Boo

  “Excuse me?”

  He leaned back in his chair with agitating calmness. “You can’t just come in here, after all this time, and ask me out, you know.”

  “Ask you out? I didn’t ask you out! You asked me out, you moron! And I’m saying yes!”

  “I don’t think it’s that simple, my little chocolate-covered fire ant.”

  Ainsley’s whole body burned with rage. “Garth Eugene Twyne! For ten years straight you’ve panted over me like a dog at its water bowl. You’ve gone out of your way a thousand times to tell me how much you love and adore me. Don’t sit there in that ratty little chair of yours now, with that smug little expression on your face, and pretend you don’t have any idea what I’m talking about!”

  “Well, I do know one thing,” Garth said wryly, “You’re still really cute when you’re mad.”

  “Forget it,” Ainsley said, turning around in his office and swinging the door open, only to find Ginger on the ground with her ear to the floor.

  “My contact,” she tried. Ainsley stepped over her with disgust and kept walking.

  She went through the door that led out to the lobby, this time forgetting about the puddle mines. Her heel slipped on one, but luckily she recovered only to nearly fall face first into another. She continued out the door with the little bit of integrity she had left and went straight to her car.

  “Wait!”

  Garth came running after her, tripping over his own shoelaces as he hopped the curb and stumbled toward her.

  “I said, forget it,” Ainsley mumbled. Her face burned with embarrassment.

  “No, wait.” He touched her arm. “I’m sorry.” He stuck his hands in the pockets of his wrinkled doctor’s coat. “You just caught me off guard.” He stepped back one pace, smiled at her with some hint of genuineness, and said, “Ainsley Parker, will you go out with me?”

  Ainsley stared hard into his eyes, and for a moment she thought she heard that still, small voice that had led her through the years, a voice that sounded hesitant. But she decided she was mistaken. Because what she thought she heard it say sounded crazier than what she was about to do, so she looked at Garth and through gritted teeth said, “Yes.”

  From somewhere nearby, she thought she heard Ginger scream.

  CHAPTER 8

  “ALFRED?”

  The older man smiled up at Wolfe, running his hands through his already slicked-back, dyed-black hair, shiny as oil on leather. “Wolfe. Boy, it gets cold in Indiana, doesn’t it?”

  “What in the world are you doing here?”

  “About to freeze to death,” he chattered.

  “I’m sorry, come in.” Wolfe stepped aside so his old friend and editor could enter. Alfred looked around as he took off his coat and handed it to Wolfe. Wolfe hung it up in the coat closet and joined Alfred in the living room.

  “Not too much has changed,” Alfred said, glancing at Wolfe. “It’s been several years since I was here.”

  “You don’t usually get on a plane and come all the way out to Indiana unless you’re seeing dollar signs,” Wolfe said with a small smile. “Do you have some sort of news?”

  “No, no.” Alfred sat down in one of the wing chairs, still looking around the house. “Just missed you.”

  “Ha!” Wolfe stood above him with his arms crossed. “Try again.”

  “How about some coffee first? I can’t feel my toes.”

  Wolfe went to the kitchen and filled a large mug, black the way Alfred liked it. He brought it back, and Alfred took the mug. “You remembered.”

  “And surely you remember how keen a sense of discernment I’ve always had about you. Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”

  Alfred reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out a small, thin box, handing it to Wolfe with a noticeable grin. “To give you this.”

  Wolfe shook his head as he stared at the little box. “Let me guess. Another pen.”

  “Not just any pen, my friend. It’s a Montblanc.”

  Wolfe opened the box, and there, bundled in velvet, was a navy pen with the little plastic star on the top of the cap. “How much did this one cost you?”

  “Wolfe, it’s a gift. You don’t ask people what they spend on gifts. But if you must know, it was seven hundred and forty dollars. It’s the Friedrich Schiller LE, you know, the great German philosopher and writer—”

  “I know who Schiller is,” Wolfe said.

  “Oh. I had to look him up,” Alfred smirked. “Maybe you’ll have a pen named after you someday.”

  Wolfe smiled. “Well, thank you. You’re kind to think of me. I’ll put it with the other four.”

