Cooking Up Trouble - Part I

By Bettyann Moore

Porpoise McAllister was the only boy at Dailyville High who elected to take cooking class instead of auto mechanics in his junior year.

“Always knew you were a freak, McAllister,” Troy Jones, the captain of the football team scoffed.

“Gonna make tiny cakes for tea parties?” a kid in chemistry teased, miming sipping tea with his pinkie in the air.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Porpoise always answered with a mysterious smile.

The fact of the matter was that there wasn’t much more for Porpoise to learn about vehicle maintenance. He’d been taking apart cars, tractors, mowers and combines on the family farm since he was big enough to hold a wrench – and putting them back together again. When he wasn’t working on the farm, he was working on the things that kept the farm working. The thought of spending part of his time at school doing the same held no thrall. Cooking, though, that was different.

It was nothing short of magic to the boy when his mother or his grandmother created hearty farm meals day after day. A little bit of flour and some of this and that – voila! – a tall birthday cake for a growing boy. A hen that had been clucking in his grandmother McAllister’s chicken coop at breakfast was transformed into delectable fried chicken by lunch. The McAllister women were conjurers of a high order. Porpoise wanted to be one, too.

“You got no business in a class like that!” Grandpa McAllister roared. “Brian,” he said, turning to his son, “you gonna let this happen?”

At one point in his son’s life, Porpoise’s dad would have railed just as long and loudly as his father, but he’d learned a thing or two since then. It was, he knew now, important for the boy to figure out who and what he was on his own – and have his family’s support while he did it.

“It’s all right, Pop,” Brian said, passing the mashed potatoes around his mother’s dinner table. “Porpoise has his reasons, don’t you, boy?” He winked at his son.

“What possible reason ...” John McAllister stopped and considered. “Oh!” he said, his face lighting up. “Girls! Lots of girls in them classes I bet!”

“All girls and Porpoise,” Thea, Porpoise’s mother said, bringing more beets to the table. Margaret, his grandmother, followed close behind carrying a pitcher of fresh milk.

“Well, I’ll be danged,” Grandpa McAllister said, nodding thoughtfully. “If that don’t beat all.”

Porpoise kept his head down and kept shoveling his grandmother’s good food into his mouth. He couldn’t wait to get to the apple pie, his favorite. Let them think what they want to think.

“I don’t know,” Margaret said, settling back into her chair. “What do you know about cooking?” she asked, turning to her grandson.

“Numuh,” Porpoise replied.

“Sweetie, don’t talk with your mouthful,” his mother scolded. “What’d you say?”

Porpoise took a long drink of milk to wash down the potatoes. “I said ‘not much’, but that’s what class is for.”

“I suppose … who teaches the class anyway,” his grandmother asked.

“Mrs. Hoyt,” Porpoise said, taking another helping of roast beef.

“Oh, lands, not Elna Hoyt!” Margaret cried, her hand on her heart. “That woman couldn’t cook her way out of a paper bag, I swear! Do you remember that ghastly casserole she entered in the county fair that year?” she asked, turning to her daughter-in-law.

“It was … a bit unusual,” Thea, ever the diplomat, replied.

“Unusual! It tasted like soap and shoe leather!” Margaret harrumphed.

“The class will be doing the cooking, Gram,” Porpoise said, “not Mrs. Hoyt.”

“But she’ll be teaching you all wrong!”

“Now, Margaret,” her husband cautioned. “That’s not a very Christian thing to say.”

Margaret reddened. She always knew her husband was a little sweet on Elna Hoyt. Still, she could be a little kinder.

“Well, dear,” she said, patting Porpoise’s hand, “If you need any help, you know who to come to.”

“Yep,” Porpoise said, smiling, “Ma.”

“Oh, you scamp!” Margaret said, swatting the boy’s arm. “Of course your mother’s a wonderful cook,” she added hurriedly. “After she married your father, I taught her everything I know.”

