leaned out of the car window, an earnest inquiring look on her face. “I almost forgot to ask you,” she called out. “Did that little girl say anything to you about a strange man in the woods?”
I walked back to her car so I wouldn’t have to yell. “What man?” I asked.
“I went out to the Bradley’s house last night to get an interview for the paper. Mrs. Bradley wouldn’t let me talk to her daughter; but she told me that Nell Jane said a big man with a black beard and one eye chased her into the woods. I just wondered if the child said anything like that to you.”
I tried to keep the surprise from showing on my face, but apparently didn’t succeed.
“I was astounded, too,” Beth agreed. “But the mother was very insistent—and angry that the authorities weren’t taking the child’s story seriously. She threatened to call the FBI if Chief Joiner didn’t investigate more thoroughly!”
“Can I give you an answer off the record, Beth?”
“Well…I’m not supposed to suppress the news.”
“This isn’t news,” I sighed.
“Okay, then. Just this once—for you—I promise!” she said, raising her hand and then crossing her heart with her fingers. “Cross my heart, and hope to….”
“Yeah, yeah,” I interrupted. I still didn’t trust her enough to protect my privacy, so I chose my words very carefully. “It was dark, and the little girl was terrified. Crawling out of that thicket and finding half the town and every squad car in the county must have scared her even more. She probably felt she had to place the blame for causing so much trouble on someone other than herself—when the truth is—she probably got lost chasing a rabbit into the brush. I find it hard to believe her story.”
“Me, too!” declared Beth. “But her mother sure is running with it. I feel sorry for that child when the truth comes out. Mrs. Bradley seems to be a ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ type of parent.”
“Is there a Mr. Bradley,” I asked curiously.
“Instead of answering, she quickly consulted the old-fashioned bracelet watch on her right wrist. “Must be off,” she announced abruptly. “Thanks a bunch, Paisley!”
I watched her head down the drive and turn into the highway; almost wishing she would come back so I could ask some questions of my own.
“What’s in that package, Mom?” asked Cassie with a sly smile as I opened the screened door to the back porch. “Don’t tell me the redoubtable Miss Bethlehem Davis finally convinced you to read her masterpiece?”
I threw the hefty packet in the corner—and watched in dismay as the rubber bands popped and the manuscript exploded into a small mushroom-shaped cloud.
“Good job!” observed Cassie. “I hope for your sake the pages were numbered, Mom.”
“Oh, my God! Surely she had the good sense…thank heavens!” I swore in relief as I picked up a handful of pages and looked them over. “What a mess!”
“Are you really going to read it?”
I sat down at table and started sorting out the pages. “I guess so, I promised—even though I had no choice, thanks to Mother.”
“Thanking me, dear?” asked Mother, as she joined us. “Whatever for? Not that there aren’t many things for which you should show your appreciation.”
“Well,” I said with a wicked grin, “then perhaps I should begin by letting you have first go at Bethlehem’s manuscript ”
“That’s lovely of you, Paisley. I think I just might take you up on that.”
“You will?”
“Why, of course! Miss Davis is quite an interesting young woman. She could use some guidance in her style of dress, but she’s headed in the right direction. At least she has the good sense to eschew jeans in favor of a skirt. Yes, I think our Miss Davis has possibilities. I would definitely like to explore the world of her imagination. After all, I do so enjoy her articles in the Gazette. Her chef d’oeuvre could prove very enlightening.”
“Well, here then!” I declared petulantly, plopping the hodge-podge of pages down in front of her.
“Where are you going, dear?” called Mother, as I slammed the porch door and headed for the carriage house.
“The Dairy Queen!” I shouted over my shoulder. “What’s it to ya’?” I muttered angrily under my breath.
Chapter Six
The Dairy Queen out on Highway 62 was Rowan Spring’s favorite fast food eatery—the truth is—it was the only fast food joint in town. When I arrived at half past noon I saw the drive-thru lane was already filled with a stream of hungry and impatient office workers. Cursing my luck, I drove around to the back searching for a parking spot and spotted Horatio Raleigh’s big silver Bentley stationed majestically aloof at the far end.
I placed my order at the counter, then squeezed my way through the crowd to a quiet corner in the back. Always the gentleman, Horatio stood and bowed slightly, gesturing for me to sit opposite him in the booth.
“Congratulations, my dear!” he said, raising his chocolate malt in salutation. “I understand you are the woman of the hour.”
“Hopefully fame will prove to be as fleeting as they claim!” I answered ruefully. “So far, it’s brought me nothing but a peck of trouble.”
“Your mother told me about the upcoming article in the Gazette. I suppose that is the trouble to which you are referring?”
“Yep! Not only do I have to suffer the invasion of my well-deserved privacy by having my photograph plastered all over tomorrow’s early edition, but I also have to read fourteen-hundred and fifty-two pages of a single-spaced, barely legible autobiography written by a thirty-three year old spinster with no life.”
“Oh, my! That is a fate worse than death,” he chuckled.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I explained. “Beth Davis seems to be a very nice person. She’s articulate—maybe a little too articulate—and smart; but that doesn’t always add up to talent. Look at me! I’m not that smart, and according to Mother, I’m practically tongue-tied.”
“And yet you are the successful novelist Miss Davis aspires to be. Did anyone extend a helping hand on your road to success, Paisley?”
“Why, of course! Pam, my agent, helped me do everything; but you know that, Horatio.” I looked up and saw the chiding look on his handsome, aristocratic face. “Oh, I see—I’m being a spoiled rotten brat again, aren’t I?”
“Certainly not now that you’re aware of your fall from grace,” he answered with a smile.
“Oh, well,” I sighed. “I guess you’re right. I’ll read it when Mother finishes.”
A short, plump woman in a Dairy Queen uniform walked up to our table. “Miz DeLeon. I have your order.”
“Goodness!