  Alfred shrugged. “Every writer needs a Montblanc. It’s a sign of greatness. And you, my friend, are great.”

  “Well, I type all my manuscripts on a computer now, but I’ll save this for a book signing or something.”

  “Yes, we have several lined up near Christmas. Don’t forget.”

  Wolfe sat across from Alfred and laid the pen on the coffee table. “Alfred, I don’t think you flew all the way from New York to give me a pen, Montblanc, Bic, or otherwise.”

  “All right,” Alfred breathed, setting his coffee down and smoothing the wrinkles in his slacks. “I’m worried about you. All right? Fair enough? Don’t you see I’m here because I care? I came all the way here to check on you.” His hands flew up in the air and came back down, slapping each knee. “And I had to fly second-class too.”

  “Why are you worried about me?”

  “Hello? Don’t you remember the conversation we just had? The one that caused me to book a flight?” Alfred’s voice got higher. “The one where you said you weren’t sure about your next book. If there was even going to be a next book.”

  “I’m not liable,” Wolfe said. “My contract’s up with Black Cats.”

  “I know you’re not legally liable, but what about all the millions of fans all over the world who are waiting for your next book? Doesn’t that do something to you? Make you feel the least bit guilty?” Alfred took a breath. “You’re not going to another house, are you?”

  Wolfe stared at Alfred, unable to answer.

  Alfred stood suddenly. “Okay, look. Maybe I’m coming on a little too strong. After all, I haven’t even given you a chance to explain yourself.” He stared into the dark fireplace, then turned to Wolfe. “If it’s a nervous breakdown, that’s completely acceptable. It happens to the best of the best. It’s almost expected. And quite frankly, a breakdown can do a lot for a writer’s career. Usually more after they’re dead, but that’s beside the point. What I’m trying to say here is that we can work through it. Get you therapy. I’ll fly a therapist out here, for crying out loud. There are therapists who practice on only famous, wealthy writers. If it’s something minor, like a mental block, we can get that fixed. If it’s bigger, like some sort of identity crisis, we can work through that, too.” Alfred’s hands were cupped together as he said, “I’m here for you. What do you need?”

  Wolfe smiled, then laughed, then almost cried at the absurdity of Alfred Tennison. Wolfe wondered if he himself had lost perspective like this before last week.

  “What’s so funny?” Alfred demanded.

  “Nothing, nothing,” Wolfe said with a wave of his hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be laughing.”

  “Laughing is good. It’s better than crying, although we can work with crying if that’s what you need to do to get another book out.” Alfred’s face was drawn tight with desperation. “Frankly, I feel as if I could weep myself.”

  Wolfe sipped his coffee carefully, then said, “Al, I’m not having a nervous breakdown. In fact, quite the opposite. I’m finally set free.”

  “Set free. Set free. Set free from … from … what?”

  “Myself,” Wolfe said. “It’s complicated and simple all at once.”

  Alfred finally sat back down. “Why don’t you explain it to me?”

  Wolfe sized Alfred up in a split second and knew this was a man who
wasn’t going to understand. But the least he could do was try. “It’s a relationship—”

  “I knew it! That was my second guess. Nervous breakdown was first, but relationship was second. Who is she? Do I know her? It’s Babs, isn’t it? Babs Tyson?”

  “Babs Tyson? Why would you think that?”

  “She’s adored you for years, Wolfe. You can’t say you haven’t noticed the glowing reviews she’s always given you in the Times.”

  “Well, Al, I can’t say I respect a woman who writes positive reviews just to get a date.”

  “It’s good to know we don’t like the same kind of woman.” His face grew serious. “So who is she? Leave it to a woman to wreck the career of the most famous writer alive.”

  “I’m not the most famous writer alive, and you didn’t let me finish. It’s not a woman.” Wolfe stood and paced the length of the floor, Bunny and Goose watching his every move, but not more carefully than Alfred. “Alfred, have you ever had a time in your life when you wondered what in the world everything means? Where you stop and ask yourself what your purpose is and why you’re alive? I sit up in this lonely old house and write my novels, and they have no meaning. They’re just a bunch of words, lifeless on the page, doing no good other than scaring the dickens out of people.”