Thea rolled her eyes. “Not everything, Mother,” she said. “A robber with a loaded gun to your head couldn’t get half of your ‘secret recipes’ out of you.”

“Seriously, Gram, you have secret recipes?”

Margaret patted her already neat hair into place. “Just a few,” she said, “handed down from my mother’s mother’s mother.”

Thea rolled her eyes again. “A few?” She started ticking them off on her fingers. “Your steak marinade, your chicken and dumplings, your chocolate sheet cake, your beef stew, your apple pie ...”

“Speaking of pie,” Margaret said, eager to change the subject, “who wants pie?”

Maggie McAllister, known to follow behind her husband with a wet mop when he came in from the barn, and who dusted and vacuumed every single day, even when her hip joints were screaming in pain, found cleanliness next to godliness. It wasn’t a matter of pride, it was just something one did. When it came to cooking, though, Maggie was proud, a bit secretive and, at times, downright boastful. If her pies won the blue ribbon at the county fair every year for 30 years running, it was as it should be, she felt. If Father Dolan begged her to head up the annual church potluck each year – featuring her fried chicken – well, the man was God’s instrument on earth, was he not? Who would know better?

Maggie wouldn’t know a persimmon from a pomegranet or a shitake from a portobella, but she didn’t need to; they didn’t fit into her style of cooking. There was nothing, she felt, that anyone could teach her about food. And up until then, no one had challenged her on that.

The cooking class was at the end of the day, which was perfect as far as Porpoise was concerned because that’s when he was always the hungriest. On the first day of class he shuffled into the room and took a chair at one of the tables in the back. There were two tables for four students who would share a “kitchen” with cupboards, counter, stove, fridge and sink. The room could accommodate 20 students. The girls who were in the room had already paired up; Porpoise sat alone.

“Hey, Porpoise,” one of the girls said, elbowing her partner, “you take a wrong turn at the Ag room or something?”

Porpoise made a mock-confused face and looked wildly around. “This is Animal Husbandry 101, isn’t it?” he shot back. The girls laughed, but not unkindly.

Mrs. Hoyt, dressed in a uniformly gray skirt, twin-set and pearls, came in then and eyed the boy sitting in the back of the room. “Young man,” she said, “this is Foods Class ...”

“Yes, thank you,” Porpoise said, settling back into his chair.

The woman scanned her class list. There he was: Gerald McAllister. I knew I should have taken early retirement, she thought. She stowed her purse in a cupboard and started pulling out various utensils, pots and pans. The bell rang as she put the last of the items on the counter in front of her; Mrs. Hoyt didn’t use a desk and she never sat down during class.

“Welcome, class,” she said, then stopped as a colorful blur burst into the room and scurried to the last chair, the one next to Porpoise. Mrs. Hoyt gave the new arrival her best evil eye.

“Tardiness,” she said loudly enough for all to hear, “is not tolerated in this class. Miss, uh ...”

All eyes turned toward the platinum blond who had arrived in a cloud of White Diamonds perfume who was now searching for a place to put her numerous books. She stopped when she realized that everyone was looking at her.

“Who, me?” she said. “April, April Showers.” She scanned the room with hard eyes, daring anyone to laugh. No one did. “I’m new. From SoCal.”

As if she needed to add that, Elna Hoyt thought. The creature was dressed in a long, brightly patterned peasant skirt, topped by an embroidered gauzy white blouse that dipped much too provocatively off the shoulder. She seemed to be wearing sandals. Her (obviously dyed) blond hair flowed down her back. It had little braids woven throughout it. In all her years of teaching, Elna had never set eyes on someone like her, outside of Madison, that is. Why, oh why hadn’t she retired? She cleared her throat.

“Yes, well, Miss Showers, I’m sure you won’t be tardy again. I will now take roll.”

“Whoa, what’s up with the stiff?” April whispered close to Porpoise’s ear. He nearly swooned from her perfume and her nearness.

