reading

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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales are entirely coincidental.

Short stories.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-927899-39-7 (paperback).--ISBN 978-1-927899-41-0 (html)

When a writer writes, there are so many people they are obliged to. First, are the individuals who listen to the various drafts of genius scribbled upon the pages, and who offer honest critiques despite the author’s pout and stamping of feet. Secondly, and some of these individuals overlap with the first group, are family members who have tolerated lapses in domestic duties while the writer created their masterpieces. I know, my husband has suffered the lack of proper meals at times, and periodically, the absence of clean laundry—yet he still supports my dreams.

To speak to those individually, though, to this particular book, I would like to thank the readers of my short story column that I used to write for the Brantford Expositor. Most of the mystery stories in this book appeared in my column, and the feedback from my fans was heart-warming and most encouraging.

A special thank you goes out to Heather and Angie of Lock & Key Treasures in Brantford for allowing me to come into their store to do a photo shoot for my cover art.

And, not to be forgotten, where would I be if I did not have Terry Davis from Ball Media in Brantford to put the finishing touches on my cover. Once again, another job well done!

A writer must never forget to thank their editors: Danielle Tanguay and Bethany Jamieson of Cavern of Dreams Publishing, who did an excellent job of pointing out some issues in the stories that needed fine-tuning.

There are a number more people I could personally thank here, but I will finish up with Randy Nickmann of Brant Service Press for his support and printing of my books.

To anyone I have not thanked by name—friends and fans of my work—you know who you are, and I want you to know your support is appreciated from the bottom of my heart.

house where she was born, and it was showing its age the same as she—especially in the frosty winter months. Skeletal trees tapped nervously on the wooden shingles. Flecks of paint would occasionally dance with the snowflakes when the wind pressured the timber walls. The lofty, wooden pillars, placed to support an overhang that covered a wrap-around veranda, were faltering. The front door was encircled by six diamond eyes that pierced the perimeters of their view. Satin curtains clouded the picture of what might be beyond the glass.

Inside, Minnie sat in her oak rocker, rocking and humming long-ago tunes. Her eyes were closed; however, it would not matter if she opened them for they had not seen the light for many years.

Dover, an old yellow lab, lay at her feet. A black cat, a stray Minnie had never called anything other than “Cat,” lounged on the grubby couch. Walking paths, resembling a fox-and-rabbit game in the snow, meandered through the thick dust on the sitting room floor. Candle wax created various figurines on the end tables, coffee table, and dining table. A phonograph sat silently in the far corner, an old 45 on the turntable—void of dust.

Footsteps approached the door. Dover wagged his tail, a sign he sensed a friend. Minnie heard the tail thump on the floor and smelled the particles of dust as they were disturbed. A familiar voice called out: “Minnie, I’m coming in now.”

Dover’s tail beat harder. Cat opened her eyes halfway. Minnie kept rocking. The door creaked open. “I must remember to bring some oil with me tomorrow,” the voice mentioned as its owner entered the room. “Are you hungry, Minnie? What a silly question. Of course, you must be; probably haven’t eaten yet, eh?” The voice disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

“How about a nice poached egg?” The sound of the fridge door opening reached Minnie’s ears. “Hmmmmm—guess I should have stopped for groceries—I thought there were plenty of eggs here yesterday. Are you holding out on me, Minnie? Have you been entertaining? No, of course not; how silly of me.” The fridge door closed.

The voice entered the parlour. “I need to run to the grocer; I’ll be right back…you want anything special…of course not…you never do…”

Minnie stood, retrieved her cane, and tapped her way along the trail to peek through the diamond eyes—an old habit. She was comforted by the sound of her old friends tapping on the roof. Dover walked close to her. Cat didn’t move from the couch.

Minnie smiled and secured the lock in place. Ginny never asked how the door was locked and unlocked between errands, showing how much she paid attention to little details. It was just a job for her—she wasn’t like Nigel. Nigel had been Minnie's butler for years, taking good care of her after her mother and father were killed in a horrible automobile accident. But he had passed away a couple of years ago, leaving her at the mercy of the system.

