The Stalker - Part I

By Bettyann Moore

Bo and Cleo watched in anticipation as their master pulled his Browning from the top of the refrigerator. When the Browning came out, it was time for their walk. Their tails thumped, thumped, thumped on the kitchen linoleum as Digg Dunham sighted down the short barrel cop-style, gun resting on his left arm, right trigger finger ready, feet wide and hips pivoted.

“Ready, kids?” Digg said as he straightened out and holstered the handgun. Cleo’s huge front paws clicked a tap dance while Bo stretched and started pawing at the corner of the door.

“Hang on, hang on, you two!” Digg commanded. “It’s frickin’ wet out there.” Digg grabbed a rain poncho from the rack on the wall and pulled it on. It was September in the Rockies, for Pete’s sake, he should be worried about smoke coming up the ridge, not about keeping dry.

The rains had pounded down for almost two weeks now. Not all day, but every day. Like clockwork, by 2 pm the clouds moved in and began the night-long soak. Colorado’s dryness was one of the reasons Digg had moved there; that, and the ethnics that peopled the streets of Baltimore. His neighbors in the canyon, though, were all white as far as he could tell and few and far between. 

Since it was in the lower canyon, the house didn’t have a view. What it had was better: isolation. The creek the canyon was named for ran through his property and under his driveway. The back of the house abutted a sheer, rocky cliff. It was almost like living on an island. Still, the loaded Browning kept its prominent position atop the fridge. Digg had seen In Cold Blood, after all. The kids would alert him, but the Browning would take care of any asshole who dared to cross his threshold, or beyond. Walking the kids with the Browning was just a matter of course.

Cleo and Bo bolted the second Digg opened the door. Leashes were for pussies. Digg never let the dogs out alone, not since that Chink back home had tried to get close to Cleo by holding out a dog treat. Digg just knew he was trying to grab her to take home to his stew pot. At least they had room to roam here. They usually ran right toward the creek to get a drink or a good soaking, but ever since the rains began, the normal trickle was now an angry, roiling torrent. The dogs avoided it now, but went nuts over the smells: those skinny gray squirrels, ground squirrels that darted down holes disguised by rocks, chipmunks, all sorts of strange birds – the ones Digg dubbed “big, blue chickens” drove the kids nuts. It was too wet, though, to screw around.

“Just take a shit, you mutts,” he yelled over the pounding of the rain. The dogs, though, followed their noses, darting from one rock to another and from pine to pine. The bark on the pine was black, it was so soaked.

“Christ, I hope we don’t go from rain to snow,” Digg growled. “I gotta get into the woods and take some trees down before that.” A four-acre expanse of trees – his trees – ran along the creek and came right up to the house.

Digg surveyed the pine/fir mix with dismay. He was an ace with a gun, on the range at least, but had never used a chain saw. Out of the corner of his eye he saw both dogs scurrying toward him, tails between their legs, despicable behavior for a Rottweiler and a pit. They practically bowled him over trying to get back into the house.

“What the hell?” Digg bellowed as Bo scratched at the door and Cleo danced behind him. He looked out into the gathering gloom of the evening and saw something tawny and quick dart through the woods. A deer? A fox?

“No freakin’ way any dog of mine is scared of any deer or fox,” Digg said, even as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He threw open the door and the dogs scooted inside like the devil was at their heels. Hand on his Browning, Digg did likewise, throwing the deadbolt behind him.

Ignoring the whining dogs behind him, Digg peered through the slats of the blinds on the door window. Though the rain and falling darkness obscured his vision, he thought he saw something big, something stealthy, slinking through the trees. Then it was gone.

Digg shook himself and turned on the dogs. “No good, worthless mutts,” he roared, kicking out at them with steel-toed boots. No stranger to that type of behavior from their master, the two dogs scampered away, inches from the steel toes.

Keeping his Browning in hand, Digg stalked through the dining room and into the living room, the dogs giving him wide berth, tails low, but waggingly hopeful. Digg pressed his face against the glass of the living room window. By then, though, darkness had fallen completely. He pulled down the blinds, ignoring the shaking hand that pulled the cord.

The Browning would join his shotgun in the bedroom that night.

Although the dogs pranced painfully, Digg waited until full light before letting them out to do their morning business. He waited on the porch, eyes watchful. The normally powerful Colorado sun barely made a dent in the layer of clouds overhead. It would be another rainy afternoon.

