Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors (80 page)

“Billy, would you like to help me?"

“Billy do anything for Penny."

“I need help with the greenhouses and I need a strong man to protect me at night. I think you can learn to be a farmer, don't you?"

“Billy learn anything Penny teach. Billy grow stuff in Mama's garden. Billy strong, not let bad people hurt Penny. Mama won't let Billy live with Penny."

“Yes, she will, Billy. I just talked with her. That is why I was in the church. She said it was okay for you to help me and live in the house with me. In fact, it was her idea."

“Billy still see Mama sometimes?"

“Of course."

“Penny fuck Billy?"

“That's our secret, Billy. Don't ever say that to anyone else."

“Billy keep secret good,” he said, smiling broadly and pressing his hands to her breasts.

Penny sat restlessly in the living room, eating cold chicken and trying to watch a game show on TV. She did not feel lonely, nor did she sense the ghost of her uncle. She did feel that she needed to do something to turn the house into her home, rather than Uncle Amos’ place. She thought that maybe she should just sell the farm and move away, but then she remembered her promise not to sell—at least not to Tim Dollar. Obviously, Uncle Amos wanted her to keep and run the farm herself.

Remembering the promise not to sell to Tim Dollar reminded her of the promise she made to destroy Uncle Amos’ diary and also a mysterious green box. She clicked off the TV, tossed the paper plate and chicken bones in the kitchen trashcan and went to Amos’ study. She sat at the massive desk and pulled open the center drawer. Among other things, the drawer contained an envelope addressed to her.

Dear Penny,

If you are reading this, I am at long last taking the eternal dirt nap. Don't grieve for me Penny. My time was up a long while ago.

With all my heart, I hope you will keep and farm my place. It can be a good home for you my sweet niece, and you can do the work. In this envelope you will find directions as to the best ways I have found to use the greenhouses. I cleared only $20,000 last year, but I made many mistakes. I am expecting a return of at least $50,000 this year.

If you must sell, please do not sell even a single acre to Tim Dollar. I don't have anything against Tim personally. He seems to be a nice young man. It's his Uncle, Pete Harlow, from whom Tim inherited his wealth, who I hate. Pete tried hard, and almost succeeded, to get my land before he conveniently passed away. I don't want my land added to his. If you do sell to Tim Dollar, I'll get up out of my grave and come back to haunt you. (Just kidding.)

There is a portrait of my wife and me on the wall behind the desk. The frame is adhered to the wall on hinges, just like in the movies. Pull the frame from left to right and you will find a wall safe behind it. The combination is:

Right three times to 91, left two times to 41, right one time to 31, turn back to the left to 11, then pull down on the handle.

Inside the safe is my will, which you need to get to Susan Kimel immediately. Also you will find ten volumes of my diary. DESTROY THE DIARY. DO NOT READ IT.

I love you Penny. I am sorry you and your parents don't get along, but I am so happy you came into my life to brighten an otherwise dismal old age.

Uncle Amos

Penny located the safe, opened it, and found the will and the diary. There was also a cigar box containing cash. She put everything on the desk and counted the bills in the box. There was exactly fifteen hundred dollars. At the bottom of the box was a passbook savings account book showing deposits of sixty thousand dollars.

She opened the middle drawer of the desk and removed the checkbook she discovered earlier. The final entry was a check stub showing a payment to the electric company. The balance was two thousand forty three dollars and sixteen cents.

She replaced the checkbook and put the cash and savings book back into the safe. She left the will on the desk, since she planned to take it to Susan Kimel the next morning. She started to put the diary volumes back into the safe, but changed her mind. She decided to burn them in the morning, so she left them on the desk also.

She went back to the kitchen for another piece of cold chicken and leaned against the counter while she ate a drumstick, being careful to drop crumbs only into the sink.

If Uncle Amos really did not want me to read his diary, why didn't he destroy it himself? she asked herself. He's been planning for his death at least two weeks. He's had plenty of time to burn those notebooks. Maybe he subconsciously did want me to read them, she reasoned.