“I think she’s been teaching since the Pleistocene Era,” he whispered back, careful not to let Mrs. Hoyt catch him.

April hooted, drawing a long, silencing look from Mrs. Hoyt.

“Gerald McAllister?”

“Here!” Porpoise piped up, then mumbled, “As if you didn’t know.”

“Wow,” April said, looking around. “You’re, like, the only boy in here, Gerald.”

“Everyone calls me Porpoise.”

“Porpoise? Like the fish? Crazy.”

“They’re mammals, actually, April Showers,” Porpoise said pointedly.

April gave him a look, then smiled. “I think it’s cool that you want to cook, Porpoise,” she said. “Any guy I hook up with better know how to cook because I like to eat!”

Porpoise blushed crimson. Did she really just say hook up? he wondered. He thought maybe he was falling in love.

The weeks went by and even though Porpoise looked forward to seeing April in class, he was less happy about the class itself. Two weeks in and they still hadn’t learned to cook anything more than rice. The rest of the time was spent on learning kitchen equipment names and uses, cooking terms like rolling boil and saute, how to sharpen knives, how to set a table and lots and lots of stuff about cleanliness and safety.

More than ever before, Porpoise wanted to learn how to cook. He fantasized about creating dish after incredible dish … all for April. Her eyes would grow wide with admiration as he set each one before her at a perfectly set dinner table, china and silverware gleaming in candlelight. Appetizer, soup, salad, entree … topped off by a gooey, but sophisticated, dessert.

None of the dishes he served to April in his daydreams had names or form. They were complex, he knew that, sometimes involving the use of a blowtorch (he’d seen that on a TV show once), and certain to dazzle April in prep, presentation and taste.

“Do you want to come over for dinner one night? I’ll cook for you,” Porpoise blurted out one day in class as he and April worked side-by-side at the sink learning proper dish washing techniques.

“Seriously?” April said, her eyes wide. “You would do that?”

It was too late to back down. What the heck was he thinking? “Sure, no problem!” he said, mind racing.

“We haven’t exactly learned anything here,” April reminded him.

Porpoise waved a sudsy hand in the air. “I cook with my mom all the time,” he declared. It was sort of true. She let him chop vegetables once in a while.

“That’s, like, really cool, Porpoise. I’d like that. No one’s ever cooked for me before.” Now it was April’s turn to blush.

Porpoise washed a few more already-clean dishes, his head filled with visions of that perfect meal and April’s perfect response to it.

“So, when?”

“What?” April’s question startled him out of his reverie. “Oh, uh, I’ll have to see what works for my mom and dad … a week from Saturday maybe?” It was Monday. That would give him almost two weeks to plan … and to practice.

“Gram! Gramma!” Porpoise barreled into his grandparents’ house on a mission.

“Whoa!” Margaret cried, nearly getting knocked over by her six foot grandson. “Where’s the fire?”

“Gram, Gram, you have to help,” Porpoise wheezed, out of breath. He waved a sheet of paper in the air, a rudimentary menu he’d come up with. “Food, I need food!”

“Did your mother run out?” his grandmother teased. “Sit yourself down, I’ll get you some food. PB&J? Some leftover pie?”

“No … I mean, yeah, some leftover pie would be good, but that’s not it.” Porpoise took some deep breaths and sat at his familiar place at his grandparents’ table.

Maggie McAllister seldom saw her grandson in such a state. She sliced off a large piece of cherry pie, poured some milk and set it in front of the boy. She had dinner to see to, but her grandson needed her. She took a sliver of pie for herself and settled her bulk into a chair at the table. By the time she lifted her fork, Porpoise was licking his plate clean.

“I swear, you’re the eatingest boy I ever laid eyes on,” Maggie said. “Now what’s all the fuss about?”

Porpoise gulped down the last of his milk and swiped a sleeve across his mouth. Margaret made a “tsking” sound between her teeth.