After a breakfast of coffee and burnt toast, the two things Digg could cook consistently, he donned his shoulder holster over a t-shirt and pulled his Ruger from the top bureau drawer and holstered it. He threw a flannel shirt on, then added his waterproof camo jacket. The dogs sat at attention at his feet, hoping for an outing. Digg undid the door locks and opened the door; the dogs took off like a shot.

“Get back here, you little shits!” he yelled. “Cleo! Bo!” He didn’t have time to mess around with stupid dogs. The rain had already started. Digg could hardly hear himself over the roar of the creek and the pounding of the rain. The dogs must have headed into the woods; he couldn’t see them anywhere.

“Screw it,” he muttered, pulling the door shut and locking it behind him. “You want to slog around in this crap, more power to you. You’ll be dragging your wet, sorry asses back here before long.” Digg eased his Dodge Ram truck down the sodden drive, pausing on top of the culvert to eye the creek. It roared; Digg could feel its power vibrating beneath him. He scanned the landscape one last time for the dogs, then gunned out onto the highway. It was time to see what was happening in his world.

The DivideView Cafe sat at the top of a ridge overlooking the Continental Divide. Its parking lot was a moonscape of water-filled potholes populated with a motley assortment of ATVs, trucks and rust-pitted Outbacks.

“Perfect,” Digg muttered to himself as he dodged the deeper potholes on his way inside. “The gossips are out in full force.” He put his shoulder against the heavy wooden door that had swollen tight in the humidity and practically fell into the main dining area when it gave way. The locals looked up, then turned back to their plates. Unfamiliar faces didn’t interest them in the least.

Digg spotted a stool at the counter and grabbed it. The waitresses and the oldest locals always gathered at the counter; he’d be sure to get an earful.

“What can I getcha?” the perky blond waitress asked.

“Coffee and a Mountain Man,” Digg said, “but burn the toast, will ya?” He’d only been to the cafe twice before, but Digg was a big man and needed the bacon, ham, sausage, hash browns, three eggs and toast in the Mountain Man, so he always ordered it. What else would he order, Eggs Benedict? Ha! He figured one day the waitresses wouldn’t even have to ask; they’d call out “Mountain Man!” when he walked through the door. It would be both his order and his nickname. He liked that.

As he drank his coffee and waited for his breakfast, Digg kept an ear cocked to the conversations going on around him. Mostly they were about the weather.

“I’ve got these huge mushrooms in my meadow, wish I knew if they were good to eat.”

“Hell, I got ‘em growing between my toes!”

“You’re so full of shit, Grady. Growing between your ears most likely.”

“Some of the trees along the wash are falling over cuz the roots got nothin’ to hold onto.”

“Hear about John’s terrier? That big cat’s getting too bold.”

Digg’s ears perked up at the mention of the “big cat.” Digg hated cats, big, little, didn’t matter.

“They figure that ol’ cougar dragged that pup a quarter of a mile from the kill site to her cache. Found a shit-ton of deer bones and others there.”

“What is that now, six dogs she’s got so far?”

A woman hunched over a cup of coffee at the end of the counter spoke up for the first time. Her hair stuck out all over her head and she barely had a tooth in her mouth as far as Digg could tell. She looked like she hadn’t gotten off the stool for weeks, decades maybe.

“The cat’s got a family to feed, for crissake,” she wheezed. “And any idiot who lets their dogs roam loose is just serving up dinner.”

Digg felt a prickle of irritation along his spine.

“Could be kids next,” a younger woman said from a corner booth.

The old woman swiveled around on her stool and gave the other woman the evil eye. She twisted back around to her coffee. “Fool,” she muttered.

“Cats were here first,” a man in a BobCat cap next to the old lady said, earning himself a toothless grin. “They’re just doing what comes natural.”

“Any cat comes near my dogs or my family, it’ll regret it,” the old guy next to Digg said. “I got a rifle that’ll take it out.”

The old woman threw back her head and hooted.

“Boyd,” she said, “those mutts of yours shit more on my property than your own. You’re lucky I don’t attack them myself. Then what? You gonna shoot me?”

“Law’ll slap you behind bars for shooting a cat,” the man in the BobCat cap said. “Unless it’s going after livestock or humans, you got no call to shoot it. Shoot the mama cat and its cubs and you’re in deep shit.”

