealing
greeted his ears. Work stopped in the outer office where the mishmash of desks haphazardly strewn about the room made it look congested and un-
navigable. Everyone’s eyes were on the sergeant. He shrugged and snapped it off again.
He took the tape out of the machine and headed downstairs, down to the sound guy. Let him try to decipher it. He had hoped that perhaps it was a
comment from Henderson that could shed some light on her death. Obviously, it wasn’t. It could, however, be a link to her death since they found it
in her car cassette player.
| GHOST MUSIC OF VAUDEVILLE |
GHOST MUSIC OF VAUDEVILLE
ISBN 978-1-59705-310-5 (electronic)
ISBN 978-1-59705-728-8 (print)
CHAPTER ONE
Charlie pulled into her usual parking spot. Leaves swirled like a mini tornado at the interruption of their safe space snug to the curb. A cold chill
seemed to surround her with a feeling of foreboding. Her stomach was a mess of squirrels searching for an escape route. Charlie fought back the
nausea that threatened her. An affirmation slid into her mind as resolve calmed her inner demons.
“One bad apple doesn’t corrupt the whole barrel,” she said aloud to the very empty, very coffin-like interior of the Ford Escort.
Movement on the passenger side of the car caught in her peripheral vision. Her head jerked in that direction almost instinctively as the door flew
open. Charlie’s heart skipped a beat and the wind swirled in through the open door, sending shivers up and down her body. I should have locked the
passenger door, flashed through her mind as an afterthought to the danger she let intrude on her attempt at normalcy. What was wrong with her... it
was too late now. By the time the person spoke her heart was racing.
“Hey, welcome back Charlie. Whoa, you look like you saw a ghost. Are you okay?” Mary Barber slid into the passenger seat and grabbed Charlie’s
white knuckled death grip on the steering wheel. “Girl, you look like death warmed over. Are you sure you should be coming back already? I’m sorry
if I startled you I didn’t mean...”
Mary’s non-stop barrage of chatter hammered against Charlie like a jack hammer. She recoiled into the door on her side of the car.
“Charlie, it’s me, Mary... Are you...?” Her friend’s voice sounded concerned. But, Charlie couldn’t shake her thoughts. Her thoughts wandering back
to Oliver Beeblebox and that horrid cul-du-sac where she was chained in with all the mosquitoes and bugs and dark, and wolf howls... she started
shaking uncontrollably.
Mary reached out and touched her shoulder. “It’s okay Charlie. It really is. Mrs. Wentworth is expecting you. She’ll have you work the desk for a few
days until you are ready to go out...” She paused and just held Charlie waiting.
“I’m okay really, I--it was just the leaves, and the dark clouds and the wind blowing so horribly strong. It’s too early for winter.”
Mary smiled, “You’re right, it is. Now why don’t you turn your car off and we’ll go inside where it’s warm and bright.”
The urge to bolt and run slowly subsided and Charlie switched off the engine of the Escort. She pulled her purse from the center console and put
her hand on the door. It was as though she was a foreigner in a world she knew intimately three months ago. Today she wasn’t sure she knew her
name let alone what it was she was supposed to do here. As she rounded the front of the car she saw the big banner draped across the front of the
Ironwood Daily Globe building. “Welcome Back, Charlie, our favorite reporter.”
Mary slid her arm into the crook of Charlie’s elbow, “Come on we’ve been waiting for you.” Her smile seemed to erase the last bit of dread from
Charlie’s insides, though it still lurked in her mind as if hiding behind a corner just waiting to jump out again. Would she ever again feel safe in this
environment, in this town that had provided her sanctuary when she needed it? At the moment Charlie wasn’t ready to bet on it.
“Guess who’s here,” Mary announced as she led Charlie into Abigail Wentworth’s office overlooking the park and lake behind the building.
Abigail held out her hands, “It’s so good to have you back.” Grabbing her hands, Abigail held both of Charlie’s hands in her own searching her face
as though looking for a sign that all was well. “Are you sure you’re ready to be back?”
“Thank you for your concern.” She pulled her hands from Abigail’s. “Really, I appreciate it. But I think I have been off too long already. You know
what they say when you fall off a horse? Well, I think it’s time I got back up on mine, don’t you?” She turned and plopped down in the chair across
from Abigail’s desk, sliding her purse to the floor beside her.
Mary shrugged her shoulders and turned to leave, “I’ll come by and get you for lunch if you want,” she said to Charlie.
“Okay, sounds good,” the response a half hearted reply. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted to be on the street. What if another Neanderthal man like
Joe Smozack tried to grab her again?
“David said he might be at the café if he can get away,” Charlie’s mind clutched at the comfort and security David’s presence had brought to her life;
order out of chaos, calm out of the storm. His support was immeasurable.
“Great, he’s always fun to have around,” Mary said closing the door behind her with a wink at Abigail.
