Losing Penny (2 page)

“What are you doing here?” Andrea stepped
away from him, tilted her head, and smiled. On anyone else the
hippie/gypsy look would look dated and cliché, but Andrea, with her
dark skin, wild hair, and macramé top, looked runway ready.

“Excellent music and fish on a stick? Where
else would I be?” Drake hoped his smile looked more genuine than it
felt stretching across his teeth.

She gave him a knowing look. “Did you know
Blair was going to play?”

Pain flashed through him as he shook his
head.

“I know,” Andrea nodded at Blair. “It’s
shocking.”

“How did you convince her?”

“You heard about Emily?” Andrea laid her hand
on his arm. “You must know about Charlotte’s murder?”

“Of course.”

Melinda cleared her throat, a loud, masculine
growl.

Drake placed his hand on Melinda’s shoulder.
Her hair tangled in his fingers and he pulled away. “So sorry.
Andrea, this is Melinda Marx.”

While the two women made their introductions,
Drake watched Blair behind the keyboard. Her eyes searched the
crowded room before she caught and held his gaze. He lifted his
hand in a half wave and she responded with a come-hither motion, a
small smile on her lips.

“I have to go,” Andrea said, and Drake
realized Blair had been beckoning Andrea. He sat down hard, the
wooden chair groaning beneath his weight.

“Murder?” Melinda raised her eyebrows.

“Charlotte Rhyme,” Drake said. The death of
the local artist had made the national news and sent the prices of
her paintings skyrocketing. Melinda would have had to have been
hiding in a cave not to have heard.

“Oh yes,” Melinda said, sounding as if she
wanted to be sympathetic, but wasn’t quite.

The music started. Andrea sang something
about a lost coin into the microphone.

Something gained, something earned,

Something lost never to be returned.

The words twisted in Drake’s gut. His longing
for Blair ate at him. It swelled until he thought it would swallow
him completely. Melinda talked, her words competing with the
music.

“I want to call it
Geared
.” Melinda
paused. “What do you think?”

Drake tore his eyes off Blair and refocused
on Melinda. “Geared? Like gearhead?” He wanted to add, “Are you
serious?” But he thought better of it.

But when Melinda started talking numbers,
Drake realized she was very serious. The salary was as serious as a
heart attack—or at least the debt on his credit card. And with a
free summer’s stay at a beach house, he could sublet his apartment
for the extra cash,
and
have an entire summer free for
writing.

“I can’t…” But he didn’t sound convincing,
even to himself. He thought of his colleagues at the university and
the words “sellout” repeatedly rang in his head, keeping time with
Frank on the drums. Drake stopped thinking when the numbers he
calculated grew so high they drowned out every thought.

As a medicinal herb, basil is commonly used
to treat stress-induced insomnia, tension, nervous indigestion, and
melancholy.

From
Losing Penny and Pounds

Penny blinked.
Her eyelashes brushed against rotting leaves and twigs. She tried
to lift her head from the forest floor, prop herself onto her
elbows, and look around for her horse, Gwendolyn. No, her horse was
named Sir Gawain. Sir Gawain was a fine name for a horse. But she
didn’t know how to ride a horse. Well, it was her dream, and if she
wanted to ride, she would. Pain curled her into a tight ball. Her
head throbbed. She touched it gingerly and found dead leaves stuck
in her hair. When she pulled the leaves away, they were spotted
with sticky blood.

This wouldn’t do. She didn’t want to be
alone in a forest, bleeding, and in pain.

A dense, cottony fog hung in the trees and
blocked the moonlight. Penny let out a long whistle for
Gwendolyn—no, Sir Gawain—but the sound hurt her head and made her
teeth ache. Only the night birds answered. Something skittered in a
nearby thicket, and a twig snapped.
Penny ignored the pain
and listened. How long had she been on the ground?

Penny rolled over onto her back and watched
the moonlight flicker through the boughs of a pine tree and
wondered where she was and how she would get home without her
horse. She reminded herself that she was at home and in her bed,
but the dream continued.