“Really, officer,” Boyd said, holding out his hands and shrugging, “the thing was going for my throat.”

Digg chuckled appreciatively. The old woman clucked and shook her head. “Damn fools,” she said.

Digg was getting a crick in his neck following the volley of words. He slurped down the last dregs of coffee, left a 50 cent tip and went to pay his bill. He was with that Boyd guy. Any cat came within a mile of his pooches and he’d let it have it. A tingle went up his spine when he remembered that Cleo and Bo were outside. He threw down enough money to cover his check and fled.

He hoped the good for nothing dogs would be lying on the porch by the time he pulled in, but they were nowhere in sight. Digg whistled and called for them, though he doubted they could hear him over the rain and rushing water.

“Shit!” he swore, slamming the truck door. He ran to the house, slipping and sliding through the accumulating muck. He could feel evil, yellow eyes drilling into his back.

Inside, he stripped off his wet outerwear and boots. He kept the Ruger in its holster and added the hip holster for the Browning. He pulled on a hooded jacket and filled its left pocket with ammo for the Ruger and the right with ammo for the Browning. His wet boots would just have to do. As an afterthought he grabbed a flashlight.

Digg walked down the drive first, hoping the dogs were out in the open. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the woods, exactly, but if there was a big cat out there, he’d like to see it before it saw him. Cats were sneaky, after all, and could climb trees.

He walked all the way to the road calling them, though, and saw nothing but water sluicing down the creek, the road and the rocky cliffs. The creek was so high it was now streaming across the drive. He walked back toward the house, cutting across the front yard to the woods. Just in case, he slipped the Ruger out of its holster and put it in his jacket pocket. He followed a deer trail into the trees, looking high and low as he went.

Of course, Digg reasoned, the dogs could be anywhere, on anyone’s property.

“I’ll wring their goddamn necks when I get my hands on them,” he grumbled. He knew Cleo had to be the ringleader; she was always looking for trouble. “Damn bitch.”

After he’d gotten jabbed in the face by low branches and slipped half a dozen times on the wet pine needles, Digg went down hard on his hands and knees. He was a soaking, muddy mess and it seemed like the rain was coming down even harder. He wished he’d worn gloves; his fingers were freezing. He got himself to his feet and started blowing on his fingers to warm them up.

“What the hell?” he said. The fingers on his right hand looked muddy at first, but it felt sticky and looked darker than it should. Had he cut himself? He fumbled with the flashlight and pointed it at his hand. Blood. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he looked wildly around. He shined the flashlight on the path and, sure enough, there was a large pool of blood soaking the needles and was rapidly washing away – and hair, short black hair, like on a Rottweiler.

Digg had heard the expression “his blood ran cold” many times, but he was never sure exactly what it meant. He did now. It felt like ice water was streaming through his veins. It froze him to the spot. He was afraid to look up, afraid of what he’d see crouched and ready to spring above him. Slowly, he put his hand in his pocket, then quickly drew out the Ruger and shot it into the trees above him without looking. Then he dove off the path and rolled over onto his back.

Branches and needles rained down, but no big cat. What was it the old timer called it … the ‘kill site’ … that’s what this was. Then it hit Digg that it was his Cleo that had likely been killed here.

“My poor baby,” he cried, getting angrier by the second. “My sweet pup!” But where was Bo? Hiding? Back at the house? Dead, too?

Digg scrambled to his feet. He needed to see if Bo had gone home. He needed to get dry. But most of all, he needed a bigger gun.

Blocked

Phot by Deborah Tilley via Wikimedia Commons

Carol wasn’t prepared for the day to break into sunshine. She had already completed her daily Sudoku in front of the sunlamp, taking her daily dose of St. John’s wort with a cup of green tea. Her walk to the post office chilled her through layers of wool, down, and Gore-Tex, a walk that took her through the cloying gray world of snow, salt, and sun-blotting clouds. Custom demanded she wave and nod at the other bundled souls she met along the way, recognizable only by context. That man with insulated coveralls with the shovel in front of Earl’s house was most likely Earl, nobody but Tina would ever wear purple hat and peach scarf. The whole town could have been taken over by aliens and Carol would never know; not that she cared. Maybe an alien invasion would be just the thing to keep her distracted until spring.