Abigail walked back to her desk and slid her slender body into the desk chair. It seemed to swallow her up, Charlie thought.
“What do the doctors say about your returning to work?”
“They seem to think the sooner I get my mind on other things the sooner I’ll be able to forget about Oliver,” she hesitated as though just the mention
of his name would bring him back to haunt her.
Abigail slid forward on her chair and placed her hands on the desk top. “Charlie, you know Oliver Beeblebox will never leave the institution for the
criminally insane where they have put him. His morbid quest is over. People like him are a once in a life time encounter.”
Charlie looked at the stark dark eyes of Abigail Wentworth; she had always been her mentor, her trusting guide. She should trust her now, but she
wasn’t quite ready to trust herself let alone any one else. “I know, inside I know, but I’m having a hard time believing if...” Her mind slid back to the
frail looking little accountant who loved cats, loved his deceased wife, and yet... “How could anyone as innocent and weak looking as him...” she was
afraid to say his name. She had not uttered his name more than five times since he had kidnapped her and hauled her to that cottage in the woods.
“How could hate turn him into such a monster?” Tears threatened to spill over from the wells puddling in her eyes.
Abigail slid out from behind her desk and hurried over to crouch down in front of Charlie covering her hands that lay folded in her lap with her own.
Charlie felt a smile slide across her lips at the memory of Marblesque Two who had been the replacement for--she didn’t want to continue that
thought. It was too painful. Losing Marblesque was the first pain in that long journey into darkness at the hands of Oliver Beeblebox and the Xeno
Labs. Neither were connected and yet they converged on her simultaneously--the Labs and Oliver.
Then Abigail tipped Charlie’s face to meet her gaze. “It’s going to be all right. There is only one like him. There will be no others. You can’t let him
destroy your life. You are safe and David needs you, I need you, and Marblesque needs you.”
Charlie let a smile creep over her turning the corners of her mouth just slightly. “Poor Marblesque, she has been such a trooper. She curls up by me,
never leaving my side. I wonder what she’ll think when I leave her alone all day. This is the first time since--” Charlie stopped again unwilling, unable
to go on. “Do, do you have an assignment for me?” she said taking in a large breath of air, hoping to wash the pain of the last three months away.
Abigail stood patting Charlie on the shoulder. “You bet I do... I have several I planned to divide between you and Mary. She has come along way
since she first started here. I think you will really be impressed with her work.”
Charlie smiled. She liked Mary from the very beginning and thought she would make a great investigative reporter. “I’m sure I will.”
The list Abigail handed her had several of the monthly town meetings that had become a regular beat for any new reporter, then there was one that
really interested her, the old Keith Vaudeville Theatre was to be razed to make room for a high rise apartment complex. “What’s this all about?” she
said pointing to the Keith Theatre note.
“Oh that, I think the Historical Society should get involved and save that old building. Its décor is beautiful and representative of a long passed era.”
“Not to mention the people who have lived in those apartments since... well since I was a little girl. What will happen to them?”
Charlie’s mind started to reel. “How cruel to just put people out on the street because some Real Estate baron has is eyes on more money.”
Abigail shrugged, and let a sigh escape. “It’s frustrating, but if the interest isn’t there...” she let the phrase hang without finishing it as she shuffled a
stack of papers on her desk.
“Well, may be we can garner some interest. I’ll talk to Ruth Able from the Historical Society before I even go over to the theatre and see what she has
to say about it. Who owns that old building? I mean who would this, this, what’s his name?”
“King, rather Damien Callistrari, nick name King,” Abigail said looking at the notes on a pad next to the phone.
“King? Does he think he is or is it other people think he acts like one?”
“From what I hear he thinks he rules more than just his buildings.”
“Well, I’m up for a challenge. I may just have to interview our--King--Callistrari.”
Abigail smiled, “It’s good to have you back Charlie.”
Charlie stood, grabbing her purse as she did. “Glad to be back,” she said finally meaning it. “Office?”
“Same place, unless you want to change it.”
Charlie turned with her hand on Abigail’s office door knob, “No, that’s fine. It’s like coming home, finally.”
ISBN 978-1-59705-310-5 (electronic)
ISBN 978-1-59705-728-8 (print)
CHAPTER ONE
Charlie pulled into her usual parking spot. Leaves swirled like a mini tornado at the interruption of their safe space snug to the curb. A cold chill
seemed to surround her with a feeling of foreboding. Her stomach was a mess of squirrels searching for an escape route. Charlie fought back the
nausea that threatened her. An affirmation slid into her mind as resolve calmed her inner demons.
“One bad apple doesn’t corrupt the whole barrel,” she said aloud to the very empty, very coffin-like interior of the Ford Escort.