Penny struggled to sit up and a
skin-pricking sensation said she wasn’t alone. Animals. Possibly a
red fox, a raccoon, skunk, or an opossum. Harmless night creatures.
Panic caught in her throat, and she scooted on her bottom until she
leaned against a pine tree. The fog swirled through the forest.
Someone or something hid in the dark, watching. Using the tree for
a brace, she stood and brushed off her plain, cotton shift. She
found a hole straight up the middle of her shift, and her thigh had
a corresponding scratch. She also had a bloody elbow, a throbbing
head, and scraped hands.

Penny limped away from the tree, confused
about her old-fashioned clothes. The leather sandals on her feet
and the heavy cotton apron over her shift were from who knows what
time or place. If she was going to dream, then why not dream of the
Edwardian era? She loved the turn of the century fashion. But then
she’d be wearing a tight corset and long skirts, and running would
be hard enough with her wet noodle legs and unfocused eyes. Another
twig broke. She swallowed and patted her apron pockets for some
sort of weapon. Nothing. What did she expect? She found a stick and
swung it as she limped in what she hoped was the direction of home.
Her head thudded with every footfall, but she held it high, careful
not to demonstrate weakness or fear. Another, closer twig snapped.
She broke into jog, and heavy footsteps followed close behind.

Penny peered into the dark woods and watched
the fog curl through the trees, but seeing nothing but the white
mist, she ran, praying for a straight, unimpeded path. The ground
became uneven and rocky, and she realized she was in a dry
riverbed. Penny stumbled over the rocks, mindful of her ankles and
the screaming cut on her thigh. Her pursuer was so close that she
felt his breath on the back of her neck. Scrambling out of the
riverbed and up the bank, she sprinted up the incline that led to a
pasture. A shed’s roofline poked out of the fog. As she raced
toward it, her foot caught on something and she pitched
forward.

Hands caught her as she fell. She smelled
beer and sweat as she was lifted off the ground and pressed against
a broad chest. Penny kicked and cried out.

The man had a deep baritone laugh. “Aye me,
miss, what fine morsel are ye?”

“
I am not a morsel!” Penny threw her hands
behind her in an attempt to pull his hair or gouge his eyes. “I am
not food!”

He chuckled in response, kicked his knee
between her flailing legs, and held her vice-like with one arm
while his other hand ripped the front of her bodice and fumbled at
the ties on her blouse. Penny screamed louder and bucked her head
back, making contact with his chin.

Something flew past them and landed in the
tall grass with a thud.

Penny’s captor released her and she landed
on the ground, face first, and kissed dirt. Spitting, she lunged
for her stick and scrambled to her feet. A rock torpedoed past her
head and she woke with a jolt.

It was just a dream.

Penny sat up, and after a quick glance around
her silent bedroom, she laid back against her pillow, breathing
heavily, trying to slow her beating heart. Morning birds sang
outside, a yellow sun hovered on the eastern horizon, and trees
danced in a warm wind.

In the next room Phoebe stirred. She was
probably packing. Footsteps padded across the hall and Penny
propped herself on her elbow.

“Hey,” Phoebe said, standing in the doorway
with a mug in her hand. “Who sent the flowers?”

“Flowers?” Penny sat up and brushed the curls
from her eyes and face. Her dream came back to her and she
dismissed the pinprick sensation of being watched. “I don’t know
what you’re talking about.”

Phoebe raised her eyebrows and took a long,
slow sip from her mug. “Come on, don’t hold out on me. Who’s your
admirer?”

Penny shook her head, trying to rid it from
the cotton fuzz that had parked behind her eyes. “I don’t have
admirers.”

“Well, you do now.”

Penny swung her feet from the bed and landed
on the floor with a thud. “They must be for you.”

“Your name is on the card.” Phoebe glanced
over shoulder into the next room. “When did they get here? You must
have signed for them.”

Penny shuffled to her closet and scrounged
through her laundry pile in search of a robe. Finding it beneath
her workout clothes, she wrinkled her nose as she slipped into the
soft and somewhat smelly flannel. She followed Phoebe into the tiny
living room. The morning light shone through the window, landed on
the dining room table, and sparkled on the cut crystal vase holding
a giant bouquet of pink, yellow, and orange Gerbera daisies.
Penny’s heart loved them—they were her favorite flowers—but she
couldn’t fathom who sent them.

Phoebe handed her the card. “See, you have an
admirer.” Her name and a heart were drawn in red.

