Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors (17 page)

“Say what?” she exclaimed aloud. She shook her head. I'm not ready to go down that road yet, she thought.

She paused and looked back towards the house. Sun reflecting off the surface of the lake warmed her heart. She held her breath as two mallards descended, spread their wings and glided to a skipping halt on the blue water.

She decided to think about her new responsibilities. There was very little to do at the house, with Bobby looking after the cleaning and laundry, but she made a checklist to be sure everything was done in a timely manner. She devoted many hours to the remodeling of Bobby's house. Brother Carl is doing a good job, she thought. Already a new roof is on the structure as well as siding. Monday, Carl plans to replace the old windows with the new double-paned variety. Tim was impressed with Carl's knowledge as well as his work, and decided to set Carl up as a general contractor. She smiled. Tim, of course, is looking ahead. There are twenty-five rental houses that need major repairs.

It pleased Sandra that Tim had talked with her about the rental houses. Those inspected so far were in bad condition. He chewed out the rental agency for letting them get into such a state, but the agency blamed it on Uncle Pete's reluctance to spend money on the income producing units. The agency recommended that Tim try to sell the houses. They said he would never recover the cost of repairs because the renters would tear up the houses about as quickly as he repaired them. However, it was Bobby's advice Tim and Sandra decided to follow. Hey, she thought, Tim did let me help make that decision. Bobby's suggestion was that Tim not only make repairs, but also remodel the houses, making them as attractive as possible. He advised a little landscaping and gardening too, but the most radical suggestion was to lower the rent while adding a requirement that the renter must help keep the house in good condition.

Sandra had forgotten that she agreed to contact Silas Coan about drawing up such a rental agreement. She pulled a pad and ballpoint pen from the hip pocket of her blue jeans and made a note.

The temperature of the October afternoon had risen considerably and she welcomed the shade of the pine grove. She intended to rest a few minutes before retracing her steps, but she became curious as to where the continuing path might lead. The tree line began at the top of a hill. She soon found herself descending on the opposite side, listening to the chorus of birds chirping and unseen wildlife scurrying through the brush on either side of the trail. Suddenly she emerged into a small grassy clearing.

Although she had never before seen a spring, she recognized the water bubbling out of the ground, pooling in a natural basin about the size of a wash tub, and spilling over at the opposite end, forming the mouth of a tiny stream headed eventually to the ocean. She rinsed her hands in the small stream, cupped them together, dipped them into the basin and cautiously sampled the spring water. It was the sweetest, most delicious water she had ever tasted. She drank greedily, spilling as much on her flannel shirt as she actually drank. That felt good too.

As she made her way back out of the wooded area, Sandra wondered if it would be possible to pipe this delicious water to the house. She resolved to return soon and fill containers to keep in the refrigerator for future use. Their well water had a hint of iron taste. The spring water would be a welcome change.

Emerging from the trees Sandra found that as suddenly as the afternoon heated up, the temperature was now beginning to drop, making the return trip very pleasant. Her thoughts returned to writing.

I wonder if George Eliot ever started a novel and tore it up before finishing the first chapter? What would she have done? Sandra tried to recall a mental image of the encyclopedia article. Her face brightened when she remembered that Eliot wrote book reviews. I could do that, she thought, but who would want to publish them? Her spirits dampened when she thought of the polished reviews she read in the copy of
Publisher's Weekly
that Tim bought her and also those in the Sunday edition of the
Charlotte Observer
. Then she remembered the
Dot Courier
. Hadn't the editor, Diane Something-or-other, said they printed all the news they could find? She must have meant that there was so little going on in Dot it was hard to find enough material to fill each weekly edition. The
Courier
would jump at the chance to publish her book reviews. Sandra's mind instantly leaped to the logical next step. I'll write a review of
Silas Marner
, she resolved.

“Hey, Sandy, you in there?"

“Yeah, in the Whirl Pool, Dude."