Movement on the passenger side of the car caught in her peripheral vision. Her head jerked in that direction almost instinctively as the door flew
open. Charlie’s heart skipped a beat and the wind swirled in through the open door, sending shivers up and down her body. I should have locked the
passenger door, flashed through her mind as an afterthought to the danger she let intrude on her attempt at normalcy. What was wrong with her... it
was too late now. By the time the person spoke her heart was racing.
“Hey, welcome back Charlie. Whoa, you look like you saw a ghost. Are you okay?” Mary Barber slid into the passenger seat and grabbed Charlie’s
white knuckled death grip on the steering wheel. “Girl, you look like death warmed over. Are you sure you should be coming back already? I’m sorry
if I startled you I didn’t mean...”
Mary’s non-stop barrage of chatter hammered against Charlie like a jack hammer. She recoiled into the door on her side of the car.
“Charlie, it’s me, Mary... Are you...?” Her friend’s voice sounded concerned. But, Charlie couldn’t shake her thoughts. Her thoughts wandering back
to Oliver Beeblebox and that horrid cul-du-sac where she was chained in with all the mosquitoes and bugs and dark, and wolf howls... she started
shaking uncontrollably.
Mary reached out and touched her shoulder. “It’s okay Charlie. It really is. Mrs. Wentworth is expecting you. She’ll have you work the desk for a few
days until you are ready to go out...” She paused and just held Charlie waiting.
“I’m okay really, I--it was just the leaves, and the dark clouds and the wind blowing so horribly strong. It’s too early for winter.”
Mary smiled, “You’re right, it is. Now why don’t you turn your car off and we’ll go inside where it’s warm and bright.”
The urge to bolt and run slowly subsided and Charlie switched off the engine of the Escort. She pulled her purse from the center console and put
her hand on the door. It was as though she was a foreigner in a world she knew intimately three months ago. Today she wasn’t sure she knew her
name let alone what it was she was supposed to do here. As she rounded the front of the car she saw the big banner draped across the front of the
Ironwood Daily Globe building. “Welcome Back, Charlie, our favorite reporter.”
Mary slid her arm into the crook of Charlie’s elbow, “Come on we’ve been waiting for you.” Her smile seemed to erase the last bit of dread from
Charlie’s insides, though it still lurked in her mind as if hiding behind a corner just waiting to jump out again. Would she ever again feel safe in this
environment, in this town that had provided her sanctuary when she needed it? At the moment Charlie wasn’t ready to bet on it.
“Guess who’s here,” Mary announced as she led Charlie into Abigail Wentworth’s office overlooking the park and lake behind the building.
Abigail held out her hands, “It’s so good to have you back.” Grabbing her hands, Abigail held both of Charlie’s hands in her own searching her face
as though looking for a sign that all was well. “Are you sure you’re ready to be back?”
“Thank you for your concern.” She pulled her hands from Abigail’s. “Really, I appreciate it. But I think I have been off too long already. You know
what they say when you fall off a horse? Well, I think it’s time I got back up on mine, don’t you?” She turned and plopped down in the chair across
from Abigail’s desk, sliding her purse to the floor beside her.
Mary shrugged her shoulders and turned to leave, “I’ll come by and get you for lunch if you want,” she said to Charlie.
“Okay, sounds good,” the response a half hearted reply. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted to be on the street. What if another Neanderthal man like
Joe Smozack tried to grab her again?
“David said he might be at the café if he can get away,” Charlie’s mind clutched at the comfort and security David’s presence had brought to her life;
order out of chaos, calm out of the storm. His support was immeasurable.
“Great, he’s always fun to have around,” Mary said closing the door behind her with a wink at Abigail.
Abigail walked back to her desk and slid her slender body into the desk chair. It seemed to swallow her up, Charlie thought.
“What do the doctors say about your returning to work?”
“They seem to think the sooner I get my mind on other things the sooner I’ll be able to forget about Oliver,” she hesitated as though just the mention
of his name would bring him back to haunt her.
Abigail slid forward on her chair and placed her hands on the desk top. “Charlie, you know Oliver Beeblebox will never leave the institution for the
criminally insane where they have put him. His morbid quest is over. People like him are a once in a life time encounter.”
Charlie looked at the stark dark eyes of Abigail Wentworth; she had always been her mentor, her trusting guide. She should trust her now, but she
wasn’t quite ready to trust herself let alone any one else. “I know, inside I know, but I’m having a hard time believing if...” Her mind slid back to the
frail looking little accountant who loved cats, loved his deceased wife, and yet... “How could anyone as innocent and weak looking as him...” she was
afraid to say his name. She had not uttered his name more than five times since he had kidnapped her and hauled her to that cottage in the woods.
“How could hate turn him into such a monster?” Tears threatened to spill over from the wells puddling in her eyes.
Abigail slid out from behind her desk and hurried over to crouch down in front of Charlie covering her hands that lay folded in her lap with her own.