When she got home, she stared at the blank computer screen, waiting for a story to come. She wanted to walk away, rummage through the cupboards for something to snack on. Household chores suggested themselves, including the idea that today was the perfect day to clean the oven burners. She remained seated and frowned at her empty teacup. She was blocked, but walking away from the computer wouldn’t help. She typed and erased, typed and erased, completing a whole paragraph in two hours.

A car honked in the driveway. Carol looked at the clock and put her torture on hold. How was it eleven o’clock already?

Her son drove her to the Chinese place run by a family from Guatemala.

“You know, this place always reminds me of London,” she said.

“I know, Mom.”

“I went to an Indian curry house and they sat me back by the kitchen. Must have been because I was a Yank. Anyway, while the staff all looked like extras from a Bollywood movie with the men in embroidered kurtas and the women in patterned saris, I happened to see the back of the house when the servers went to the kitchen.”

“They were all white guys cooking the food,” her son said. “I know.”

“And they wore French chef’s shirts with checked pants – and berets!”

“But how was the food?”

“Good, but pricey. I didn’t go back.”

“Well, I was never in London,” her son said, “but I’d put Emiliano’s Moo Goo Gai Pan up against anyone’s. What are you having?”

“I don’t know,” Carol said. “I’ve been craving something these past few weeks, but can’t put my finger on what it could be.”

“Hot and sour soup?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m out of ideas,” he said.

Carol sighed and looked over the menu. The room brightened, forcing Carol to shield her eyes.

“Did they just turn on some lights?”

“No, the sun came out.”

“So it has.”

The sun’s glare, bouncing from the snow to the laminated menu, rippled before hitting her in the eyes. It sent Carol’s memory to a day in Missouri.

She looked away from the sparkles on the fishing pond. Insects buzzed in humid air as she walked down the row of trees. She pulled at her t-shirt’s collar to let the breeze cool her skin. A hawk broke off its lazy circle and dived, unfurling its wings just before it disappeared into the tall grass. In the branches above her, green pods clustered in threes and fours. The orchard’s owner assured her that they wouldn’t fall on her head, though several pods lay on the ground.

She was still looking at the menu when her son ordered, and the waitress, Lupa, asked if Carol needed more time. She scanned the menu one more time, waiting for something to jump out to her.

“Cashew Chicken,” she said.

Her son took a sip of Diet Coke. “How’s the SAD?”

“Fifty-two days until spring.”

“Ah.”

“And that damned rodent in Punxsutawney was no help either. I wonder what they do when one of them dies? You ever wonder how they pick one rodent over another?”

“No. I just assume it’s eeny-meeny-miny-moe.”

“No, small towns wouldn’t be that sensible. They’d either get some self-appointed expert from out of town or form a committee to do the picking.”

“Maybe they just take the firstborn or next of kin and prop him up.”

“A groundhog monarchy? Now that would be interesting. How would that have started?”

“I was just joking,” her son said.

“It would make a great story.” She could kill a few people off in it too. The postman had asked and she had promise she would kill him in one of her stories, something suitably gruesome. That would be easy. The trick would be to also kill off the high school girl’s LaCrosse coach without the woman recognizing herself in print. Anyone who walked around in the dead of winter telling people to just smile their way through the season deserved a death worse than the postman’s.

Their food arrived, and Carol knew after one bite that the cashew chicken was not going to satisfy her mystery craving. She sighed and looked at her son’s plate.

“That’s not Moo Goo Gai Pan, “she said.

“General Tso’s chicken,” her son said. “I felt like something a little spicier.” He smiled and rolled the orange breaded-coated lumps in his rice.

“Your trees have bumps on their leaves,” she told the farmer.

“That’s the gall,” he said. “Bugs like wasps come in and lay their eggs under the surface of the leaves. It’s my own fault, I didn’t spray early enough in the season and some of the trees got those tumors.”

“Does it hurt the trees?”

A shrug. “Little bit, but they’ll bounce back next year.”

“What about your harvest?” she asked.

He smiled. “Nah. Plenty of pie for everyone come Thanksgiving. Why don’t you come up to the gift shop and have an early slice? Comes with coffee too.”

“I got it,” she said.

“Got what?”

“Does Emiliano make desserts?”

“No, just the fortune cookie with the check.”

“Then we’re going to Brother’s Bakery after this for some pie.” And then she would go home and crank out a story. She could feel it forming in her brain.

“That was your craving?” he said.