“There’s this girl, see,” he began, “I want to cook dinner for her.”

Maggie kept her composure. Porpoise had never shown any interest in girls before.

“That’s wonderful, sweetie! I’m sure some of my tried and true recipes will suit nicely ...”

Porpoise waved the sheet of paper again. “Thanks, Gram, but I went through Mom’s Joy of Cooking and something called Mastering the Art of French Cooking and I made a menu,” he said. “It’s just that I need your help to make it all. You’re the best, Gram. You’re like a magician in the kitchen.”

Maggie tried not to show how preturbed she was; the boy did compliment her after all, but what was wrong with her recipes? What was wrong with a good country ham with potatoes? Mastering the Art of French Cooking indeed. Fancy-shmancy falderol.

“Cooking’s not magic, exactly,” she said, “old recipes play an important part ...” She saw the crestfallen look on her grandson’s face and rallied. “But, of course, sweetie, I’ll help any way I can.”

“Great, Gram, thanks! I really want to impress April,” Porpoise said, blushing a little.

“April, that’s a lovely name, dear,” Gram said, “what’s her family name?”

“Showers, April Showers,” Porpoise replied reverently. “They just moved here from California.”

Seeing the look on her grandson’s face, Maggie kept her chuckle in. “I’m sure she’s a lovely girl. Now, let’s see this menu of yours.”

Porpoise handed the sheet to his grandmother, whose eyes went big as saucers when she saw the list.

Appetizer: Jambon Chevre

Soup: Lobster bisque

Salad: Tomato Feta

Entree: Duck Confit with Pommes Frites

Dessert: Creme Brulee

Lobster … tomato … duck. Maggie knew those words, but what the heck, she wondered, is a confit? It sounded like a feminine hygiene product. Or Pomme Frites? Did they rhyme? None of it made any sense to her. Surely Porpoise was pulling her leg. She looked up at his eager face, though, and knew he wasn’t.

“So, you can do it, right, Gram?” he asked. “You can teach me how to make these?”

Maggie’s reputation and pride were at stake. “Um … wow, honey, these look awfully ambitious for your first time ...” The statement was probably correct given that Maggie had no clue what any of them were.

Porpoise’s face fell. “But, Gram, you’re a wizard at this and we have almost two weeks to practice!”

Without admitting that she had no clue how to make any of the dishes, Maggie latched onto anything she could.

“Lobster, though, Porpoise! Do you know how much lobster costs?”

“Gram,” Porpoise reminded her, “I’ve been getting paid for working on the farm since I was six and haven’t spent a penny! I’ll make a shopping list and I’ll go to the store and buy everything we need.”

“I don’t think Thompson’s Market carries lobster ...”

“So, I’ll drive to Madison … Milwaukee, if I have to! I just want it to be perfect.”

How could she say no? She glanced down at the paper. “Let’s start small,” she said. “Sort of ease into it. We can try the salad first … the tomato thing.” She didn’t want to risk saying “feta” – whatever that was – incorrectly.

“Cool, Gram, you’re the best!” Porpoise stood up and gave his grandmother a bear hug. “I better go talk to mom and dad, though, to see if next Saturday is okay, and make my shopping list!”

“You do that and I’ll get my dinner started.” Was it bad of Maggie to wish that his parents would tell him no? “Here,” she said, “give me the menu and I’ll copy it down. I don’t want to forget!”

Fairly certain she wouldn’t find any of the recipes in her collection of spiral-bound church and county fair cookbooks, Maggie headed to her husband’s computer. He used it to keep track of soybean prices, to send email and play some sort of alien blaster game. Although she knew how to turn it on and get to the Google, Margaret McAllister wasn’t one to waste her precious time on such machines. She needed it today, though.

First she typed in “feta” and found out that it was a cheese. Cheese she could handle. Why didn’t they just say that? It was crumbly and aged, probably a lot like blue cheese, she thought. Then she typed in “Tomato Feta Salad.”