Minnie turned and took the path over to the phonograph. Dover followed. She reached for the needle, placed it on the record, and then turned the handle. Music filtered up and out of the horn, and Minnie began to sway to the old jazz tune. Cat decided to join them. She meandered over and jumped up on the yellow keys of the upright piano that sat beside the phonograph. A medley of off notes soured the song that was playing. Minnie’s brow furrowed.

Cat ignored her. As the echo died away, Minnie forgot about Cat and continued with her dance, taking tiny steps, with her arms in waltz position, and her head turned up and to the side. Dover moved out of the way and sat beside the piano bench. He and Cat had spent many hours watching this ritual.

Time was forgotten. “Yes, Nigel…not so tight, Nigel…what would Father say…he would not be pleased with your intimacy with me…oh, yes, you are right, Mother always loved you…” Minnie laughed. “Oh, how I love it when you twirl me so…your arms are so strong…no, I cannot marry you; Father wouldn’t approve…we shall just have to continue like this…promise you’ll never leave me…promise me, Nigel…”

Cat jumped down and returned to the couch; Dover led the way back to the rocking chair. The key turned in the door, and Ginny entered with a bag of groceries. She looked around the room; all was as it should be.

rain hasn’t stopped, and the temperature is dropping rapidly. This means everything will freeze and the roads will be exceptionally hazardous.

My cat is acting downright weird today, too. Not that she isn’t naturally weird, but today, she just keeps running from one window to the next. She even knocked over the one houseplant I have managed to keep alive. Oh well, the poor plant was on its way out anyway.

Lightning flashed across the sky, and thunder boomed on its heel. The phone rang. Who the heck would be calling at this ungodly hour of ten o’clock at night, I wondered as I checked my watch. All my friends know better than to call my house past nine fifty-nine.

I plopped down in the chair beside the phone. I started to shake. “What do you mean…is my horse still in the barn?” I shouted, fear welling up in my chest.

“Look, lady, get the picture: I have your horse, and I want you to put one hundred thousand dollars in a sealed envelope and drop it off by the old mission cross out on West 99^th Street. Do you know the place I’m talking about?”

“Good, have the money there by six p.m. tomorrow, or you will never see your horse again!” The receiver clicked shut before I could declare poverty.

I stood and began to pace. Where the hell am I going to get one hundred thousand dollars by tomorrow? Who's playing this sick joke on me? I'd sunk every penny I had into buying the beautiful Arab stallion, Alejandro, and I was hoping to earn back some of my investment by studding him out. He had a pedigree longer than my arm.

I wondered if it was Mr. Gunner. He had wanted Alejandro for himself, but I had outbid him at the auction. I remembered the ugly look on his face as I led Alejandro up to my trailer.

“We’ll see,” I’d retorted back. I had never liked Mr. Gunner. Actually, no one liked him. He had a bad reputation in the horse world. He was mean to his horses, so the stories told.

I picked up the phone to call the police, but I hung up before dialling. I needed to check the barn first. I grabbed my coat and headed out the door.

The wind hit me hard. The rain, which had turned to sleet, burned my exposed skin. I was running in the direction of the barn, but it wasn’t there. I became hysterical, running in circles. It started to snow. Drifts were appearing everywhere, encircling me. I tried to make my way back to the house. I couldn’t find it.

My eyes opened. I was on the floor beside my bed. The cat was charging out of the room. I picked myself up off the floor and headed to the bathroom. I was sopping wet. I took a towel and wiped the sweat from my face.

I went to the window and gazed out at the weather. Looked like the rain was turning into sleet—we were most likely in for an ice storm. I turned to go back to bed.

The phone rang. I let it ring seven or eight times before picking up the receiver. After all, it was after ten o’clock.