Carol smiled. “It turns out I’ve had pecan on the brain all this time."

Bookmarks

By Bettyann Moore

Heather Stewart was addicted to books, more specifically, to mystery books. Oh, she threw in a few fantasies and some speculative fiction once in a while, but 90 percent of the hundreds of books she owned were mysteries. Her fingers tingled when she picked up a new one. Her mind raced with possibility and speculation as she read them. She crowed with delight if a writer was able to keep her guessing up to the end, though it was rare. Heather was that good.

Only ink and paper books would do. To her mind, there was something incongruous about reading a mystery electronically. Part of the fun was curling up in her big leather chair, lights dimmed (except the one illuminating the book), Oscar the cat napping on her lap and the slow, delicious turning of each page that drew her nearer to the solution.

Library books wouldn’t do, either. Heather liked to own books, to see them arranged alphabetically on the rich mahogany shelves of the bookcases she had built herself.

“You’re never going to read them again,” her friend Crystal said, “so why bother?”

Crystal owned half a dozen cookbooks and a set of home repair manuals. Crystal could never understand.

And, because Heather slogged away in a retail store 45 hours a week at minimum wage, only pre-owned books would do. It was all she could afford, for one thing, but there was the added mystery of the bookmarks.

Heather hated, hated, hated it when previous readers turned down the corner of a page to mark their spot in a book. It was a horrible thing to do to a book, she thought, and almost as bad as writing in one. The thought made her shudder. But the inventive bookmarks that people used made her smile. She looked forward to those almost as much as the books themselves.

At first, Heather didn’t pay much attention to them. Often, the items used to mark a page were mundane – a blank Post-It note, a corner torn from a newspaper, even a thread pulled from a sweater. Three years before, though, Heather’s interest was piqued during a shopping trip with Crystal to her favorite used book store, Paige Turner’s Book Shop. Who could not love a place so beautifully named after the proprietor? Crystal had only tagged along after Heather promised a side-trip to Moo-La-La, the retro ʼ50s ice cream shop next door to Paige Turner’s.

“Crap,” Crystal said when they walked into the bookstore, “we’ll never get out of here.”

Heather’s heart sank. She normally shopped for books alone and could kill a couple of hours easily. Crystal’s impatience was already getting on her nerves.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll only look in the mystery section. Look, there’s a huge cookbook section,” she added, pointing down a long, narrow aisle.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Crystal grumbled as she headed down the aisle.

Heather sighed in relief. She was totally out of books, something that made her antsy and sad. She needed at least half an hour to find a good stack to take home.

Forty-five minutes later, with Crystal hovering at her side, Heather finally had half a dozen paperbacks and three hardcovers – including one first edition. Now she wished she’d never promised Moo-La-La; all she wanted to do was get home to read.

At the check-out, Crystal flipped listlessly through one of Heather’s books as they waited in line.

“Hell-o!” she suddenly cried. “What do we have here?” She pulled something from the book and started giggling.

“What? What is it?” Heather asked, trying to see. It looked like a photo, but Crystal held it flat against her chest.

“I’m not sure you should see it,” she teased. “It’s … hmmm, how should I put this … it’s icky.”

“Come on!” Heather made a grab for it, but Crystal was holding it out for John, the cashier, to see.

“What do you think,” she asked him, “do you think I should let her see it? Do you charge extra for this?”

John’s eyes went wide. “Wowzer,” he said, “was that in a book?” He started laughing and called a co-worker over to look at it. While the others cackled, Heather finally had had enough. She pulled it from their hands.

“Wow!” was all she could manage when she saw the image. She felt herself turning red.

“I think you’re blushing, Heather,” Crystal teased. “You’re such an old maid.”

Heather hated being called an old maid. Who didn’t? But she was only 30 and she’d had boyfriends. Okay, one, but still.

The picture was of an older, slightly overweight man lying on a leather couch. He was obviously posing. He was nude.

While the others passed around the photo and laughed lewdly, Heather could only think about the man’s eyes. His eyes didn’t match his lascivious pose. There was something dead in them, yet pleading. They gave her chills.

The picture made her wonder. Who put it in the book? The man? A woman he sent it to? Why did he look so sad? Who took the picture and why? Was it something the man did often? He looked to be in his 50s. At what point does someone in their 50s decide it’s a good idea to pose that way? If he put it in the book, is he now frantically trying to find it? Her mind reeled and her new obsession began.