She carefully washed the grease from her hands and put on a pot of coffee. It would take all night to read her uncle's journals and she needed something to keep her awake.

Randy looked up from his desk as Jo entered from her study. “I agree with you, Jo. These three are the best candidates from all the applications we have,” he said, waving at her the resumes she already reviewed.

“What surprised me, Randy, was the number of replies we received from established editors who want to change jobs.” She turned the wooden chair beside his desk backwards and straddled it, resting her arms on its backrest. “There were over two hundred."

“Editors move around a lot,” he said, “but most of the applications we received were actually from wannabes rather than experienced editors."

“Do you think the reason they gave for wanting to leave Open Page Publications is valid?"

“Probably. Open Page, of course, is one of the country's oldest firms, but the religious conglomerate, Burning Bush, recently purchased them. I imagine it's true that the new owners will only allow very conservative books to be published in the future."

“Do you think these editors can bring with them the best-selling authors they claim?"

“Those authors are going to have to move to another publishing house anyway. None of them are conservative writers. Its not likely that Open Page will continue to publish them."

“But what about the salaries these editors demand? Do you think Sandra will cough up that kind of cash?"

“That, my dear bride, is a good question. We can probably get all three editors for a little less than they have asked, especially if we offer them two or three percent of the gross sales of the books they edit."

Jo shook her head. “Even without a percentage of the gross they'll be making a hell of a lot more than we do."

“That's true,” Randy replied. “In my case, it doesn't matter. I want to get the company off the ground and then drop out. I'm a writer, and I eventually want to devote my full time to writing. With you, it's a different matter. Once we get everything in place we can put a salary increase for you in our budget proposal and see what happens."

“Maybe I would like to be a full-time writer too,” Jo commented.

“You?” he asked. “I didn't know you had any interest in writing."

Jo untangled herself from the chair and strolled to the double window behind his desk. For a few seconds she watched sudden gusts of wind rearrange the leaves piled on the ground and inhaled the rich aroma of the pine slab paneling of the study. “Randy, do you ever think about what happened to us on the way back from visiting your mother? I know we need to put it behind us, but I just can't get it out of my mind."

“That's natural, I think. Perhaps you should see Dr. McGee about it."

“I'm not sick, Randy, and my thoughts aren't morbid."

“The one thing I have decided as a result of thinking about the episode is that I am no longer interested in you having oral sex with me,” he joked.

She rushed to him and playfully slapped the back of his head. She hugged him and nibbled his ear. “You like that, don't you? You behave yourself or I'll use my sharp teeth on your ear."

“Seriously,” she said as she returned to the chair-straddling position in front of him. “The whole thing is just too ... too rich for us to bury in our memories. I've been checking various newspaper accounts on the Internet, trying to find out something about the wounded patrolman. How did he happen to be wearing a bulletproof vest? Why did he stop that guy in the first place? Who was the gunman? How did he happen to have that automatic rifle? What are the charges lodged against him? Will a jury convict him or will he get off on a technicality? How will the whole thing affect his life, the patrolman's life, the patrolman's loved ones, and our lives?"

“I get it now,” Randy said. “You want to write a book about it."

“Not a nonfiction book. I want to write a novel. A novel provides more leeway—more opportunity to portray emotions and draw conclusions."

“And more opportunity to exaggerate reality to make it more dramatic, but you need the information you just mentioned to fuel your imagination. Right?"

“Exactly. Randy, since we finished arranging your mother's furniture, most of the time I have spent in my study has been devoted to this thing—not to the Dollar Publishing Company. I just can't get it off my mind. I have already written part of the book—our part. I was wondering... “She took a deep breath. “I was wondering if you would read what I have so far."

He did not respond immediately.

“Randy?"

“Sorry. I was thinking."

“Did it hurt?"