Charlie felt a smile slide across her lips at the memory of Marblesque Two who had been the replacement for--she didn’t want to continue that
thought. It was too painful. Losing Marblesque was the first pain in that long journey into darkness at the hands of Oliver Beeblebox and the Xeno
Labs. Neither were connected and yet they converged on her simultaneously--the Labs and Oliver.
Then Abigail tipped Charlie’s face to meet her gaze. “It’s going to be all right. There is only one like him. There will be no others. You can’t let him
destroy your life. You are safe and David needs you, I need you, and Marblesque needs you.”
Charlie let a smile creep over her turning the corners of her mouth just slightly. “Poor Marblesque, she has been such a trooper. She curls up by me,
never leaving my side. I wonder what she’ll think when I leave her alone all day. This is the first time since--” Charlie stopped again unwilling, unable
to go on. “Do, do you have an assignment for me?” she said taking in a large breath of air, hoping to wash the pain of the last three months away.
Abigail stood patting Charlie on the shoulder. “You bet I do... I have several I planned to divide between you and Mary. She has come along way
since she first started here. I think you will really be impressed with her work.”
Charlie smiled. She liked Mary from the very beginning and thought she would make a great investigative reporter. “I’m sure I will.”
The list Abigail handed her had several of the monthly town meetings that had become a regular beat for any new reporter, then there was one that
really interested her, the old Keith Vaudeville Theatre was to be razed to make room for a high rise apartment complex. “What’s this all about?” she
said pointing to the Keith Theatre note.
“Oh that, I think the Historical Society should get involved and save that old building. Its décor is beautiful and representative of a long passed era.”
“Not to mention the people who have lived in those apartments since... well since I was a little girl. What will happen to them?”
Charlie’s mind started to reel. “How cruel to just put people out on the street because some Real Estate baron has is eyes on more money.”
Abigail shrugged, and let a sigh escape. “It’s frustrating, but if the interest isn’t there...” she let the phrase hang without finishing it as she shuffled a
stack of papers on her desk.
“Well, may be we can garner some interest. I’ll talk to Ruth Able from the Historical Society before I even go over to the theatre and see what she has
to say about it. Who owns that old building? I mean who would this, this, what’s his name?”
“King, rather Damien Callistrari, nick name King,” Abigail said looking at the notes on a pad next to the phone.
“King? Does he think he is or is it other people think he acts like one?”
“From what I hear he thinks he rules more than just his buildings.”
“Well, I’m up for a challenge. I may just have to interview our--King--Callistrari.”
Abigail smiled, “It’s good to have you back Charlie.”
Charlie stood, grabbing her purse as she did. “Glad to be back,” she said finally meaning it. “Office?”
“Same place, unless you want to change it.”
Charlie turned with her hand on Abigail’s office door knob, “No, that’s fine. It’s like coming home, finally.”
The Pink Lady Slipper
By Billie A Williams
ISBN 1-59088-424-8 (electronic)
ISBN 1-59088-610-0 (print)
=======================================================
CHAPTER ONE
Trudy Moncha spun the barrel around checking every stave, every ring of the safety barrels that were placed about the rodeo center arena. She
bounced the rubber mallet against the sides with a force similar to how a bull might hit it. She wanted to be absolutely sure that all the barrels were
sound. Call her paranoid, if you will, but another defective barrel like the one Cyclone smashed to smithereens had nearly cost Trudy her life. That
was no accident. There was no way it was going to happen again. Not to her, not to any other rodeo clown either, she thought massaging her game
hip as she limped from one big barrel to the next.
The loud speaker bellowed “Trudy Moncha to the office trailer please.” The office trailer of the rodeo grounds supervisor sat out in the secured lot
behind the rodeo grounds. As she limped to Kyle Houston’s trailer she wondered if maybe this was the day he told her to hang up her face paint and
retire from the rodeo circuit. And do what? She thought, entertain at kids’ birthday parties as a has-been rodeo clown? What would she do if she
couldn’t follow the rodeo in some capacity? It had become her life. Well, she’d have to cross that bridge when she came to it.
Kyle looked drawn and pale when Trudy entered the trailer. He handed her a telegram. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled his eyes downcast.
She shook as she took the telegram from him. Trudy didn’t like the look on the usually jovial man’s face. She wasn’t getting fired, but maybe that
would have been easier to deal with than what awaited her. The language of the telegram’s cryptic bursts slashed at Trudy’s insides as though a
knife ripped across her heart.
Mother dead, buried. Stop
Come home at once. Stop
Linda Stop
Call 555-1212 Stop.
The full weight of the rift between Trudy and her mother struck her like the weight of a rodeo bull on her back. How could she just up and die on her?
Her emotions rode the bucking tide against the belief of what she read. Anger, anguish, rage flew at her like mud clods from a bronco’s hooves.