“No,” Penny contended.

Phoebe scowled. “Maybe they’re from
Richard.”

“My brother?” Penny’s voice rose to a squeak
of disbelief.

“Oh yeah, you’re right.” Phoebe sat down at
the table and stared at the flowers. “Well, if I didn’t sign for
them, and you didn’t sign for them, how did they get in here?”

Penny sat down across from Phoebe and put her
chin in her hand. Biting her lip, she considered the daisies. She
wanted to love them because they were beautiful and happy, but they
sort of scared her.

“Auntie Mae!” Penny slapped her palm down on
the table.

A look of relief washed over Phoebe’s face.
“Of course.”

“But what if they’re not from her?”

“They have to be, right? Do you know anyone
else with a key?”

Phoebe shook her head. “We should change the
locks anyway. It’s creepy to think of someone coming in while we
sleep.”

The locksmith came an hour later.

The hag sat on the other side of fire, her
eyes matching the color and spark of the flames. She pointed her
long, bony finger at him and laughed, not in pleasure or glee, but
disdain. Despite her age and feeble health, Hans knew he was in her
power.

From
Hans and the Sunstone

All around him
people shuffled luggage and umbrellas in the lobby of the Strand
Hotel, but Drake sat on the silk sofa as if trapped on a deserted
island with no one but this old woman of another time and place for
company. Her eyes ran over him as if he was a piece of fruit and
she was inspecting him for beestings and bruising. But her look
wasn’t hostile, it was probing. He felt as if she could see inside
of him.

She was just a little old lady, or more
specifically, a little old lady with a broken foot, so his escape
would be easy if he could muster the courage. Drake shifted in the
Queen Anne chair and crossed his legs then his arms while Miss Mae
peered at him from the other side of the coffee table. The
conversation about her beach house had started sane enough, but
then it was as if a light bulb of an idea blinked inside her head.
For a moment Drake had worried that the old thing had suffered a
stroke. And since that moment of mouth-gaping followed by an evil
grin, things had gone from strange to bizarre. Drake sighed and
wondered what Miss Mae would do if he just pocketed the keys and
walked away.

“So, you’ve never been married?” She fingered
her pearl necklace while studying him.

“No,” he lied, hating himself for it. But
really, who could call a three-week fling a marriage? The state of
New York, but no one else in a sane state of mind.

“No children?” she asked.

“Or pets,” Drake offered.

“I like pets.” Her tone said Drake had given
the wrong answer.

“I’m fastidiously clean,” Drake said, hoping
to recoup from the no pets faux pas.

Miss Mae frowned and settled into her chair.
“Well, I guess that might work.” She considered him through slanted
eyes, making Drake feel like a side of beef. “And you look like you
could use more than one good meal.”

A skinny side of beef.

Drake couldn’t imagine what this was all
about. He’d already signed the rental agreement. All he needed was
the keys and address.

“Let me tell you a story,” she said. “A
priest and a physics professor were arguing Darwinism verses
creationism. The professor says, ‘Our ancestors crawled from the
sea, starting as embryos who progressed to amphibians and to
primates.’

‘I think not,’ the priest says.” She leaned
back in her chair, her steady gaze on his face and delivered the
punch line, “And, poof! The priest disappeared.”

It took only a second, but then Drake barked
out a laugh. He couldn’t help it. The old thing knew Descartes, I
think therefore I am…or not.

Miss Mae smiled, obviously pleased.

Finally, he’d answered a question—maybe the
most important one—correctly.

Bending over, she brought her velvet purse to
the table and pulled out a set of keys. “Here you are, my dear. I
hope you have a lovely summer.”

“Thank you,” Drake said. “And I hope you
enjoy your cruise.”

“I plan to.” Her eyes twinkled, as if she had
another joke to share. “Let me give you my number, just in case
anything goes awry. And if you don’t mind, I’d like yours as
well.”

When dieting, you need to practice handing
out kind comebacks and retorts for those who try to lure you or
belittle your dieting attempts. Don’t be surprised when this
happens, because it will. You might be tempted to refer to these
people by the same slurs you assign doughnuts and Ding Dongs, but
don’t do that. Be nice, even when others aren’t as kind.