“Oh my lands!” she cried. “There’s thousands of recipes!” She scanned the first page and clicked on the one that said “easy”. Wonderful, she was familiar with all of the ingredients, except the feta. Porpoise could take care of that. It looked simple and claimed to only take 20 minutes to make. Doable, definitely doable.

She moved onto the bisque. In her mind she pronounced it “bis-kay,” which made her think it was some sort of biscuit (her biscuits were famouse hereabouts), but it didn’t make sense given that it was listed as a soup. While Maggie never cottoned to taking short cuts in her cooking, or anything for that matter, once again she clicked on “easy,” though totally amazed at the sheer number of recipes available.

She gave it a read-through, it sounded quite good, actually, but she stopped at the word “deglaze.” They needed to “deglaze” the pan with white wine. What? Make it so it doesn’t shine? She opened another window and typed that in. “Oh for pity’s sake,” she said to the screen … “pour some cold liquid into a very hot pan to get up all the brown bits stuck to the bottom of the pan” … she did that all the time when she made gravy. Another fancy word for something simple. Maggie was starting to feel confident, then she moved on to Jambon Chevre.

“Why, it’s just ham pinwheels!” Maggie cried when she saw the recipe. Even with goat cheese, she figured they could handle that.

Now the Duck Confit, pronounced in her mind, of course, as “con-fit.”

Maggie’s heart sank. First of all, it was pronounced “con-fee” – just thinking that made her feel foreign. But the worst part was the total prep time – 11 hours. Eleven hours? For duck? She read on. Plus overnight in the fridge? Basically, if she understood what she was reading, it was all about cooking duck in its own fat, for a very long time. Any leftover fat could be used to make Pommes Frites … that was another thing on the list. “Oh, great,” she said after looking that up, “it’s just French fries.”

On to the crème brulee. Again it was nothing more than a fancy pudding, except they had to use a propane torch, for crying out loud. Maggie knew her husband had one in the barn somewhere; she hoped it would do. Maggie wasn’t feeling very friendly toward the French at that point. She hoped this April was worth all the fuss and bother.

City of Wonders

Photo by By lafleur, via Wikimedia Commons

My name is Michca, and I live in a city of wonders. I live in a flat on the highest floor of my building. It looks down on the mansions, ski lodges, and expensive shops across the river. Some days, I watch the little people ski down the mountains right to the edge of town, and dream that I am a queen surveying my subjects. To either side, identical flats in identical blocks to my own form a kind of castle wall. I wonder sometimes if in the hundreds of families lucky enough to have a view like mine, if there is a girl that thinks she is a queen too.

My cousin came to stay with his worn suitcase and old person’s clothes, reeking of animals and diesel. I wondered if we could find him something else to wear before we went out to meet my friends. He almost looks Roma, his clothes are so worn. The Roma pick through rags and live like peasants. The city makes them live away from us, which is good, because otherwise they would steal from us all the time. Every year, the Americans and British come to give them food and toys at Christmas. Why, I do not know.

We have fine Western clothes, with the names and logos of many American sports teams. My cousin looks like he is from the country, but I look like I could have just come from New York City, or been in a hip-hop music video. Someday I will be a famous model in the magazines and I will live on the other side of the city. My cousin will never be this; he will always be a pig farmer.

I said as much to him, but he just shrugged. He pointed to the road leading out of town.

“Who are they?” he asked.

On the road, three Roma were carrying some boards likely stolen from a rich person’s garage.

“Don’t you have Roma where you live?”

“Roma? No.”

“Then you are lucky; they steal. They pick through our rags for clothes, and through our garbage for food. They are so bad, they are not allowed to live in the city.”

“Where do they live?”

I pointed to a hill. “The Roma live behind that,” I said,

“It must be even sadder than this place,” my cousin said.

