Letters in Time, Reiss Susan [read me a book TXT] 📗

“I’m sorry. That was rude. I think I need to see what bubbles to the surface of my imagination.”

He held his hands up in submission. “Okay, then. Don’t want to step on your creative toes.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

He headed toward the hallway and the front door. “Well, I guess I better get to the hardware store and get those new locks. I’ll be back this afternoon if that’s okay.”

I nodded, afraid to open my mouth again. How many times could I bite his head off before he went away?

He paused. “They say that writers need writer friends. There’s a nice group of ladies you might want to meet. Think about it.” As he headed down the hallway, he called out, “And don’t forget to set the deadbolt.”

I heard him close the door. Please, just change my locks so I can keep out unwanted visitors, especially a man named Daniel.

Chapter Four

“I did not visit the place of execution but went from the Easton Gaol to my office feeling sad over the scene. This has been a lovely spring day. The frogs, leather winged bats and spring birds have made their appearance.” March 12, 1875

—The Willis Family Journals 1847-1951

Edited and Annotated by James Dawson

I leaned over and found the letter from Daniel that I’d pushed under the desk. Yes, it was still there, not a product of my painkiller-fueled imagination. Maybe closer inspection would give me a clue to the man’s identity. The words were scratched on in a sheet of my white printer paper in an odd shade of brown ink. The writer hadn’t used a pen with a smooth modern nib. A bell was ringing from a corner of my memory. Had this Daniel used a pen with a metal nib that he had to keep dipping in ink? It all reminded me of the time of Daguerreotypes and ladies in hooped skirts.  Plantation days.

That’s ridiculous, I scolded myself.  I was about to drop the letter in the wastepaper basket and paused. No, I think I’ll keep it for now. Standing, I reached up and slipped it into the cubbyhole on the top row.  I plopped back in the chair, feeling satisfied that I was in charge again. But that feeling didn’t last.

Once again, there was loud knocking at the front door of the Cottage. It didn’t sound like a polite neighbor bringing muffins. Somebody wanted my attention, now.

“I’m coming,” I yelled out as I fumbled with my crutches. As I made my way down the hallway, I realized I hadn’t heard TJ’s truck horn. When I reached the door, I didn’t open it.

“Yes, who is it?” I asked.

“Miss Emma, it’s TJ and a friend.”

When I opened the door, I was surprised to discover his friend was a member of law enforcement.

 “Sorry to bother you again. This is Officer Conklin. There’s something he needs to talk to you about.”

I opened the door wide. “Why don’t you come in?”

“No, no need. I just have a few questions for you.” The officer looked young, but something about him suggested that he had seen more, done more, trained for more than I wanted to know.

I moved over to the step to sit down. Who would have thought the stairs to the second floor would be a convenient resting spot. “Hope you don’t mind. Standing tires me out quickly.”

“Of course, ma’am.” He moved into the doorway. “I’m glad you’re here, too, TJ. Saves me a trip to your house.”

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Has either one of you been over at the Lone Oak, digging around?” He glanced at me and, seeing the crutches, quickly dismissed me as a candidate for a digging expedition.  He redirected his attention to TJ.

“No, I haven’t been over to the old tree for a while.”  His face filled with concern and his speech took on a bit of a Southern lilt. “Is it okay? Do I need to bring in the tree doctor?”

“No, the tree isn’t the problem,” the officer said.  “There are holes dug all around the tree. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Sounds like someone was looking for something,” I suggested.

“More like someones.  I figure there had to be at least one other person,” he said.

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Because someone hit Kid Billy in the face with a blunt object, maybe a shovel.  We found him this morning, lying with his body in one of the holes. He’s in the hospital and it doesn’t look good for the boy.”

I gasped. “How old is he?”

The detective shrugged. “Only seventeen. This is one of life’s cruel jokes.”

I looked at the tree across the creek, out in the middle of nowhere. “How did you find him? I imagine not a lot of people go over there.”

“We got an anonymous call on the Tip Line, probably from somebody who was there or heard someone talking about it afterward.”

“Drugs?” I asked.

The officer looked at me quickly. His eyes narrowed. “Why does everybody from the Western Shore jump to that conclusion.  Sure, we have problems here, but it’s not like over there where you’re from.”

“I only meant—”

He folded his arms and spread his feet apart. He was spoiling for a fight I didn’t want. “How do you explain all the holes around the tree?  Think they were going to bury the drugs for safekeeping?”

Both TJ and I stared at the officer.

With a great huff born of frustration, he dropped his arms by his sides. “I’m sorry.  We don’t normally get this level of violence. If that call hadn’t come in, the kid would have died out there in the field.”

I glanced across the creek again and shuddered. If I’d left the windows open the night before, I might have heard voices, angry ones.