“Yeah,” he laughed. “It always does. That's why I do so little of it."

“What were you thinking?"

“What would you think of us collaborating on this novel?"

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Are you trying to horn in on my idea, or do you think I don't have the talent to write the story?"

“At this point I have no idea of your talent. Reading your manuscript would help me make a judgment, but I don't want to do that—not yet at least."

She could hear the excitement building in his voice as he stood up, moved to her side of the desk and propped against it.

“My idea is simple. Together we will build fictitious answers to your questions. You will be the primary female protagonist in the drama and I will be the primary male protagonist. You write the story from your perspective and I will write it from mine. We'll merge the two in alternating chapters and write the final chapter together. I'm sure it must have been done before, but at the moment I can't think of an example."

She jumped up, knocking over the chair, and embraced him. “And if my writing turns out to be crude, you can smooth it out after we've both concluded our versions of the story."

“No,” he said. “In the unlikely event that your efforts prove to be ‘crude,’ as you put it, we'll leave it crude. Since I am the writer in the family, the ‘crudeness’ might just turn out to be the single factor that makes the story believable."

She shook his hand vigorously and headed for her study.

“What's the rush?” he called after her.

“I want to get all my questions and potential answers down on paper. If we can pull this thing off, Randy, it will make the ordeal we went through worthwhile."

“Honey,” he said as he moved towards her. “We stopped the gunman. That alone made the ordeal worthwhile."

“I didn't like having to show you my skills as a hooker,” she said softly as he folded her in his arms.

“Is that what you were doing?” he said, stroking her hair. “It didn't turn me on at the time, but it sure did distract him. You know what I remember most about our ordeal?"

She shook her head.

“I remember how we read each other's minds and worked in concert like a finely turned machine."

She pulled away and smiled up at him. “We did, didn't we? Like an old married couple who no longer need to use words to communicate."

The weekly Monday morning meeting of Dollar Enterprises executives droned on long past the normal one-hour length. The golf courses, including the par three, miniature course and driving ranges were scheduled to open the first of April, as were the lakeside rental cabins, hiking trails, exercise trails, tennis courts, exercise gym, softball diamonds, skateboard and skating rinks, ice-skating rink and bowling ally. Tim Dollar demanded details on every incomplete task. He kept reminding the group that opening day was less than two months away.

A discussion that came close to being ugly erupted on the matter of the creation of a security force that would patrol the recreation complex. Some insisted the entire town of Dot needed its services while others were adamant that the deputies provided to Dot by the Mecklenburg County Sheriff's Department were sufficient.

Jo was growing more nervous by the minute. She repeatedly asked herself why she agreed to present the report on the Dollar Publishing Company instead of Randy. She decided that he tricked her, pretending that she needed to establish her credibility before this group. She followed Sandra Dollar to the convenient coffeepot for her fourth cup.

“It won't be long now,” Sandra whispered. “There's just one more report and then the stage is yours."

That one more report proved to be the presentation of the entire advertising campaign as put together by the Holder Advertising Agency. Tim Dollar didn't like some of the agency's plans and Sandra seemed distraught that more use of caricatures, for which the agency was famous, was not in the plan.

Finally Tim looked at Randy and said, “Randy, I don't know about you, but I need a bathroom break before you begin your report."

“Tim,” Randy replied. “My legs have been crossed for thirty minutes, but Jo will be making our presentation today."

“Is it okay with you if we break for a few minutes, Jo?” Tim asked.

“Of course,” she replied, “but since this meeting has already run nearly two hours, perhaps we should wait until next week for our report."

“I understand you are ready to recommend a budget,” Tim replied.

“Yes, sir."

“Then it's important. This is a project in which Sandy is naturally very interested in speeding forward.” He let his glance sweep the conference table. “Five minutes, everybody."

Five minutes, hell, Jo thought as she stood in line outside the bathroom the four ladies in attendance were sharing. He doesn't understand how long it takes a woman to pee.