“Want company?"

“Depends on who the company is."

On her return, Sandra positioned herself in the Whirl Pool so that one of the strong jets of water pumped pleasurable sensations into that most private area of her anatomy. She did not bother to close her legs when Tim joined her. He slid into the opposite cradle and let the big toe of his right foot replace the action of the jet. She reciprocated.

“Did you finish?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I'm going to let Carl handle the whole thing. He's a sharp kid, Sandy."

“I think so too. I hope he will stay off the booze."

“Carl is going to make a list of everything that we plan to do with each house. I'll write that up in some kind of report to give to the county inspector. That should buy us some time."

“I thought I was the writer in the family."

“Would you do that for me, Sandy?"

“No, but I'll do it for us."

He smiled at her. Okay, damn it, I love her, he thought. Maybe I should tell her. Instead, he said, “How'd the writing go?"

“I didn't try writing today. I took a long walk instead.” She told him about the spring and its sweet water and her decision to try writing a book review.

“Who the hell do you think will want to read about a book that was written 200 years ago?” he asked.

Bastard! she thought. “Less than 100 years ago,” she corrected, pleased that she remembered.

“Same thing. Book reviews feature titles recently published. If you want to write book reviews, buy a new novel and review that.” He stroked her vaginal lips with his big toe.

She moved her toes from his scrotum to his firmly erect penis. “Kiss my ass."

“Turn over and I will."

She did, and he did.

Doggy style is okay, but he can't reach my boobs, she thought. “Lewes would have supported me,” she said.

“Who the hell is Lewes?” He adjusted her legs to get the right angle.

“Wouldn't you like to know?"

He was no longer listening.

“Hamburger's good,” he said, trying to break the ice.

For unknown reasons, Tim always wanted hamburgers on Sunday night. She fixed him two burgers and one for herself, buns heavily smeared with hot mustard and sweet onion slices the way he liked. She even made french-fries.

“How many people who read the
Dot Courier
do you think have ever even heard of
Silas Marner
?” she asked.

“You have a point,” he conceded. Peace at any price, he thought. Anxious to change the subject he asked, “What did you think of Mack?"

“Who?"

“Mack McGee, the preacher."

“I still can't believe you talked me into going to church this morning."

“Well, what did you think of him?"

She didn't want to admit she had slept through most of the sermon. She searched her mind for anything she could remember and said, “I was surprised to hear him say he was divorced. I would think he'd prefer to keep that part of his life private. I thought preachers got unreverended or something if they were divorced.” She smiled, wondering if “unreverended” was a word.

“That's what I like about him. He's unconventional. I told you that last week he said he had been a con artist and pool shark."

“He's different all right,” she agreed.

“Who is Lewes?"

She laughed, “My secret lover."

He didn't laugh. Given her history and the brief time he had known her, he didn't find it amusing.

His voice was very low when he replied, “Sandy, if you want to go on fucking anything that wears pants, that's your choice, but..."

She reached across the table and grabbed his hand. “I was kidding, Tim. Lewes was George Eliot's husband. Well, at least she thought of him as her husband like I think of you."

“You do?"

“Of course."

“Do you think we ought to get married?"

“Maybe someday."

He felt both relief and disappointment.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. He glanced through the breakfast room door and his eyes fell on the door in the kitchen that led to the basement. “Sandy, have you been down in the basement?"

“No, why do you ask?"

“Well, Friday when the technicians came to install your Internet telephone line they asked me for the keys to a room down there. They wanted to run the line through it. I didn't know there was a room in the basement, and certainly didn't know where the keys to it were. They chose another route for their line. I went down to look. The room must take up half the basement and it has heating ducts run to it, so Uncle Pete must have used it for something besides storage. The door has a Yale dead bolt and two padlocks on it."

“There's a ring with a bunch of keys hanging on a nail in the pantry,” she responded.