  “And making us both millionaires, but I see your point.”

  Wolfe turned to him. “Do you?”

  “Sure, Wolfe. There was a time in my career when I wondered, ‘Should I be doing trashy romance novels?’ Sure, they sell. But can I really just sit day after day and read the same story line over and over again? No! I told myself. I put my foot down and instead decided to sink my teeth into something more moving, like horror. And a good choice it was. Here I am with you, the most famous writer in the world.”

  “Stop saying that,” Wolfe groaned. “It’s not true, and even if it were, I’m at a point in my life where I’m a little embarrassed to be known for writing what I write. How can I feel good about making people afraid?”

  Alfred stared up at Wolfe. His mouth even hung open a little, as if he were trying to understand a foreign language. “I don’t understand.”

  “Okay, it’s like this. There’s this girl, and every day she visits old people and takes them things they like. And when they come to her restaurant, she remembers whether or not they like sugar in their tea, and how much sugar, and if they really like mashed potatoes, she’ll sneak them an extra serving. She smiles at everyone and has a lot of friends, and she just has this glow, like she’s at perfect peace with the world.”

  “So this is about a woman.”

  “No. I mean yes. I mean no.” Wolfe stumbled to catch his breath. “No. It’s about God. Okay? It’s about God.”

  “God?”

  “Yes. It is about a relationship. A relationship with God. Where I can talk with Him, pray to Him, be forgiven. Don’t you see, Al? Can’t you see a difference in me?”

  “I’ll say,” Alfred mumbled.

  “For the first time in my life, I feel I have a purpose, yet, extraordinarily, I’m not doing anything but living day to day. I have no objectives. No goals. No deadlines. Yet I have this peace. This unimaginable peace, deep within my soul.”

  Alfred stared at the floor for a long moment before finally saying, “She said you turned religious. I should’ve known what she meant was you were losing it.”

  Wolfe locked eyes with Alfred. “Who? Who are you talking about?”

  “Nobody.” Alfred stood and walked to the coat closet. “Well, I’m glad I traveled all this way to learn you’re going to Sunday school now.”

  “Alfred, wait. Please. Let me explain.”

  “You’ve explained, haven’t you? What else is there to say?” Alfred pulled his coat on and flattened his collar. He forcefully buttoned it up as if he were standing in the middle of a blizzard. “I’m glad for you, Wolfe. Really, I am. Maybe you can pray that I don’t lose my job when I have to go back to the house and tell them that you traded the devil for Jesus.”

  Wolfe swallowed. As crass as Alfred was, he couldn’t have put it better himself. “I’m sorry, Al. I’m sorry you’re upset.” He followed Alfred to the door. “Thanks for the pen.”

  Alfred walked down the front porch steps to where his rented SUV was parked. He got in, started it, and without letting it warm up, pulled off without so much as a wave.

  “Hi, darling,” Sheriff Parker said. He threw his coat on the back of the chair, but Ainsley didn’t have time to go hang it in its proper place in the coat closet. After all this time, the man still couldn’t understand where coats belong!

  “Hi,” Ainsley mumbled, squinting in the darkening room as she wrote on the piece of paper in front of her.

  “Need some light?” he asked, switching on the kitchen light before Ainsley could protest. “My goodness. Are you wearing blush?”

  Ainsley looked up at her dad and nodded slightly. “Yes, Daddy. I’m wearing blush.”

  “But you’re so pretty,” he said, sitting at the table. “You don’t need anything like that.”

  Ainsley chose not to let the conversation go further.

  “Well, what’s the occasion for the makeup anyway?”

  She didn’t know how to answer. In fact, the words wouldn’t even form on her tongue.

  “Ainsley?” her father asked a few seconds later. “What’s the matter? What are you concentrating so hard on over there?”

  She finished writing her thoughts, and then dropped the pencil to the table. Brushing her hair out of her eyes, she slid the paper across the table to her father, who picked it up, found his reading glasses in his pocket, and studied it for a moment.