Part of the fun now of getting a new batch of books was finding, saving and speculating about the bookmarks inside. To Heather’s mind, it would be cheating if she checked for bookmarks before buying the books. Cheating, too, if she didn’t discover the markers one by one as she read the books, though it was tempting to look through all of them beforehand.

She began keeping files with the objects and her notes inside.

File #1: Found January 15, 2010 in Mum’s the Word by Kate Collins. One packet of wildflower seeds found between pages 122 and 123. Store: Paige Turner’s.

Speculation: Probably left by a woman, a romantic, but lonely. The heroine, a lonely orphan who has a dark secret, resonates with her.

UPDATE: Or not. The flower seeds, upon further investigation, prove to have been handed out by the publisher with copies of the book during its debut promotion. Whoever had the book never got past page 122 and left the seeds inside.

File #100: Found August 9, 2011 in American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis. A photograph, torn in half, of a female child, age 4, perhaps. Found between pages 316 and 317. Adult female hand on child’s shoulder.

Speculation: Read by a man, recently divorced, who lost custody of the child, and probably for good reason. He’s angry and scary. Dreams of torture and murder. Hopefully, if he’s dreaming and reading about it, he’s not doing it.

File #239: Found June 16, 2013 in A Killing on Wall Street by Derrick Neidermann. American Airlines boarding pass for one Greg Compton, seat 1B, one-way from JFK to ANU (Antiqua) found on the last page, 254. Store: Goodwill

Speculation: Mr. Greg Compton is, or was, a Wall Street hotshot. He’s made his millions, probably unlawfully, and is now off to the Caribbean (first class!) to enjoy the fruits of other people’s labor. He won’t be back. Would bet there was a mistress in seat 1A. The book, left on the airplane – he likes to be unencumbered (a wife and kids left behind, perhaps?) – and another traveler picked it up.

Heather was having a fine time with her new hobby. She knew she was probably wrong 99 percent of the time, but it was fun nonetheless. Crystal was less than enthused.

“Seriously, Heather? You’re 30 years old! You should be going to parties and having fun, not sitting here obsessing over made-up people. Hate to say it, but it’s kind of creepy.”

“They’re not ‘made-up people,’” Heather argued. “They’re real people who read real books and have real lives.”

“Whatever. It’s still creepy. Why don’t you come out with John and me Saturday night. I’m sure he has a friend ...”

“John? Paige Turner’s John, the cashier? I thought he was engaged or something.”

“Didn’t work out and, well, he had my number … he’s really cute even if he is a bookworm.”

Heather didn’t like to think that her friend might have had something to do with the engagement not working out, but she had her suspicions.

“No, really, you two go out,” she told Crystal. “You know how I feel about blind dates. I have socks to wash, which I’m sure will be more fun.” Actually, Heather had a new stack of books waiting and was looking forward to a quiet evening at home, as usual.

She was halfway through the first book, though, when she found the photo. As usual, her pulse started racing. A new mystery to solve! She grabbed a new file folder and a legal pad.

File #253. Found July 10, 2013 in The Rules of Attraction by Bret Easton Ellis. A photograph of a white two-story house. It looks empty and in need of work; the junipers want trimming. On the front is written “... with love,” which I first thought indicated that the picture was perhaps given to someone “with love,” but it appears to be a continuation of what is written on the back:

The new place

- empty

- lonely

- ready to be filled …

… with love (on the front)

Heather stopped writing. The words struck a chord in her. Made her feel lonely, a condition she avoided at all costs. She was struck by the flow of the handwriting, the dark, thick ink; the spiky lettering.

She continued:

Speculation: Written in a bold hand, probably by a male. Pretty obvious that the house is newly-purchased. I get the sense that there is no ready-made, loving family planning to move in, that the man – I’ll call him Martin – only wishes there was. Found between pages 10 and 11. Store: Paige Turner’s.

It was the first time Heather had actually named one of her people. She wondered why she did.

A few weeks later she found an actual bookmark, one of the free ones that Paige Turner’s provided. She was going to toss it, but black ink was bleeding through from the back so she flipped it over.

File #255. Found August 4, 2013 in Nothing to Lose by Lee Child. A Paige Turner bookmark. Written on the back is “Where are you?” Found between pages 10 and 11. Store: Paige Turner’s.