“They are happy to live there,” I said. “They sing all the time. How can you be sad if you are constantly singing? Besides, every year the Americans and British visit them around Christmas and shower them with food and presents.”

“I still feel sorry for them, don’t you?”

“The children, perhaps. They are so cute when they are little and by themselves. Of course, if there are more than three, watch your pockets. The adults make them work in gangs to steal things. Wallets, watches, necklaces, papers, anything. They take thievery with mother’s milk.”

I rummaged through my shirts, looking for an American t-shirt that would suit him. I thrust one out at him, a basketball shirt I didn’t particularly like for myself, but would do for him.

“Here, wear this so we can go outside,” I said.

He wrinkled his nose. “That shirt you’re wearing, do you know what it says?” my cousin asked.

“Of course. We have English classes in school.” I looked down at my shirt, with its buffalo and American football helmet. “It says this team won the championship game in 1993.”

“They call it the Super Bowl,” he said.

I stared at him. “How do you know?”

“We have a neighbor with a satellite dish, and we watch sports all the time. Have you ever seen American football?”

“No. Does it matter?”

My cousin frowned. “I guess not.”

“Good! If you don’t like basketball, I think I can find another American football shirt for you to wear when we go see my friends.”

“What team?”

“The Tennesee Titans. They won the – what did you call it? Super Bowl? In 2000.”

My cousin made the stink face. “Where did you get it?”

I shrugged. “Down in the market.”

“I hope you got a good price,” he said. There was something in his voice that made me think he meant the opposite.

“What does that mean?” I said.

He sighed. “The Americans made shirts for both teams before the game was played so the winning team could wear them right away. The shirts of the losing teams, they decide to give them away to a far-away charity.”

“But this was two Euros.”

He shrugged.

“You’re lying.”

“We have Internet too,” my cousin said. “You go look it up.”

“And my father’s cap?” I pointed to his birthday present, sitting on the shelf.

“The team that did not win the American college basketball tournament in 2007.”

“The hanging on the wall?”

“A favored race car driver that crashed in his last race.”

“Everyone in the city has these things.”

My cousin didn’t have anything to say about that. He didn’t want to wear the shirts I picked out for him, but I didn’t care. I looked out at the fine houses across the river, and wondered if there was someone like me looking back, thankful that she was not living in a brick box.

My name is Michca, and I live in the city of losers. I live in a flat across the river from the ski lodges, fancy houses, and expensive shops. Over a hundred other families live in our building, one of a dozen identical buildings the Soviets built many years ago. The Americans and British send us their clothes, but at least we are not Roma.

The Stalker - Part II

Read Part I here.

By Bettyann Moore

It took him a while and he had to use the flashlight in the darkening gloom, but Digg’s heart raced with joy when he saw Bo lying on the porch as he approached the house.

“Hey boy, hey Bo!” Digg hollered. The dog raised his head and Digg could see his tail thumping, but the pit bull didn’t get up. Digg rushed to his side, unsurprised to see a large, bloody gash in the dog’s side.

“Oh, Christ. Oh, God,” Digg moaned. “My poor boy.” He sat down next to the dog and scratched him behind the ears. He poked a tentative finger into the wound, but Bo snarled at him.

“It’s okay, buddy, it’s okay,” Digg soothed. “Fucking lion, fucking cat! Bet you put up a good fight, huh, boy?”

It was 15 miles to the nearest vet and Digg hated doctors of all sorts, but he gathered the dog into his arms as gently as he could and carried him to the truck, which he’d left parked on the culvert. By the time he climbed into the driver’s seat, though, he knew Bo was gone. Digg never cried and he didn’t cry now. He pounded on the steering wheel and screamed for the blood of that big cat. And her brats, too.

Without bothering to take off his dripping clothes or his muddy boots, Digg stomped into the house and headed to his gun safe. He left Bo’s body in the truck; first things first. Although he’d never been hunting in his life, Digg was about to do a little hunting now.