“Damn, damn, no!” she said kicking the chairs and tossing the telegram into the air. She retrieved the telegram from where it landed and read it
again. “No! No,” pain and sorrow gurgled out in a tear-filled, anguished cry that squeezed from her as though that bull sat on her chest this time.
Sinking to the floor sobbing, “Nooo,” she cried out with the pain that tore at her life.
Kyle rounded his desk, reached down and drew Trudy up into his embrace. “I’m so sorry honey, so sorry. If I can do anything, anything at all...” He
let his voice trail off knowing how useless any words were at a time like this. Instead, he held her and let her pour her grief out in a flood of tears that
turned a dark blue stain on the pale blue of his shirt.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come unglued Kyle,” she finally said.
Trudy hadn’t seen or heard from her mother in a year or more. If she’s dead and buried what more did they need of her? Why the urgency? Trudy’s
mind raged. “How could they have buried mother without notifying me? Why hadn’t Linda or Paul called or telegraphed before this? I always sent an
itinerary to mother so she would know where I was in case of a family emergency.” Even though they rarely spoke, Trudy made sure her mother
could reach her. Obviously, her sister knew how to reach her, she’d reached her now. But, why did she wait until now?
“Can I use your phone?” she asked.
Kyle released her from his tight embrace and pushed the phone across the desk, “sure kid.” He sat back down behind his desk, fingers laced
together over his rotund belly, as he leaned back in his chair and watched while Trudy dialed the phone number.
Numbly she pressed each key pad of her sister’s telephone number. “It’s Trudy. What’s going on?”
Linda told her they had already buried their mother. “She left you everything, except for her car and a stupid painting. You inherited everything! The
family homestead and anything connected to mother. You better hurry and get here because The Lady Slipper is collapsing by the day,” Linda said.
Linda’s angry shouting caused Trudy to hold the phone away from her ear. Houston’s bushy gray eyebrows knotted together in a single line under
his furrowed forehead, as what he heard reflected in his face.
“Why didn’t you call me sooner? Why didn’t you call me about the funeral? Was she ill--was it an accident? Why didn’t you let me know?” she said
firing the questions at Linda like machine gun bullets. “Why would mother leave everything to me?”
“Why did Mother do anything? I’m sorry, I have no idea. She never confided in me,” came her sister’s sharp retort.
“I’ll be on my way back as soon as I can. Take care of things until I can get there, will you?”
Trudy hung up the phone. She slumped into the chair across the desk from Houston shaking her head. Tears welling in her eyes, she fought to
keep them back.
“I inherited The Pink Lady Slipper. The homestead,” Trudy explained to Houston when he looked toward her with a quizzical expression on his face.
“The building on the property was named The Pink Lady Slipper by the former owner and mother loved the name so she kept it. It used to be some
kind of brothel or something. It isn’t really our homestead because the family only recently acquired it. What it actually is, is a rambling two-story log
house, a carriage house and other small out buildings on a hunk of northern Michigan wilderness in Orenda.
“I thought you had a sister and a brother that lived with your mother,” he said.
“I do, I mean did. Why mother willed the property to me I don’t know. She knew I’m a grass roots type of person. Following the rodeo circuit suits me
fine. I don’t need a house and property--roots. Why didn’t she give it to Linda or Paul? They would be much better able to take care of it than I am.
They lived there while they were growing up. I never lived there long enough to remember it--well almost.
“Well, if you need time to go home and settle things you sure can have the time. Maybe this is a chance for you to get off that game leg before
something really bad happens to you,” Houston said, almost as an after thought.
“I can’t imagine why she left it to me unless there was something...” she let the words hang in the air between them. Something what--something
wrong? Something sinister? Her mind drifted to the short note she had received in her Easter card about ghosts stirring things up at the Lady
Slipper and about not trusting Linda. That wasn’t unusual, Linda and she had never seen eye to eye since high school. Even then, her sister ran
with the wrong crowd, did drugs and generally gave mother gray hair and headaches from constant battles and worry. “I don’t know what I’ll do yet. I
need to think about it,” she said. “This is so unbelievable. She is--was, always so active. She was in perfect health according to what my sister and
brother have written to me. I don’t understand how she could have just died.”
“Does anyone suspect foul play?” Houston asked.
The thought struck Trudy like the bull, Cyclone, smashing into her all over again. “Linda didn’t say. She is just upset because I inherited everything. I
can’t blame her. I sure didn’t ask for it. But, foul play? I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt mother.” Except Linda, the thought bumped into her
conversation with Houston. She swallowed hard. “I can’t think of anyone, but then, I haven’t been into her life, or involved in what’s happening with
her, for quite a while.”