The words “Where are you?” filled Heather with loneliness, but the handwriting itself sent chills down her spine. She recognized it. She looked through the plastic file box she kept near her reading chair and pulled out File #253, the picture of the white house. She compared the handwriting with that on the bookmark and there was no doubt: they were written by the same hand. Martin.

She reread the notations she’d made. Both items were found between pages 10 and 11. Both books from Paige Turner’s. Heather wasn’t sure what to think, but she got a sense – and she’d never admit it out loud – that she was meant to find these particular bookmarks. She shook her head. No, that was just silly. Maybe she did read too many mysteries like Crystal said. Still, she couldn’t help daydreaming about “Martin” – what he looked like, where he lived and worked, the color of his eyes …

Every time Heather visited Paige Turner’s, she scanned the people who sat reading at tables and in the low, comfortable chairs and sofas provided for the customers. Is that Martin in the red chair, wearing the suit? No, for some reason she didn’t see him as the suit-wearing type. Maybe the sandy-haired guy in the blue work shirt and chinos? That thought was immediately dispelled when two young children came running up to the man with books, excitedly calling “Daddy! Daddy!”

The next bookmark put Heather right over the edge.

File #259. Found September 22, 2013 in Light of the World by James Lee Burke. A photograph, obviously a “selfie”. There’s a stone fireplace in the background with a fire burning; bookcases flank it on either side. In the foreground, two slipper-clad feet (male), resting on a hassock, trim lower legs clad in blue jeans. Open on the knees, a book. Just to the left, the arm of another chair, slightly closer to the fire. On the back is written: “Picture yourself here” in heavy, dark ink. Martin’s writing. Found between pages 10 and 11.

Heather practically swooned. She scrutinized the picture carefully, trying to figure out which book was on the man’s knees. She couldn’t quite make out the words at the top of the two pages. She could see, however, that it was open to pages 10 and 11. Heather’s heart raced. She ran to her desk and rummaged around in the drawer for her magnifying glass. She knew it was in there somewhere.

“Aha!” she cried, finding it buried beneath last year’s tax forms. With shaking hands, she examined the photo again. Author’s name on the left hand page … J-e-f-f … Jeffrey … Jeffery Archer! Book title on the right hand page … O-n-l-y … Only Time Will Tell!

Heather’s heart sank. She’d already read the book. It was right there on the top shelf of the first bookcase. She wouldn’t be likely to buy another copy … then it hit her. She didn’t need to buy the book at all! He was leaving no doubt where the next clue would be. All she had to do was go to Paige Turner’s, find the book and see what was inside! She felt certain that whatever it was, it would lead her to Martin.

Crystal stared at her friend with her mouth open. They were sitting side-by-side on one of Paige Turner’s shabby couches, Heather’s files open on her lap. Heather hadn’t been able to contain herself, she had to tell Crystal.

“Sooooo,” Crystal said, “you actually believe that this person, this Martin so-called, is sending you, Heather Stewart, love notes in old books. Do I have that right?”

“Not love notes, exactly,” Heather hedged. “And maybe not to me, exactly. But to someone, you know? Someone he wants to meet. Look at the titles of the books: The Rules of Attraction … Nothing to Lose … Light of the World … Only Time Will Tell … he’s looking for someone to ...”

“Love? He’s looking for someone to love?” Crystal asked, seriously starting to doubt her friend’s sanity. “Or maybe he’s just some jerk playing a sick game,” she said. “Ever think of that?”

Heather looked stricken. “Well, no …” she said.

Crystal could see that she’d hurt Heather’s feelings. She softened. “So, this last ‘clue’ that’s supposed to be in Only Time Will Tell?” she asked. “What was that?”

Heather’s eyes lit up. “I haven’t looked yet!” she said. “I wanted you to be with me. I’m too excited.”

Crystal popped up off the sofa and strode toward the mystery section. “No time like the present,” she said.

Frozen in place, Heather watched her friend scan the shelves, running her fingers along the spines of the books. She closed her eyes and waited.

“It’s not there.” Crystal flopped back down onto the couch.

“What do you mean it’s not there?” Heather cried.

“There are plenty of Jeffrey Archer books,” Crystal said, “but no Only Time Will Tell. I checked all of the As and even the Bs and Cs.”

