Welcome to Wednesday's Words where I share a snippet from one of my stories using yesterday's word from the New York game Wordle. Yesterday's Wordle was LIMIT.
Small Town Shenanigans is now available on Amazon
The glint in Brook’s eyes when he watched Sydney cross the room made me itch. “So,” I said rather loudly, hoping to draw his attention away from Sydney’s retreating, and lovely, backside, “who do you think is responsible?”
Brook swiveled my way once Sydney disappeared behind the restroom door. “Bellemont, of course.”
“I’m her attorney and I can assure you she’s more upset about this situation than you.”
Brook’s eyebrow lifted and he leaned forward, suddenly alert. “You know who she is?”
“I can’t tell you,” I bit out.
Brook sat back with a huff. “Of course not.” He considered me. “Does she really know where the treasure is?”
I lifted my hands in a who knows gesture. “I would guess not since she’s not the one sending you those letters.”
Brook looked grim. “If this whole thing is a hoax, people are going to blame me.”
“That’s a legitimate concern.”
“It could kill my business.”
“You’re the only bookstore in thirty miles,” I pointed out. I considered mentioning asking that since his business was in a tiny town, how good could it be? But decided to stay on his good side. “And the closest library is in ten miles. If people are looking for something to read, there aren’t a lot of options.”
“You’re right.”
An awkward silence fell between us, and I worried about Sydney.
“Did the letters come all at once?” I asked.
“No. I get them the day before. They come with instructions.”
“Did you hide the one at the quarry?”
“No. I get the clue just like everyone else, but I’m exempt from winning. I was told if I follow the instructions, I’m guaranteed a reward.”
“A reward, huh?” I asked. “It must be pretty sizeable if it’s worth not searching for the Penn treasure.”
“A bird in the hand and all that,” Brook said with a shrug.
Something banged in the alleyway.
Brook shot a glance in that direction. “I wonder what that was.”
“Probably a cat or a dog or something.”
Brook twitched. “Could be someone trying to steal the clues.”
“I get why you’re nervous,” I told him, “but Cascadia is usually a safe place.”
“But right now, it’s full of weirdos.” Brook shivered. “This whole thing has got me spooked.”
Sydney emerged from the bathroom looking winded and red-faced.
I bounced to my feet. “Are you ready to go?” I asked her.
“Are you?” she returned.
“Sure.”
Brook also stood. I shook his hand. “Thanks for meeting with us.”
I put my hand on the small of Sydney’s back and led her out of the store.
The sun had disappeared while we were talking to Brook and a few stars twinkled in a periwinkle sky. Sydney waited until we crossed the street before saying, “I had to crawl out the bathroom window and sneak in through the backdoor to check out the typewriter.”
“But I didn’t hear the typewriter. I listened.”
“It was electric—which was good—so it was probably quieter than you expected.”
“Did you get a sample?”
Sydney grinned. “I want you to appreciate how difficult this was. First, I had to find the typewriter, then I had to locate an outlet, and then I needed paper. Oh, also, I had to turn it on. There was a button on the side that wasn’t obvious.”
“So, all of that and—”
Sydney pulled out a piece of paper with THIS IS FOR DALLAS typed on it.
I drove the rest of the way to the cemetery with my hands griping the steering wheel so tightly, they were clenched and cramping by the time we arrived. I parked outside the gates. A crowd had already gathered near the entrance.
“Come on.” I took her elbow. “I know another way in.”
Together, we headed into the dark, cold night. The moon had nearly reached its zenith, but wispy clouds dimmed its shimmery light. Mist hung in the trees and blew through the cemetery like ghosts on an urgent errand. We skirted around the stone wall, hesitant to enter the graveyard. I took her hand and gazed over the tombstones. Some stood tall and erect, but others tilted, as if tired of standing as sentinels for the dead.
A dark shadow appeared from behind a monolith, and Sydney screamed as the cloaked apparition removed his hood.
A tall man with dark blond hair stood before us.
“Reagan!” Sydney exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“Emma told me you’d be here.”
Reagan’s gaze—hostile with a touch of curiosity—cut to me.
Sydney made the introductions, referring to Reagan as ‘her friend,’ making Reagan’s jaw tighten.
“You goon,” she said. “Where did you get the cloak?” She stared at him as if she’d never seen him before. “This is really not like you.”
Reagan looked pleased with himself and swished the cape as if he was a model on the runway. “My neighbor is into cosplay. I told him where I was headed, and he told me I needed it. I wasn’t sure, but the midnight in the cemetery convinced me.” He glanced around and the crowd milling about us. “Any idea what’s happening tonight?”
“No,” I said. I wanted to tell him to go away, but knew I didn’t have the right.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Sydney said. “I’m not sure those pills sit well with you.”
“They seemed like a good idea at the time,” Reagan muttered, sounding defensive.
Sydney grew suddenly silent and still. Her eyes widened and she barked out a laugh. “Look!”
“A headless horseman!” someone cried out.
A tall figure on a black stallion thundered past. I pulled Sydney against my chest, not because I feared for her safety—we were yards away from the dark rider—but because I wanted to, and it kept her away from Reagan.
Sydney moved away and rummaged through her bag.
“Where’s the clue?” I asked.
Sydney pulled her dog-eared copy of Musings out of her bag. “That was the clue.” She dropped onto a headstone and turned on the flashlight app on her phone.
“That was the clue?” Reagan echoed, sounding as confused as I felt.
“There isn’t a headless horseman in Musings,” Sydney said without looking up. “But there are storm riders.”
“Storm riders? Reagan echoed.