There is a part of me that wishes it never happened; yet, the satisfied part of me cannot help but to smile. Sylvia smiles, as well. And she dances, too—like a mad fairy.

small town of Waterford. Sylvia moved next door when we were the tender age of thirteen. She was from Hamilton, and I was enthralled the “big city girl” paid attention to me. We became best friends, and our friendship has survived for we share secrets that are buried in our hearts’ darkest corners.

There was madness in Sylvia’s eyes—her mother’s, too. In fact, when Sylvia had shown me some old family pictures, everyone had the same look. One thing I had noticed was there were no males in the photos. I never thought to ask Sylvia about that, though.

Sylvia and I did not play the silly games girls of thirteen participated in. We had a secret place. It was secluded in a grove of trees on top of a hill. It had been the servants’ quarters of the old Cooper house Sylvia and her mother now lived in. I spent hours, with pen and paper, creating imaginary worlds. Sylvia shaped her clay and danced. We were content. Life was good.

Sometimes, we would sit by one of the windows and peek at the outside world. We’d smile at each other as we observed the other teens playing at being adults, and then we’d return to our work—I, to my pages; Sylvia, to her clay.

Then came the summer of Samwell. He arrived from Mexico to work in the tobacco fields, and we were caught unprepared for his devastating charms—especially did he catch Sylvia. I would go to our secret place and find the door bolted. I would knock, but there was never an answer. Baffled, I’d walk back down the path, sit by the oak tree, and wait. She would tire of him soon—she’d never favour him above our friendship—I was sure of that.

When we did have time together, I noticed Sylvia seemed absorbed with other things, none of which she confided in me. She’d just walk dazedly around the room, trailing her fingers over the dusty pottery.

Samwell always seemed to lurk nearby whenever I was with Sylvia, which irked me. I would observe him leaning against the old oak tree, a cigarette dangling from his mouth and a smirk on his face as he stared up at the shack. It was as though he was just waiting for me to leave so he could move in.

When we came down the hill, Sylvia would walk past him, but I observed the obscene body language between them. Once in my house, I took to going directly to my bedroom, where I would watch from my window. Sylvia always raced back to the oak tree—to him.

I cried a lot that summer, waiting for the tobacco harvest to be over. Samwell would go home then and my friend would return to me. I would exonerate her of the transgression against our friendship, just as I was sure Sylvia would have exonerated me had I made a mistake.

Summer took her leave; fall strutted in with glorious, rustic colours. The tobacco workers began to disappear from our streets. But, Samwell did not leave. Then, one day, Sylvia brought me the boxes that contained my writings. Her eyes were crazy as she handed them to me.

“Samwell missed his plane home and won’t be able to get another flight for a month or two. The airline won’t refund his money, so he has to get a job to buy another ticket. He will be able to save quicker if he doesn’t have to pay rent, so I said he could stay up on the hill. I don’t want him to poke through your stories. You can return when he’s gone.”

That was it. Sylvia just left and headed back up the hill to “our secret place.” I carried the boxes to my room, walked to my window, watched my friend disappear up the hill, and cried—again.

Sylvia began missing school. When she did show up, there was an awkward silence between us. The magic of the past three years was gone.

“Well, it has been a month; November is almost here and the weather is going to get worse. Not paying rent, I just thought he might have saved enough for his plane ticket by now.”

“Not really. Besides, there is nothing there for him. He might stay here…what are you looking so glum about…at least, he has a job.”

She grabbed my arm and swung me around to face her. “Give me one good reason why not!” Her eyes were gleaming madly.

“Ouch!” I pulled away. “What’s going on, Sylvia? I thought we were friends—that is supposed to be our place. I thought Samwell was temporary! What is happening to you?” I burst into tears.

“Yes.” She got up and left the school. I knew where she was headed—without me. As I watched her leave, I noticed the change in her movement—her feet did not dance as they had a few short months ago. It was at that point I knew something was drastically wrong!

Eventually, Sylvia was kicked out of school. She gathered together her few possessions and then dropped her pens on my desk. “Here,” she murmured, “you have more use for these than I.” She shuffled slowly from the room, her shoulders slumped, her steps heavy.