“Handgun or rifle?” he wondered aloud as he stood before the safe. The .41 mag would do the job, he knew, but it required accuracy. Digg winced, remembering his poor performance on the range in Baltimore with the handgun. Instead, he reached for his .243 Savage rifle and scope.

“This oughta do it,” he said, rubbing his hand along the stock. He loaded it, jammed a handful of bullets into his breast pocket and headed back outside. The ringing phone stopped him short. His phone never rang.

“What?” he said into the receiver, impatient to get going. The voice at the end was obviously recorded.

“This is a reverse 9-1-1 call from the county sheriff’s office. Please be advised that there is a flash flood warning in effect for your area. We strongly advise that you leave your premises now and make your way to safety. If you decide to shelter in place, the county sheriff’s office cannot be held responsible for your safety. To repeat ...”

Digg slammed down the phone. “Nobody tells me what to do,” he said, and headed outside.

It seemed to Digg that the rain had lighted up a bit. “What the hell do they know? Stupid cops.” he grumbled. He jogged toward the spot where he’d found Cleo’s blood and hair. It took him a while to find it; all the damn pine trees looked alike.

“Couple of bloodhounds would be nice right about now,” Digg said as he scanned the ground as best he could for any more signs. The rain had washed away Cleo’s blood and hair. All Digg could do was head deeper into the woods and hope the cat had gone that way.

All the locals said that the deer population was down and that was why the cats were going for loose dogs, but you’d never know it by all the deer droppings Digg saw. It was slow going, despite the deer trails he followed. He swept the Savage back and forth as he walked, looking high and low, hoping he could find his way back.

A sudden movement to his right made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The cat wasn’t very big, probably one of the cubs, and it seemed oblivious to Digg’s presence. It looked like it was eating something. Cleo? Digg didn’t hesitate. He turned and shot wildly, splintering the trunk of a tree. The animal raced deeper into the woods.

“Stupid idiot,” Digg swore at himself. “Why didn’t you wait for a clean shot?” He knew he’d never get close enough to the spooked animals now and darkness was coming on. He’d never find his way back out in the dark. Besides, he needed to bury poor Bo before his body stunk up the Dodge.

Digg awoke to the sound of water, not unusual these days, but it sounded closer than usual. After burying Bo in a shallow, muddy grave that he topped with heavy boulders, he’d taken a long, hot shower. He had meant to rustle up something to eat, but had fallen over onto his bed while he was pulling on clean socks and didn’t wake up until three in the morning. Groggily, he groped for his sweat pants and went in search of the water sound.

“Holy shit!” he cried at the top of the basement stairs. He could see murky water streaming over the lowest step. He ran to the bottom of the stairs, then stopped. The electricity hadn’t gone out yet, but he knew he needed to kill it, right then, before he set foot into the water. He raced to the breaker box on the porch and threw the master switch. The rain drummed down on the tin roof of the porch. He’d never been anywhere close to a waterfall, but Digg felt like he was under one now.

As he shined the beam of his flashlight down the cellar stairs, Digg knew there was nothing he could do. The freezer full of (illegally) obtained venison and elk would be lost. He lit on the hope that the flood insurance the mortgage company had forced him to buy would pay out. He wondered if they would believe him if he told them he had a freezer full of lobster and prime rib. The possibilities were endless.

The basement could wait. There was nothing Digg could do about it anyway. He had an uneasy feeling about the creek and the truck sitting atop the culvert. He should have moved it after burying Bo. Thinking about Bo and Cleo sent his blood pressure sky-high. Come drier weather, there would be hell to pay for one mama mountain lion.

The last thing he wanted to do was go out in the soaking mess outside, but Digg couldn’t bear the thought of just sitting inside in the dark. He rested the flashlight on the bed and pulled on some dry clothes and the tallest boots he had. Then he opened the footlocker at the end of the bed. He wasn’t about to go outside unprepared. In fact, he hoped he’d run into the big cat. It was time for some real firepower.

