The Cradle Robber. E. Joan Sims
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engine started up on cue and hummed merrily as I backed out of the garage and circled the carriage house to make sure everything was in working order. The late afternoon sun was courting the western horizon, but it was still strong enough to make the air above the fields shimmer with heat. I looked up and noticed that the lone buzzard I had seen earlier was now in the company of almost a dozen of his predatory fellows. They were spiraling over the end of our farm just beyond the airport runway— right where I thought I had seen something fall from the airplane earlier.
“Hey, wha’cha’ say, Watson! How about a little adventure?”
I barreled down the lane toward the field with little more thought about what I was doing than if I had a cabbage for a head. If I had ruminated a bit, I might have realized that my dog with no brains and I had more in common than I knew.
Billy, our farm manager, had cleaned out the lane last fall. The overgrowth of blackberry and honeysuckle had been cut back and pruned so that the snaking vines no longer grasped wickedly for arms and hair.
I cut across the field at the little pond, but not before seeing two turtles and several big bullfrogs jump for their lives into the cool depths. From a distance, the field looked smooth and even, a carpet of green velvet, but the ride was rough. I had a grand old time.
The circling buzzards created something of an optical illusion. The closer I got, the farther away they appeared. Seeds from the tops of the tall growth of fescue splattered across the windshield and gathered in little rivulets above the wiper blades. I made the mistake of trying to wash them away. Even Watson’s mighty wipers couldn’t clear off the mess of dried hulls and fine, chocolate-colored dust. I pulled up on the highest point in the middle of the field and rummaged around in the backseat hoping to find some glass cleaner and paper towels. What I found instead was a half-empty plastic bottle of Evian and three used paper napkins from the Dairy Queen.
I opened the car door and stepped gingerly down into the waist-high grass. Visions of copperheads and giant ticks with ghoulish appetites crossed my mind and encouraged me to hop up on the fender and crawl up on the hood.
I cleaned off the windshield as best I could and sat back on the top of the car. The squadron of buzzards was now off somewhat to my right. The fading light of the setting sun cast confusing shadows, and it was hard to tell if they were over the airport or still flying over the edge of our field. The tall grass danced and swayed to the whispering tune of the evening breeze and hid the perimeter fence from view. I finally gave up the search with a disappointed sigh and stood up to brush off my jeans.
The bullet whizzed past my shoulder like an angry hornet. I dropped like a rock and flattened my body on Watson’s hood. I didn’t hear a report, and for a moment I doubted my first impression that someone was trying to kill me. When a second bullet whizzed overhead, I slid off the hood and climbed back in the driver’s seat as fast as I could. Out here in the middle of the field I was too good a target. I turned on the engine and headed toward the protection of the trees at flank speed.
I bounced madly up and down in the seat as I cut across the furrows, tasting the hot salty rush of blood as my head came up against the roof and I bit my tongue. I was well aware that if I lived to see the next day my nether parts would be black and blue.
By the time I reached the trees, darkness had fallen, and it was difficult to see the entrance to the lane. Turning on the headlights would make me a sitting duck. Instead, I slowed down and inched my way forward. I almost drove into the pond, but I saw the dark outline of flat, still water just in time.
I circled the narrow shore until I found what I was looking for. The dark tunnel of trees seemed overwhelmingly foreboding, but it was my best chance, unless someone was waiting inside. With some difficulty, I shut off my imagination and headed blindly for home.
The moon came up over the treetops as I drove up to the garage. The sprawling silhouette of the house was dark against the moonlit sky, and I knew Mother wasn’t home yet. For a moment I considered heading straight into town and Andy Joiner’s office. I wanted to tell him what had happened as soon as possible, but I was afraid to leave and have Mother arrive alone. I decided to park the car and go inside to call Andy.
Just as I ran across the driveway, two headlights appeared at the bottom of the hill. With a pounding heart, I threw myself behind a lilac bush and waited to see who was coming. When I heard the expensive hum of Horatio Raleigh’s Bentley, I relaxed and crawled out from my hiding place.
“Paisley Sterling! What in the world are you doing? Don’t you think you’re a bit old to be playing cat and mouse in the dark?” asked Mother as her old friend helped her gallantly out of the car. It was obvious that she hadn’t forgiven me for laughing at her earlier that afternoon.
Horatio, who was much more astute, divined immediately that something was amiss, and ushered us politely but quickly into the house.
“Anna, my dear,” he said. “Our Paisley looks to be in need of a small libation, and perhaps some of that wonderful tomato bisque you prepared last night. If you have any left, that is?”
Mother was instantly contrite. “Oh, dear! Paisley, darling, are you all right?”
“Of course, Mother,” I lied. “But I would like some soup.”
“Bisque, dear. Tomato bisque. And you have a leaf in your hair.”
“Yeah, soup. Hot. With crackers.”
Horatio led the way into the library and turned on the small Chinese porcelain lamps on each of the sofa tables. I crossed over to the French doors, and after a cursory look at the empty backyard, pulled the new red-and -yellow -striped silk draperies over both doors.
“Someone chasing you again, my dear?” asked Horatio with a lift of one elegant eyebrow.
Horatio Raleigh had been a friend of our family for years. And while he had always been in love with my beautiful mother, he didn’t make it known until after my father’s death over a decade ago. Since then, he had been Anna Howard Sterling’s constant and ever-admiring companion.
Horatio had retired from the family mortuary business years ago and only went into “the shop” when someone of importance died and the relatives needed to part with an extra ten grand for a “bereavement consultation.” Horatio’s taste was exquisite, expensive, and worth every penny.
I had consulted with him in the past because of his knowledge about more clandestine matters. It was rumored, and not without some basis, that he had held certain high positions in very hush-hush circles during the war. And although he never admitted to it, I was positive that he was still well-known in those august groups. I had always found his advice invaluable. I didn’t hesitate to tell him what had happened the minute we sat down.
“Some asshole tried to kill me!”
Both eyebrows went up now. And the pipe came out. That was a sign that Horatio was in full attention mode even though he appeared to be distracted by preparing a smoke. He patted the pockets of his smart navy blazer to find his tobacco pouch and sterling silver tamper. Once he had all of his tools at hand, he started questioning me.
“Which, er, asshole, is this, Paisley, dear?”
“I have no idea,” I answered, flopping back on the soft down cushions of the red chintz sofa. “But somebody took at pot shot at me. Twice!”
I slipped off my beloved old Cole-Haan moccasins and watched in dismay as grass seeds puddled on Mother’s priceless Oriental carpet.
“Oh, well,” I sighed. “I’ll vacuum later.”
Horatio chuckled and drew the first fragrant puff from his pipe.
“Just like a woman to worry about housekeeping even when her life is in jeopardy.”
“Worried about Mother’s wrath is more like it,” I laughed.
“Well, it’s good to see that you’re not that upset about your adventure.”
“I’m beginning to think I imagined it. Perhaps it was a hornet