Sydney nodded. “They hunt down the living and recruit them into the Underworld. They ride on stormy nights in what’s called the Wild Hunt. In Musings, they heard barks of dogs, the rhythmic sound of hooves, and the haunting melodies of hunting horns on stormy nights. There was speculation that the leader of the Wild was Odin or Woden, the chief deity of the Norse gods, or Satan, King Arthur, or Herne the Hunter.
Like a lot of Musings, it was inspired by legends. One particular myth is tied to Cadbury Castle in Somerset, often considered the former location of King Arthur's Camelot. According to the tale, on wild winter nights, the sound of King Arthur and his hounds racing along a nearby old lane.”
“But I thought Musings was inspired by Greek Mythology,” I said.
“I don’t think Bellmont felt limited by any one lore,” Sydney said. “If it was fantastic, he would use it.”
“He?” Reagan echoed.
Sydney and I exchanged glances.
“So, you’ve met him,” Reagan said.
When Sydney didn’t answer, Reagan turned to me. “You’re Bellemont’s attorney?”
“And you’ve met him, too? Why all the cloak and dagger?”
“I’ve actually known…her…for most of my life. I just had no idea he had this secret identity.”
“Is he completely bonkers?” Reagan asked.
“No. Not at all. If you knew who him, you might understand.”
Reagan stuffed his hands into the pockets of his cloak. “If I had written a bestselling book, I wouldn’t be ashamed of it.”
“I don’t think he’s ashamed. I think it’s more a matter of protecting his privacy and not wanting to be bothered.”
Sydney looked up. “Do you know what I think is curious? When he published the book, how did he know he’d need a pen name? Do you think he had any idea of how popular it would be?”
“Do you think his mystique adds to the popularity?” Reagan asked.
Mystique wasn’t a word I would use to describe Gerard, but I couldn’t say that to Reagan. “I doubt it,” I said. “Did you find what you’re looking for?”
Sydney balanced the book in her lap and held her phone above it. Around us, the crowd had thinned.
“The trow is mentioned on page 204.” Sydney frowned. “That’s not much of a clue. ‘In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, black, and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler.’”
“Is that from Musings?” Reagan asked. “I thought it was more of a teeny-bopper romance.”
Sydney bristled. “He’s quoting Washington Irving.”
“Yes, but why?”
“He’s a writer and she’s a muse.”
“I thought the main character was the muse of math and science,” I said.
“She is, but her sister is the muse of tragedy. Washington Irving’s Headless Horseman is a tragic literary figure.” Sydney sounded as if she were standing in front of an English lit class instead of sitting on a tombstone in a cemetery.
Reagan put his hands on his hips. “There has to be restroom around here somewhere.”
“I’m not sure it would be open,” I said.
“Do you need to find a bush?” Sydney asked.
“I’m not going to find a bush,” Reagan muttered.
“Where are you staying?” I asked, praying he wouldn’t answer, Sydney’s bedroom.
“At the inn,” he said, sounding gruff. “It seems to be party-central.”
An idea struck me. “Can you read that passage again?”
“Sure.” Sydney cleared her throat before beginning. “In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, black, and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler.” She looked up at me, wide-eyed. “Brooks Books?”
“It has to be.”
Sydney stood and tucked the book into the bag. “He wouldn’t be open now though, right?”
“We’ll go first thing tomorrow morning,” I said.
“Good. I’ll meet you there,” Reagan said hurriedly. He strode away, making me wonder if he was going to find a tree, after all.
Sydney stood and looped her arm through mine. “I wouldn’t mind finding a restroom myself.”
I gave her sideways glance. She was so beautiful in the moonlight. I could hardly blame Reagan for following her across the country. “I’ll take you to it, but, like I said, I doubt it’s unlocked.”
She fell into step beside me.
“Have you broken things off with Reagan?”
“I haven’t had the chance, but I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”
“It would be kinder to do it now.”
“Right now, I’d like to find a bathroom, and, I’m guessing, Reagan wants the same thing.” She chuckled. “For a brief moment, we both want the same thing.”
“A brief moment?”
“He told me he wants to leave the city and start a practice in Connecticut.”
“Would that be so bad? Leaving the city, I mean?”
“I can’t move away—” She caught herself and gave a little shake. “Emma’s moving to Seattle. I can hardly believe it.” I filled him in on Emma’s plans.
Hoping to comfort her, I rubbed her back as we walked, even though my heart skipped in hope. I tried to calm my feelings, telling myself that just because her sister moved here, that didn’t mean that she would want to follow. I reminded myself of Lisa and a cold gloom settled over me.
A building appeared in the shadowy dark. I guided her to it. “The doors are probably locked, but it can’t hurt to check.”
The restroom, a stone building with a women’s room on one end and a men’s facility on the other, had been built ages ago. It had six-inch-high windows running just under the eaves. A light flickered inside.
“Someone is in there,” Sydney whispered.
“It could be a homeless person or, more likely, a competitor. Do you want me to go in with you?”
“No.” Her answer was quick and decisive.
With my back pressed up against the facility’s outer wall, I tried to convince myself that what I was trying to do—listen to Sydney pee—wasn’t stalkerish or creepy. Only she wasn’t peeing. Why wasn’t she peeing? Wouldn’t I be able to hear if she were? I circled the building. Rustling came from the men’s room. But she hadn’t gone in the men’s room. Still, someone was definitely in the men’s room. Could it be an animal? I slipped inside. The light automatically went on.
A large black stallion tossed his mane and grunted. Ah, I had stumbled across the Storm Rider’s creature, which meant the rider had to be nearby.
“Hello?” I tried to peek beneath a stall and caught a glimpse of a pair of tall black leather boots.
With a swirl of a dark cloak and a bang of the door, the rider strode out. He wielded a whip and aimed for my face. I ducked, and smacked my face against the sink.
The rider swung up on the horse and disappeared through the open door with a clatter of hooves.
No comments:
Post a Comment