The Poisoned Pen. E. Joan Sims
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only bit you three times, Mom!”
“Three times is right!” I retorted. “Just listen to yourself and imagine anyone else saying, ‘my dog only bit my mom three times,’ and see how stupid it sounds.”
“Girls! Girls! Behave yourselves.”
“We are not ‘girls,’ Gran. We are women,” pontificated Cassie.
“Cassie’s right, Mother. And you started this whole mess. I bet the manuscript pages slid off your lap while you were asleep. They’re probably all in a heap under the chaise. You messed up the best dream I’ve had in months for nothing. It’s not often that Pierce and I….”
“Who?” asked Mother with raised eyebrows.
“Never mind,” I grumbled, as I stomped barefoot through the house, stubbing my toe painfully on a chair leg in the kitchen.
I got down on my hands and knees and peered under every table and chair on the back porch, but I didn’t find even as much as a chewing gum wrapper.
“See!” demanded Mother righteously. “It’s not here.”
“You must have taken it inside and forgotten where you put it, Mother. Nobody came in here. The screen door is still hooked.”
“She’s right, Gran,” said Cassie, as she crossed over to the door to let Aggie inside. “Hey, wait! Look at this! Somebody’s slit the screen right at the edge of the door frame. The hole’s just big enough to slip in a hand and unhook the door.”
“And then take the time to hook it back?” I laughed. “Come on! What kind of joker would do a thing like that?”
“The kind who would think Miss Davis’s book was worth stealing, I guess,” answered Cassie.
“Yeah? What’s up with that?” I chuckled, as I eased down into Mother’s favorite chaise while she wasn’t looking. I lay back in the cushions wondering if I could tempt Pierce into another dreamland rendezvous.
“Maybe the thief needed a doorstop,” suggested Cassie, with a barely suppressed giggle.
“Or a….” I began.
“Stop it, you two,” interrupted Mother. “You are being unkind—and quite without reason. Neither of you knows anything about the quality of Bethlehem’s literary efforts.”
“Okay, Mother. I’ll buy into that,” I allowed. “Just how good was Beth’s book?”
“Yes, Gran. What was it about?” asked Cassie, moving my feet aside to sit on the end of the chaise.
“I had not arrived at the, er, plot, just yet; but I think it could have been quite interesting. She had a few too many words in each sentence, perhaps…Paisley, that smirk is quite unattractive.”
“Go on, Gran,” urged Cassie.
“Well, the characters really held my attention, especially since some of them seemed very familiar.”
I had closed my eyes, trying to conjure up a mental image of broad shoulders and a handsome, all-knowing smile; but something Mother said penetrated my daydream.
“Familiar? How so?”
“I’m not positive, you understand, and I didn’t get a chance to read very much; but I thought I recognized several people by her rather thinly veiled descriptions. And some of them, most of them as a matter-of-fact, were not very flattering portraits.”
I sat up next to Cassie, all thoughts of dark, good-looking men forgotten. “You mean this was a ‘tell all’ book? My God! Maybe that’s why it was flicked!” I jumped up and slapped my leg in excitement. Aggie raised her head from the cool flagstone floor and growled. “The sneaky little twit was probably privy to all sorts of juicy information she would never be allowed to publish in a small town newspaper –a newspaper whose income depends on advertisements from the local bigwigs she has the dirt on; but a racy novel about those same characters with fake names and a mustache or two…Wow!”
“That’s motive enough for someone to steal the book, all right,” breathed Cassie.
“Yes, my girl!” I laughed. “Now I’m sorry I didn’t take first dibs on the book myself. There are quite a few people in Rowan Springs I would like to see roasted slowly over the coals. I wonder if Beth has another copy.”
“Perhaps you had better call on her and explain what has happened, Paisley. If she doesn’t have a copy, she’ll be quit distraught and will need a friendly shoulder to cry on.”
“Oh, great! You lose the book and I become the bearer of ill tidings—and the owner of the damp shoulder. How come you can’t go instead?”
“She needs a fellow writer—someone sympathetic who will understand her loss,” explained Mother stiffly.
“Good grief!”
“Come on, Mom. Quit being a baby. I’ll go with. After all, Miss Davis may not believe you, but I can back you up.”
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