Trudy left Houston’s office and crossed the dusty parking lot to the fifth wheel trailer that was her home, as she followed the cowboys from rodeo to
rodeo, protecting them from the things they challenged--she had been doing that since she’d married Doug. Before he was killed by that drunken
rodeo clown’s lack of interest, they were a rodeo team. She wanted to run, run and keep running until everything went away. Run until what she had
just heard and read didn’t exist anymore. How could her mother die? She wasn’t ready for her to be gone forever. How will she ever apologize now
for whatever it was that made them not speak to each other? Trudy let the tears spill onto the arid land--land as dry and empty as she felt.
She slumped into her overstuffed easy chair clutching the telegram. Angry tears spilled over onto her lap. “Why? Why couldn’t you wait until
Christmas so we could mend what was broken between us? You were too young to die. I needed you. Why? Why did you go and die on me?” She
ranted at the dead emptiness of the trailer and suddenly, her life. The crumpled telegram in her hand, she shook it at the ceiling, as though she
thought her mother watched her from above.
Trudy paced the small space she had been content to call home. How come her mother would leave her all her worldly possessions? Why wouldn’t
she give them to Linda? Linda was the one who was always there. Even though mother was afraid of her, she was there. I don’t know why she was
so afraid of Linda either. There is so much I don’t know. Maybe that is why she is giving me all this so I will go home to find out the answers to all
those questions. “How can I find out the answers if you’re not there, Mom, answer me that if you will. Please.” She collapsed again into a heap on her
bed, then cried herself to sleep.
When she awoke it was dark. Stars twinkled through the skylight above her bed. It took her a minute to realize what had happened in the preceding
hours hadn’t been a dream--she was sure now. The questions were still the same in her mind. Why would her mother leave her everything? Why did
she die? Why wasn’t she notified that she was sick or that she had died so she could attend the funeral? She had to go back to Orenda, to find out.
Perhaps she would stay there. Anyway, she needed to retire after the last accident. Her limp slowed her down too much to keep ahead of the bulls.
She was putting the riders and herself in danger by staying on as a rodeo clown, when she wasn’t capable of moving with the speed of a gazelle.
Being small had its advantages, fitting into those barrels on the run was a simple deal for her. She could bounce into one of them without touching
the sides, but that didn’t keep the last bull from stomping on her and goring her when the barrel split. She was lucky to be alive. Houston’s words
from yesterday struck her then. She hadn’t even heard them. He didn’t fire her, he didn’t lay her off, because of their friendship, she knew that. But
what he had said yesterday ran in her mind now--he wanted her to find a reason to choose another lifestyle.
She wondered many times while she was healing how those staves had come off that barrel. Why it just blue apart when Cyclone hit it. She’d been in
the same situation a dozen times and the barrels always held. The little redhead that wanted her place--perhaps. She had tried other things to get
rid of Trudy and she had always chosen not to play her game. She ignored most of the pranks--but the barrel, could she have? The barrels were
inspected after every rodeo and replaced if they were weak. That is why Trudy had taken it upon herself to check them now before every rodeo. No
more weak ones would slip through to let that kind of thing happen to her or anyone else again, if she could help it.
Well, she decided it didn’t matter now. What mattered now was that she go home to find out what had happened to her mother. Her gut told her it
wasn’t right, something was amiss. Why wasn’t she notified until her sister realized that she had inherited everything except for that one painting that
mother thought fit to leave to Linda? Too many unanswered questions. She would tell Houston in the morning that she was going home and
probably wouldn’t be returning to the rodeo. She hated to leave her friends, but she knew when enough was enough.
Her mind finally made up, Trudy began to pack and secure everything in the trailer. She would stop by the storage shed she’d rented in New Mexico
on her way, to pick up the rest of her stuff. The south route was her choice anyway because the passes to the north were too dangerous this time of
year. You never knew when you would be delayed for a day or two by an avalanche or winter storm. She figured she could be home in five days
running if she slept only a few hours a night.
By Billie A Williams
ISBN 1-59088-424-8 (electronic)
ISBN 1-59088-610-0 (print)
=======================================================
CHAPTER ONE
Trudy Moncha spun the barrel around checking every stave, every ring of the safety barrels that were placed about the rodeo center arena. She
bounced the rubber mallet against the sides with a force similar to how a bull might hit it. She wanted to be absolutely sure that all the barrels were
sound. Call her paranoid, if you will, but another defective barrel like the one Cyclone smashed to smithereens had nearly cost Trudy her life. That
was no accident. There was no way it was going to happen again. Not to her, not to any other rodeo clown either, she thought massaging her game
hip as she limped from one big barrel to the next.
The loud speaker bellowed “Trudy Moncha to the office trailer please.” The office trailer of the rodeo grounds supervisor sat out in the secured lot
behind the rodeo grounds. As she limped to Kyle Houston’s trailer she wondered if maybe this was the day he told her to hang up her face paint and
retire from the rodeo circuit. And do what? She thought, entertain at kids’ birthday parties as a has-been rodeo clown? What would she do if she
couldn’t follow the rodeo in some capacity? It had become her life. Well, she’d have to cross that bridge when she came to it.