It wasn’t that she didn’t believe Crystal, exactly, but Heather needed to see for herself. While Crystal sat on the couch shaking her head, Heather scanned the shelves thoroughly. She even checked the As under General Fiction, Adventure, even Young Adult. It wasn’t there.

“Maybe you’re just too early,” Crystal said, joining her. “Maybe he hasn’t had time to bring it in.”

“Or it got sold already,” Heather said, hoping she was wrong.

“Oh, Heather,” Crystal said, patting her friend on the back. She felt bad for Heather, but what could she do? “Come on, I’ll buy you a hot fudge sundae at Moo-la-la. Chocolate fixes everything.”

Every day after work over the next few weeks, Heather haunted the stacks at Paige Turner’s. And every day she was disappointed. Afterward, she went back to her apartment and sat in her big chair with the cat on her lap, but she couldn’t even bear to pick up a book.

By Halloween, Heather had given up. She’d started reading again, but only historical fiction

. She agreed to meet Crystal and John at Paige Turner’s so they could go to a costume party after John’s shift. The best costume she could come up with was a pair of cats ears, some painted-on whiskers with black turtleneck and pants. Crystal, dressed as a sexy vampire, leaned saucily against the check-out counter while John, dressed as a pirate, counted out his cash drawer.

“There she is!” Crystal cried when Heather walked in. She eyeballed the half-hearted cat costume. “Don’t you look sweet,” she said. “We’re going to have a great time tonight!”

Heather smiled wanly, but her eyes wandered over the stacks. Crystal gave her a playful push.

“Oh, go on,” she said, “I know you’re dying to check. John’s not ready anyway.”

Without much hope, Heather headed to the mystery section. She scanned the As … Abbott, Adams, Albert, Archer, Archer … and there it was, Only Time Will Tell. Heather’s breath caught as she reached for the book. She held it for a moment, then slowly turned to page 10. Three small slips of paper fluttered to the floor. She stooped down to retrieve them as Crystal joined her.

“Success?” she said.

“I think so,” Heather said, looking with puzzlement at the receipts in her hand. There was no extra writing in thick, black ink on them.

Crystal peered at them. “Moo-La-La,” she said.

“What?”

“The receipts, they’re from Moo-la-la; I’d know them anywhere.”

“But ...” Heather looked closer at the papers. They seemed identical. The tab was $5.75 for a small hot fudge sundae and coffee. Then she noticed the date stamps: Oct. 11, Oct. 18, Oct. 25 … all seven days apart. She did some calculating in her head as John joined them. It was now Oct. 31, a Thursday, so the Thursday before would have been the 24^th, so the 11^th, 18^th and 25^th were Fridays. The time stamp showed that the check had been rung up around 5:30 each night. Martin had a hot fudge sundae at Moo-la-la every Friday night! Heather’s eyes went wide. The next day was Friday.

“You two ready to party?” John asked. He looked down at the book and receipts in Heather’s hands. “You want to buy that book first? I’m clocked out, but Stella can ring you up. That just came in today.”

“What? What do you mean?” Heather asked.

“That book,” John said, nodding at the Archer. “Steve just brought it in today.”

“Steve?” Heather and Crystal said at the same time.

“Yeah, Steve Thomas. One of our best customers. I think he reads more than you do, Heather.”

Crystal and Heather just stared at each other, mouths wide.

“Martin is Steve,” Heather said. “Crystal, how come ...”

“I didn’t think of asking him!” Crystal interrupted.

“What’s going on?” John asked, totally perplexed.

“All that wondering, all that speculation,” Heather said, looking dazedly at John. “And all this time I could have asked you.”

“You’d make a lousy detective,” Crystal said, then shut her mouth when Heather glared at her.

“You mean about this Steve guy?” John asked. “Hell, if you’re wondering about him, ask him yourself.”

The two women looked at him, questions on their faces.

“Tonight, I mean. Ask him tonight. He’ll be at the party, he’s in the band. You guys ready to rock? It’s gettin’ late.”

Heather had gone stiff. She looked ready to bolt.

“Oh, no you don’t, sister,” Crystal said, corralling her in her arms. “It’s not like you have to say anything to him, but I bet you will. Come on, it’ll be a great story to tell your grand kids!”

Heather looked down at the receipts, then slipped them into her purse. She held onto the book a little longer, then eased it back onto the shelf.

“Oh, what the hell,” she said. “Nothing to Lose and Only Time Will Tell, right?”