They carried their dishes to the kitchen sink and together washed, dried and put them away. Sandra went to her library, determined to compose the best book review ever written.

“In 1861,” Sandra wrote, “Mary Ann Evans, one of the first ranked of 19
^th
century English novelists using the pen name George Eliot, wrote the gripping novel which is now considered a classic,
Silas Marner
."

She was so pleased with the first sentence that she read it over and over again before continuing. “Marner, betrayed by his closest friend..."

Tim took the ring of keys to the basement. The key to the Yale lock was quickly located. The padlock keys were on the ring, but he tried several before finding the right ones. He swung open the door, groped in the darkness for a light switch and gaped at the unexpected sight.

On the right side of the room was a double bed. Surrounding the bed area were klieg lights and four video cameras mounted on tripods. The room to the left of the door contained a wraparound counter with door-covered cabinets above and below. He did not recognize the electronic equipment on the counter. In one corner was a big screen TV with a VCR on top. An older model computer with freestanding tower was wedged between the TV and counter. Tim recognized it from his teaching days as an IBM 386 clone. Thick dust covered everything. Tim opened one cabinet door and found it filled with VCR tape cassettes. He removed a half dozen. Each was Labeled “Jan 1, Jan 2, Jan 3,” etc., and were all dated as well.

He snapped on the TV. The screen filled with snow indicating there was no antenna attached. He turned on the VCR. The screen turned solid blue. He inserted the tape labeled “Jan 1".

Dirty old men are such fools, Cathy thought as she sat in her personal car parked at the rear of the Shell station. I think Matt actually creamed in his britches when I showed him my boobs. She laughed. Pete Harlow wasn't an old fool, unfortunately, but he taught me well.

She shifted her position a little, keeping her eyes on the two-story motel next door. Vice squads concentrate on Saturday nights, she thought, but salesmen come to town on Sunday nights. They're looking for action and there're always plenty of whores around to supply their needs.

He wrote that check so fast he practically set the paper on fire, she chuckled. Friday morning she had worn a regulation khaki skirt—a very short khaki skirt—instead of her usual form fitting khaki pants. She had sat, knees as wide apart as the skirt would permit, across from him in his office during the morning. His damn eyes practically burned a hole in my panties, she remembered with sadistic glee. When I asked for a $400 loan to buy tires for my car he wrote the check for $500 and insisted it was a gift, not a loan. Damn fool. Wonder what he would give for a taste of my nipples?

She jerked to attention. Two middle-aged men, one gray-haired, the other bald, were climbing the outside steps to the second story of rooms. The bald-headed guy kept his hand on the buttocks of the lone female in the company. If she's not a hooker, I'll turn in my badge, Cathy thought, checking her watch. She noted the room they entered, waited five minutes, and casually walked across the parking lot.

She slipped her service revolver from its holster and quietly inserted the master key in the lock. With practiced speed she turned the key, burst open the door, jumped inside assuming the standard pose with both hands on the revolver pointed at the three nude unfortunates in one of the two double beds.

As she kicked the door closed, the gray-haired salesman urinated on the prostitute's leg.

The men began to beg for a break, as she knew they would. The first few times she worked the scam she had pretended to be insulted by bribery attempts, but she quickly learned that was not necessary. She made all three lie on their stomachs, removed watches and rings from the men, emptied their wallets, watched them get dressed and let them flee. She knew they would not file complaints.

She locked the door behind them and sat on the bed beside the frightened young whore. “You, my pretty young lady, are going to the lockup,” she said.

“Please,” the prostitute pleaded. “Give me a break. This is my first time. I swear to God I'll never do it again."

“That's what they all say,” Cathy responded, snapping the handcuffs on the frightened woman's wrists.

“I ... I don't have any money, but I'll do anything."

“You've got to be punished."

“You let the guys go,” the whore protested.

“I punished them. I fined them all the money they had on them, and they are going to have a hell of a time explaining to their wives how they lost their wedding bands."