Kyle looked drawn and pale when Trudy entered the trailer. He handed her a telegram. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled his eyes downcast.
She shook as she took the telegram from him. Trudy didn’t like the look on the usually jovial man’s face. She wasn’t getting fired, but maybe that
would have been easier to deal with than what awaited her. The language of the telegram’s cryptic bursts slashed at Trudy’s insides as though a
knife ripped across her heart.
Mother dead, buried. Stop
Come home at once. Stop
Linda Stop
Call 555-1212 Stop.
The full weight of the rift between Trudy and her mother struck her like the weight of a rodeo bull on her back. How could she just up and die on her?
Her emotions rode the bucking tide against the belief of what she read. Anger, anguish, rage flew at her like mud clods from a bronco’s hooves.
“Damn, damn, no!” she said kicking the chairs and tossing the telegram into the air. She retrieved the telegram from where it landed and read it
again. “No! No,” pain and sorrow gurgled out in a tear-filled, anguished cry that squeezed from her as though that bull sat on her chest this time.
Sinking to the floor sobbing, “Nooo,” she cried out with the pain that tore at her life.
Kyle rounded his desk, reached down and drew Trudy up into his embrace. “I’m so sorry honey, so sorry. If I can do anything, anything at all...” He
let his voice trail off knowing how useless any words were at a time like this. Instead, he held her and let her pour her grief out in a flood of tears that
turned a dark blue stain on the pale blue of his shirt.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come unglued Kyle,” she finally said.
Trudy hadn’t seen or heard from her mother in a year or more. If she’s dead and buried what more did they need of her? Why the urgency? Trudy’s
mind raged. “How could they have buried mother without notifying me? Why hadn’t Linda or Paul called or telegraphed before this? I always sent an
itinerary to mother so she would know where I was in case of a family emergency.” Even though they rarely spoke, Trudy made sure her mother
could reach her. Obviously, her sister knew how to reach her, she’d reached her now. But, why did she wait until now?
“Can I use your phone?” she asked.
Kyle released her from his tight embrace and pushed the phone across the desk, “sure kid.” He sat back down behind his desk, fingers laced
together over his rotund belly, as he leaned back in his chair and watched while Trudy dialed the phone number.
Numbly she pressed each key pad of her sister’s telephone number. “It’s Trudy. What’s going on?”
Linda told her they had already buried their mother. “She left you everything, except for her car and a stupid painting. You inherited everything! The
family homestead and anything connected to mother. You better hurry and get here because The Lady Slipper is collapsing by the day,” Linda said.
Linda’s angry shouting caused Trudy to hold the phone away from her ear. Houston’s bushy gray eyebrows knotted together in a single line under
his furrowed forehead, as what he heard reflected in his face.
“Why didn’t you call me sooner? Why didn’t you call me about the funeral? Was she ill--was it an accident? Why didn’t you let me know?” she said
firing the questions at Linda like machine gun bullets. “Why would mother leave everything to me?”
“Why did Mother do anything? I’m sorry, I have no idea. She never confided in me,” came her sister’s sharp retort.
“I’ll be on my way back as soon as I can. Take care of things until I can get there, will you?”
Trudy hung up the phone. She slumped into the chair across the desk from Houston shaking her head. Tears welling in her eyes, she fought to
keep them back.
“I inherited The Pink Lady Slipper. The homestead,” Trudy explained to Houston when he looked toward her with a quizzical expression on his face.
“The building on the property was named The Pink Lady Slipper by the former owner and mother loved the name so she kept it. It used to be some
kind of brothel or something. It isn’t really our homestead because the family only recently acquired it. What it actually is, is a rambling two-story log
house, a carriage house and other small out buildings on a hunk of northern Michigan wilderness in Orenda.
“I thought you had a sister and a brother that lived with your mother,” he said.
“I do, I mean did. Why mother willed the property to me I don’t know. She knew I’m a grass roots type of person. Following the rodeo circuit suits me
fine. I don’t need a house and property--roots. Why didn’t she give it to Linda or Paul? They would be much better able to take care of it than I am.
They lived there while they were growing up. I never lived there long enough to remember it--well almost.
“Well, if you need time to go home and settle things you sure can have the time. Maybe this is a chance for you to get off that game leg before
something really bad happens to you,” Houston said, almost as an after thought.