I wanted to confront Samwell and demand to know what he was doing to her. To ask why there were black circles around her eyes…why her back was hunched so…why her feet did not dance anymore? I needed to save my friend.

I watched their comings and goings. I saw a difference in his walk, too. He would stagger up the hill, bumping from tree to tree, falling on the path—probably from drinking too much. I feared, more than ever, for Sylvia’s safety. I prayed for a night when my parents would go out so I could go up to the shack and find out what was happening.

Finally, the perfect night unfolded. My parents were invited to a 25^th wedding anniversary house party for some old friends, and an October pea soup fog had rolled in. The Marshalls lived in the country and had insisted their guests stay over. Mom called, instructed me to lock everything up and go to bed. I had Mrs. Winter’s phone number in case of an emergency.

I smiled, headed to my room, dragged my rocker over to the window, and sat down. Samwell would be along soon and my eyes would have to be sharp to see through the blasted fog.

I had probably missed Samwell’s return, but I needed to go up there anyway and put an end to whatever was going on.

I shoved my feet into my runners, grabbed my jacket and house key, and ran downstairs. I almost tripped over the Halloween pumpkin by the back door. Outside, the fog closed in around me, penetrating the fabric, dampening my skin—or was that nervous sweat?

I could have gone up that pathway blindfolded, I had travelled it so many times. As I drew closer to the shack, I noticed a candle trembling in the window. I heard loud noises from the inside, and then, I heard the ugliest voice.

I moved quickly to the door and with all my valour, I burst into the room. Sylvia was cowered beneath a table. She was half naked, her clothing tattered and torn. Bruises and bloody scratches played snakes and ladders on the exposed skin. But her eyes held a fiery madness like I had never seen before! She was glaring at Samwell with such hatred that even he momentarily stopped his assault.

I seized the moment and grabbed the fire poker by the door—the one Sylvia and I kept there in case any unwanted strangers tried to invade our world.

my trembling fingers. Sylvia showed me how to smooth and shape it. “You can create anything you want with clay,” she smiled.

We worked all night on the new piece. In the morning, I ran down to my house and left a note for my parents, informing them that Sylvia and I were sleeping in the shack and I would see them tomorrow. We slept for a few hours and then continued our work. Finally, we sat back and observed our creation. He was magnificent, just like when we had first seen him.

“Not bad, for a beginner,” Sylvia smiled. She began to dance around the sculpture. “You know what…I think we will enter this in the Pumpkin Fest pottery show. There is a new category this year: ‘Real Life Creations.’”

proud of their world renowned artist and writer. Sylvia inherited her mother’s property when her mother passed away. We live in the main house, however, we still spend a lot of time in our secret place. We fixed the walls and broken windows. We also expanded the shack by adding two rooms—one where I write my manuscripts, one where Sylvia works her magic with clay.

However, it is our statues and the stories that go with them that have truly made us famous. Sylvia and I won the grand prize with our first entry ten years ago. We win first prize every year, and after each show, we add another statue to our ironfenced garden on the hill. The stories are encased in a glass box beside their inspirations.

At the moment, we are working on another statue, one of the most exquisite we have ever executed. Unfortunately, it will not be ready for this year’s show, for the clay is too fresh, and I have yet to write the story.

There is a part of me that wishes it had never happened, yet the satisfied part of me cannot help but to smile. Sylvia smiles, as well. And she dances, too—like a mad fairy—in the garden of statues.

summer. Mom and dad were heading back to the city and to their mundane jobs. She would be staying for another six weeks, being of an age now—nineteen—that her parents were not hesitant to leave her. She smiled; she’d been waiting a long time for this opportunity.

“I won’t, Mother.” Caroline’s eyes squinted—she hated to be pressured. She pushed her chair away from the computer; no need to turn it off today because she, and her cat, Princess, would be the only ones in the cottage after they left.

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