He’d gotten the AR-15 the day after 9-11. It was hard to get then (not like today), and its weight never failed to soothe him. He’d only fired it once, at some fence posts at Rocky Flats, but what it lacked in precision was made up by the sheer number of rounds it could put out in a few seconds.

“It’s chicken soup for the gun man’s soul,” Digg said, proud of his little play on words. He pulled its long strap over his head and let the weapon dangle across his belly. He reached back into the footlocker and took out one of his emergency kits; he had four of them. All he needed from the kit was the heavy-duty rain poncho. It was piss yellow, but it would have to do. Digg put it on and made sure he could wear the darn thing while carrying the AR-15. He was pleased that he could and that the plastic would protect the gun as well. He pulled up the hood, then added his wide-brimmed Stetson for good measure.

It was near sunrise, but Digg could tell he’d never see the sun that day. He didn’t need the sun, though, to see that he now had a river swirling through his property. He stepped tentatively off the porch and cold, muddy water coursed over the top of his boots.

“Shit!” he swore.

Digg slogged back onto the porch to reassess his situation. Maybe it would be a good idea to get out of here, he thought, as if it was his own idea. He remembered the sign at the entrance to the canyon: Climb to higher ground in case of a flash-flood. Was this really a flash flood? Could he even get to higher ground? He eyed the ridge behind the house. It looked like a waterfall and it was too steep anyway. The idea of leaving his house unprotected went against his grain. But then again, he doubted anyone up to no good would be out skulking around at this point. But what if he couldn’t get back to the house afterwards? Digg hated indecision.

Either way, he needed to get to the truck. He cursed himself for leaving the Dodge out near the road, but it always made him feel safer and more isolated when he used it to block the entrance to his property.

Once again, Digg stepped into the swirling waters. He was surprised at how strong the current felt. It seemed like the water was getting higher, too. He looked back at the house; before too long the water would be up over the porch. Maybe the decision had been made for him.

Digg slowly made his way toward the road, picking his way past displaced rocks and rapidly moving branches. The curve in the drive and the trees between the house and the creek blocked his view of the culvert, but he could see a faint glint of metal through the leaves. He kept his head down, the rain sluicing down the Stetson’s brim and out of his eyes. When he finally got beyond the trees, the current was twice as strong as the water coursed down the canyon road and the creek. The noise was deafening.

Just 20 feet from the truck, Digg raised his head for the first time. At first, his brain didn’t register what his eyes were seeing. Once again, his blood ran cold as he realized that the mama lion was crouched atop the truck cab, having found the only spot that wasn’t under water. She eyed him warily, but even Digg could see that she was worn out, her chest and flanks heaving as she panted with exhaustion.

Only a second or two had passed, but to Digg it felt like an eternity before the tense muscles in his arms loosened. Keeping his eyes on the cat, he brought up his big gun under the cover of the yellow poncho. He’d have to shoot right through the flimsy plastic. Digg didn’t look away from the lion’s hooded gaze, but out of the corner of his eye he saw something big, something fast, coming toward them. The roar in Digg’s ears seemed to be getting louder.

Everything happened at once. The cat’s haunches tensed and she sprang away from the man. The man raised his gun and pulled the trigger. And a massive, roiling wall of water, boulders, hunks of asphalt and tree trunks roared down the canyon and slammed into the truck, the culvert and the man, washing them all away.

It wasn’t until late the next day that sheriff deputies found Digg’s body half a mile from his house. The bright yellow of his poncho alerted the searchers.The waters might have carried him farther, but the strap of his gun had snagged on a tree and held him fast. No one claimed his body.

The mother mountain lion relocated her cubs to another canyon, one where the deer were more plentiful and had the added feature of mountain goats. Even in the winter, food was plentiful; she’d lost her taste for dogs.

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?”