  “ ‘The Top Ten Reasons to Like Garth Twyne’?”

  Ainsley couldn’t even manage a smile of enthusiasm.

  “What’s this about?”

  She stood and went to the kitchen. She sliced two pieces of bread from the fresh loaf she’d baked earlier and went to the refrigerator to get the sandwich ingredients. “I’m going out tonight. With Garth. I’m going out with Garth Twyne.” The words felt heavy on her tongue, and just saying them seemed to suck the life right out of her body.

  “Really?” Her father smiled with enthusiasm, as she had expected. Hardly a day had gone by when he hadn’t expressed his regrets to Ainsley about her dislike for the guy. In Sheriff Parker’s eyes, Garth was the perfect match for Ainsley. He intended to stay in Skary, and he had roots there. He had a stable, well-paying job. Plus, though Ainsley would never say so, Garth kissed up to the man so much her father actually thought himself a world-renowned law enforcer. “After all this time, are you trying to tell me the guy’s finally won your heart?”

  “No!” Ainsley said as she cut slices of cheese. “I’m simply saying I’m going out on a date.” She glanced over her shoulder. “That’s what dates are for, right? So the guy can win your heart by wooing and ooing you?”

  “Well, pardon me for saying this, honey, but the guy’s been wooing and ooing you for years now. What more can he do?”

  Ainsley spread her homemade mustard onto the bread. She paused for a moment to smell the garden spices in it. “Mooing and gooing is more like it, Daddy. He’s been obnoxious, and you know it. He’s not my type for one thing. And he gets on my nerves for another. Not to mention he has no respect for personal space, which becomes more of a problem because I’m pretty sure he only brushes his teeth once a day, and I’d bet money he doesn’t even floss.”

  “Then why are you going on a date with him?”

  She laid the thinly shaved chicken breast onto the provolone cheese slices. “It’s complicated, okay? But I wrote down a few positive things on that paper.”

  She heard the paper rattle and her father clear his throat. “Number ten: He grows a garden.” She could feel her father staring into her back.

  “He feeds all the vegetables to his pigs, but it’s a start.”

  “Number nine: Isn’t balding.” She heard her father laugh, and she turned ar
ound. He was rubbing the top of his head. “That a problem for you?”

  “Of course not,” she smiled.

  “Number eight.” He paused and then said, “That’s it. There’s no number eight.”

  “I know,” she sighed. “I couldn’t think of anything else.” She lightly peppered the inside of the sandwich, then carefully wrapped it in Saran Wrap, put it on a plate, and stuck it in the refrigerator. “Unfortunately for you, Daddy, this means you’re stuck eating a sandwich tonight.”

  “We got any chips?”

  “Yes. We have some chips in the pantry. I fried them up a couple of days ago, so they still should be fresh. They’re the ranch-flavored ones.”

  “Good! I love those.”

  “I know,” Ainsley said with a smile.

  The doorbell rang. Her father hopped up and soon was at the door greeting Garth. They exchanged their usual hearty handshake and boisterous greeting, then her father led Garth into the kitchen.

  Ainsley managed to act as if she were wiping the countertop when he rounded the corner. “Hi, Garth,” she said, and though she tried desperately to sound excited, she knew she sounded more like she were choking to death.

  “You look nice.” His eyes roamed from the top of her head to the bottom of her feet and back again. Ainsley suddenly felt a terrible headache coming on.

  “Oh. And you look—” She examined the clip-on tie, the short-sleeved striped cotton shirt that needed a good dose of starch, and the light-colored khaki pants that belonged only in the spring/summer months. “You look so … doctorly.” She knew that would appease him. “Well, no need for chitchat now or we might run out of things to say later.” Ainsley gave him a tense smile. “Shall we?”

  “Sure,” Garth shrugged, patting Sheriff Parker on the back with a quick compliment on nabbing the two vandals. “I’m starving.”

  Ainsley pulled on her sweater without Garth’s help and grabbed her purse, mentally assessing how much money she had. Garth was the type who would forget his wallet or not have enough for the bill. “Where are we going?” she asked as he escorted her outside to his old pickup truck.