“I can’t imagine why she left it to me unless there was something...” she let the words hang in the air between them. Something what--something
wrong? Something sinister? Her mind drifted to the short note she had received in her Easter card about ghosts stirring things up at the Lady
Slipper and about not trusting Linda. That wasn’t unusual, Linda and she had never seen eye to eye since high school. Even then, her sister ran
with the wrong crowd, did drugs and generally gave mother gray hair and headaches from constant battles and worry. “I don’t know what I’ll do yet. I
need to think about it,” she said. “This is so unbelievable. She is--was, always so active. She was in perfect health according to what my sister and
brother have written to me. I don’t understand how she could have just died.”
“Does anyone suspect foul play?” Houston asked.
The thought struck Trudy like the bull, Cyclone, smashing into her all over again. “Linda didn’t say. She is just upset because I inherited everything. I
can’t blame her. I sure didn’t ask for it. But, foul play? I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt mother.” Except Linda, the thought bumped into her
conversation with Houston. She swallowed hard. “I can’t think of anyone, but then, I haven’t been into her life, or involved in what’s happening with
her, for quite a while.”
Trudy left Houston’s office and crossed the dusty parking lot to the fifth wheel trailer that was her home, as she followed the cowboys from rodeo to
rodeo, protecting them from the things they challenged--she had been doing that since she’d married Doug. Before he was killed by that drunken
rodeo clown’s lack of interest, they were a rodeo team. She wanted to run, run and keep running until everything went away. Run until what she had
just heard and read didn’t exist anymore. How could her mother die? She wasn’t ready for her to be gone forever. How will she ever apologize now
for whatever it was that made them not speak to each other? Trudy let the tears spill onto the arid land--land as dry and empty as she felt.
She slumped into her overstuffed easy chair clutching the telegram. Angry tears spilled over onto her lap. “Why? Why couldn’t you wait until
Christmas so we could mend what was broken between us? You were too young to die. I needed you. Why? Why did you go and die on me?” She
ranted at the dead emptiness of the trailer and suddenly, her life. The crumpled telegram in her hand, she shook it at the ceiling, as though she
thought her mother watched her from above.
Trudy paced the small space she had been content to call home. How come her mother would leave her all her worldly possessions? Why wouldn’t
she give them to Linda? Linda was the one who was always there. Even though mother was afraid of her, she was there. I don’t know why she was
so afraid of Linda either. There is so much I don’t know. Maybe that is why she is giving me all this so I will go home to find out the answers to all
those questions. “How can I find out the answers if you’re not there, Mom, answer me that if you will. Please.” She collapsed again into a heap on her
bed, then cried herself to sleep.
When she awoke it was dark. Stars twinkled through the skylight above her bed. It took her a minute to realize what had happened in the preceding
hours hadn’t been a dream--she was sure now. The questions were still the same in her mind. Why would her mother leave her everything? Why did
she die? Why wasn’t she notified that she was sick or that she had died so she could attend the funeral? She had to go back to Orenda, to find out.
Perhaps she would stay there. Anyway, she needed to retire after the last accident. Her limp slowed her down too much to keep ahead of the bulls.
She was putting the riders and herself in danger by staying on as a rodeo clown, when she wasn’t capable of moving with the speed of a gazelle.
Being small had its advantages, fitting into those barrels on the run was a simple deal for her. She could bounce into one of them without touching
the sides, but that didn’t keep the last bull from stomping on her and goring her when the barrel split. She was lucky to be alive. Houston’s words
from yesterday struck her then. She hadn’t even heard them. He didn’t fire her, he didn’t lay her off, because of their friendship, she knew that. But
what he had said yesterday ran in her mind now--he wanted her to find a reason to choose another lifestyle.
She wondered many times while she was healing how those staves had come off that barrel. Why it just blue apart when Cyclone hit it. She’d been in
the same situation a dozen times and the barrels always held. The little redhead that wanted her place--perhaps. She had tried other things to get
rid of Trudy and she had always chosen not to play her game. She ignored most of the pranks--but the barrel, could she have? The barrels were
inspected after every rodeo and replaced if they were weak. That is why Trudy had taken it upon herself to check them now before every rodeo. No
more weak ones would slip through to let that kind of thing happen to her or anyone else again, if she could help it.
Well, she decided it didn’t matter now. What mattered now was that she go home to find out what had happened to her mother. Her gut told her it
wasn’t right, something was amiss. Why wasn’t she notified until her sister realized that she had inherited everything except for that one painting that
mother thought fit to leave to Linda? Too many unanswered questions. She would tell Houston in the morning that she was going home and
probably wouldn’t be returning to the rodeo. She hated to leave her friends, but she knew when enough was enough.
Her mind finally made up, Trudy began to pack and secure everything in the trailer. She would stop by the storage shed she’d rented in New Mexico
on her way, to pick up the rest of her stuff. The south route was her choice anyway because the passes to the north were too dangerous this time of
year. You never knew when you would be delayed for a day or two by an avalanche or winter storm. She figured she could be home in five days
running if she slept only a few hours a night.
| The Pink Lady Slipper |