The Poisoned Pen. E. Joan Sims
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interest. “That’s why you brought me out here!”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“Why the warp speed?”
He turned and grinned at me over his pipe stem. “Because I was having the time of my life. And because sometimes it’s more meaningful to enjoy your own freedom to the fullest when you are about to encounter others who have lost theirs. I intend to drive back in the same ‘hell bent for leather’ fashion. If you’ll let me, that is.”
“Let you? Horatio, I’ll hoot and holler with you. It must be awful to be locked up inside those thick stone walls. Uggh!” I shuddered “What did he do?”
“Bradley? I can’t recall, exactly.”
“Juvenile delinquent?”
“All of the old clichés,” he said with a sad smile, as he puffed fragrant ‘O’s’ out over the river. “Impregnated his high school sweetheart, shotgun wedding, another baby on the way before the first was out of diapers, lost his job when the textile mill closed—drinking, carousing, in trouble with the law, and finally—jailed, leaving his uneducated, untrained wife to support three children on food stamps and hand-outs from her church—all the elements of one of your country western songs. ”
“Nell Jane seems bright,” I observed hopefully. “And creative.”
“Perhaps, too creative,” he laughed. “Jake Bradley was a bright child, also. The Bradley’s had a big tobacco farm—several hundred acres. Lemuel Bradley had big hopes for his only son, and he became quite a bitter man after Jake dropped out of high school to marry the Holster girl. When Lemuel’s wife died, he sold the farm and left town. Nobody’s heard from him since.”
“Not even when his son got into trouble and went to prison?”
“Sad, isn’t it? Pride, as they say, goeth before….”
“Yeah, yeah,” I grinned. “I’ll do better, I promise.”
Horatio tapped his pipe on the heel of his handmade Italian loafer, and smiled. “Not every homily is aimed at you, my dear,” he observed.
“Just in case, Horatio, just in case.”
Chapter Seven
I waved farewell to Horatio in the parking lot of the Dairy Queen and scooted over to take my place behind the wheel for a cautious drive home.
“Have fun, Mom?” asked Cassie, as I plopped down beside her on the front porch swing. “Enjoy your weekly self-indulgent intake of fat grams and calories?”
“I think I’m gonna puke again,” I admitted, and told her about Horatio’s wild ride through the hills. “And the most unbelievable thing of all was the way he enjoyed it so! I’d be willing to swear he winked at me when he said goodbye.”
“Wow!” was her reply. “Is he great, or what? Where are all the young Horatios hiding these days?”
“I honestly don’t think they’re making them like that any more,” I sighed.
The white wicker swing creaked pleasantly as we relaxed against the green and pink-checked cushions to enjoy the sweet afternoon breeze. It was still too early in June to get really hot, and the temperature was hovering in the comfortable mid-seventies.
I was pleased to see that the front yard had almost recovered from the aftermath of last year’s tornado. The grass was as green and thick as ever. The surviving lilacs were blooming like crazy, and three small dogwoods and all the evergreen shrubs around the house were thriving. And to prove that all was well, several pairs of fat, red-breasted robins had returned with the spring and found ample spots for nest building.
“Nice, huh?”
“Umm,” Cassie agreed in a lazy voice.
“We should sit out here more often.”
“Umm.”
“The birds are almost as much fun to watch as the bunnies.”
“Umm.”
I got up and lifted her feet into the swing. “Take a nap, Toots. I want to ask Mother a couple of questions.”
“Good luck,” murmured Cassie sleepily. “She’s nose deep in that crazy book.”
I opened the front door and almost stumbled over Aggie as she bounded out and jumped up in the swing with Cassie. I smiled fondly at the two of them as I turned to enter the house.
The front hall was dark after the sunshine outside and I bumped my knee painfully against an open drawer of the hall table that stood just inside the door.
“Damn!”
I closed the drawer with more force than necessary and limped my way through the house. Mother was curled up on her favorite chaise lounge on the back porch with Bethlehem Davis’s manuscript on her lap—and a large magnifying glass in her hand. The magnifying glass was usually found in the drawer of the table in the hall.
“You left the drawer open,” I groused.
“Sorry, dear,” she replied absently.
“Book good?”
“Umm.”
I abandoned my mission to question Mother about Nell Jane Bradley’s family history and went to the library to work on Leonard’s own manuscript. This one was about international jewel thieves and diamond smugglers. I had just decided the book needed a wild ride or two through the crowded streets of Manhattan to spice it up. After this afternoon, I felt like I could do it justice; but just when I had Leonard on Forty-second Street in his souped up vintage Mustang, the Dairy Queen carbohydrates caught up with me. I stumbled over to one of the big red chintz-covered sofas in front of the fireplace, kicked off my shoes, and flopped down for a snooze.
“Very funny, Paisley. A little sophomoric, but amusing just the same. Now give me back the book.”
“Ummph, wh…what?” I struggled up from the depths of a slightly erotic dream starring me and Pierce Brosnan to find my mother standing over me with stern, angry, disapproval written all over her face.
“The book, dear. Give me back the book,” she demanded insistently. “It was just getting interesting.”
“What book? I don’t have any book. Beth’s book?”
“Yes, of course, Beth’s book. I dozed off for just a moment and when I opened my eyes it was gone. Cassie’s sound asleep in the front porch swing with Aggie so it must have been you who took it. Give it back now, please.”
I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and wiped the drool off my chin. Mother had both fists planted firmly on her trim waist and was actually tapping one foot impatiently on the Oriental rug. She looked mad and slightly ruffled—something that didn’t happen often. I laughed.
“Paisley Sterling! What has gotten into you?” she snapped.
“I don’t have Beth’s book, Mother,” I sighed, ending with a chuckle. “But whoever took it did me a favor. If it’s really missing, I don’t have to keep my promise to read it.”
“Maybe, Cassie…” she began, a worried frown line only slightly creasing her smooth brow.
“Maybe, Cassie what?” asked my daughter from the doorway. She stretched her slim arms over her head and yawned, then crossed over to open the French doors so Aggie could take a run in the back yard. “What?” she repeated, as she turned and looked at us quizzically.
“Someone is playing a silly juvenile joke,” observed Mother. “Only it’s not very funny.”
“Let me in on it,” suggested Cassie. “I’ll decide for myself if it’s funny or not.”
“Beth’s book disappeared while Gran was asleep on the back porch.”
“You