The Poisoned Pen. E. Joan Sims
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and leaves, and my face scratched and burning where I had brushed against vines and stinging nettles. I had crawled on my hands and knees, slithered on my belly, and fought my way through the dense underbrush with nothing but the flashlight Andy had given me.
“My kingdom for a machete!” I gasped, as I wiped the sweat off my face and plucked a burr from behind my ear. A lot of years had passed since I last played under the low limbs of the willow and sassafras growing in wild profusion in our jungle. I hated to admit it, but I had lost all sense of direction. Blackberry, scuppernong, and honeysuckle vines wound around every tree and bush and filled all of the spaces in between. I felt like I was tangled up inside a big prickly ball of yarn.
I tried to stand, but there wasn’t any room. My head struck the low hanging limb of a cedar and something with too many legs scurried across my hand as I rubbed the tender spot. Tears of frustration and anger filled my eyes. Andy Joiner would never let me forget it, but I had to confess that I was licked.
I was turning around to go back the way I came when I heard a small snuffling sound off to my left.
“Nell Jane?” I called softly. “Honey, is that you?”
The crying increased, but there was no answer. I crawled forward, calling softly so as not to frighten the child even more.
“Nell Jane, sweetheart, it’s Paisley Sterling. You know me, honey. Why, just this afternoon you gave me a beautiful card. I bet you made that card didn’t you?”
“Ye…yes,” called a hesitant little voice over the tears.
“Well, you are quite an artist. Your mother must be very proud of you.”
The crying increased in both volume and tempo, but the little girl refused to respond to any more of my questions. Thorns tore at my clothes and caught at my hair as I made my way toward her. I swore viciously when I put my hand down on something quick and slimy, and apologized to the child automatically. I was rewarded by a tiny little laugh.
“That’s the ticket,” I told her. “Laugh at me all you want. Can you see my flashlight? Am I getting close?”
“Yes,” she answered. “You’re all dirty.”
I pointed the flashlight in the direction of her voice and saw the child clinging to the trunk of a small sassafras. She didn’t look any better than I did. Her shirt was torn and every bare inch of her skin was crisscrossed with scratches. Somewhere she had lost her shorts, and her legs looked thin and vulnerable sticking out of her little white cotton panties.
“Hi, Nell Jane,” I said, with what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “It’s nice to see you again.”
Later, I couldn’t remember how I got us out of the jungle; but I do know I left a good bit of my hide and several hunks of hair behind. I handed the little girl over to the paramedics and stumbled toward Watson and my own distraught child.
“Mom! Oh, my God! What have you done to yourself?”
Cassie took off her sweater and wrapped it around my shoulders. It wasn’t until I felt its warmth that I realized I was shivering.
“You should let one of the paramedics check you out, Mom,” she insisted.
“No. I just want to go home. A bath is all I need—a nice warm bath.”
Cassie helped me in the Jeep and gave me a quick hug. She had turned the car around to head for home when Andy came running over in front of Watson waving his arms.
“Paisley!” he called. “You were right. Thanks for finding her.” He took a closer look at me under the harsh glare of the emergency lights. “I need to ask you some questions, but it can wait.” He started to walk away, and turned back. “You really ought’a see one of the paramedics, you know.”
“I’m fine, Andy,” I assured him. “See you later.”
Cassie drove slowly and carefully over the bumpy field. As we got farther and farther away from the ring of emergency vehicles, the darkness seemed to devour us.
I leaned back in the seat and took a deep breath—sighing as I exhaled.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Mom?”
“Well, let’s see,” I answered, taking stock. “I have bump as big as a goose egg on my head. My favorite jeans are ruined. I crawled through a big old patch of poison ivy. And I think I swallowed a spider, but other then that, I’m just hunky-dory.”
“You’re a hero, you know,” said my daughter, with a proud smile.
“Big whoop.”
Chapter Four
The hot bath felt even better than I had imagined. I lathered up twice and rinsed off, then filled the tub again for a long soak in the sweet, oil-scented water. My hair, however, presented a more difficult problem. In the past few weeks I had let it get too long and the auburn curls were frizzy and difficult to brush out under the best of conditions. Tonight I had no choice but to resort to the scissors.
It wasn’t the first time I had cut my own hair. I hated beauty parlors. To my mind they were full of noxious odors, silly women, and malicious gossip. I avoided them like the plague.
Reluctantly, I left the warm, sweet-scented haven of my bathroom and wrapped up in a long terry robe. Mother and Cassie were out on the back porch with their heads together over the remainder of my bottle of wine and a big tray of cheese and fruit.
“Oh, dear!” apologized Mother. “I’m afraid we’ve finished off your wine, Paisley, dear. Shall I open another, or would you like something else?”
“Water’s fine, Mother.” I showed her the bottle I had grabbed from the fridge on my way out. “I would like a hunk of that funny-smelling cheese, though, and some grapes.”
“Cassie, please cut your mother a slice of manchego with the cheese knife before she disfigures it with her fork.”
“Cut her some slack, Gran. Mom’s had quite a night.”
“Nonsense! She was simply fulfilling her civic duty. Anyone would have done as much. Although,” she added, as she leaned over and rewarded me with a quick kiss on the cheek, “I’m sure our Paisley did it with more panache.” She paused and looked at me closely in the dim light of the citronella candle. “What have you done with your hair?”
“Oh, Mom, what have you done?” giggled Cassie. “You look like….”
“Please, don’t say Raggedy Ann,” I begged.
“I was thinking more of the Chia pet my roommate had at Emory.”
I jerked the hood of my robe up over my head and grumbled, “Never mind my hair. I’m a writer, not a model, for goodness sake.”
“Yes, but….”
“But, what, Mother?” I demanded.
“Beth Davis called from the Rowan Springs Gazette to ask for an interview with the heroine of the day.”
“And you refused, I hope!”
“No, dear, I’m afraid not. As a matter of fact, I invited her for breakfast. You’re usually at your best in the morning.”
“Damn, damn, and double damn! I hate that silly twit! She couldn’t write her way out of a paper sack.”
“You have to admit she’s entertaining, Mom. Remember the wedding we were reading about last week. Describing a fifty-pound wedding cake shaped like a guitar in a hundred words or less can’t be all that easy.”
“She’s pedantic and obtuse—and what’s worse, she’s a literary snob! Can you imagine anyone in Rowan Springs understanding her constant references to the bride and groom as Beatrice and Benedick?”
“Of course, dear.”
“Why am I surprised that you disagree with me,