Big Foot Stole My Wife Page 3
He made a mental note to purchase a box of air freshener as he took out the body bag and slung it over his shoulder. With his free hand, he closed the trunk, then went back around the house to follow the path he’d chosen several months ago when he’d first scouted the terrain. The weeds tore at his trousers, but he had made sure there were no loose rocks to cause a fall, keenly aware that a broken leg would present a serious disruption of the plan. He reached the dreary little clearing that met all the specifications for a final resting place, dropped the bag without ceremony, and bent down to study the sodden leaves that carpeted the ground.
A deputy had ground a cigarette butt into the dirt, but there were no other signs anyone had visited the spot since the rain had stopped a week ago. Nor would anyone visit for many months to come, since the lodge was left vacant for the winter season. Jay Jay had made sure of that before he’d signed the rental agreement. Rain, sleet, and snow would eradicate any evidence the earth had ever been disturbed. By spring, weeds would burst through the leaves and grow waist-high by the time any nature lover or bird fancier ventured into the area.
“I must admit it was a perfect plan,” Jay Jay said aloud, allowing himself a moment of glorious satisfaction for a well prepared plan that had come to such a satisfactory conclusion. It came, he thought smugly, of analyzing each and every detail, of noting the necessary steps, of determining how best to proceed, and then having the nerve to throw himself into the plan with the utmost confidence in his ability. He’d considered every possible variation and devised a way to deal with it. It therefore had worked perfectly.
“You preferred spontaneity, my dear?” he said to the lumpy form inside the plastic wrapper. “If time permits, I’ll let myself go wild and do a dance on your grave. Would that please you, my darling?”
He put on gloves to protect his hands from any suspicious blisters, then drew a rectangle in the dirt and began to dig the grave. The top layer of dirt was carefully removed intact so that it could be replaced. With an allowance for erosion, the hole needed to be four feet deep. At approximately one foot per hour, he would be finished with his task and back at the cabin before dark. There he would savor the meal he’d prepared earlier, read in front of the fire, and finish packing for his trip home. He’d already made a list of those whom he would call immediately to relate the tragedy, and those who could wait a few days. A memorial service might be a nice touch. He added a note to his mental list to ask his secretary for help with the arrangements. She was still young enough to have a child or two, and he felt confident she was a superior cook and hostess.
As Jay Jay paused to blot his forehead with his handkerchief, he heard a crackle from the brush. It was followed by a rumbling noise, indistinct but ominously nearby. He tightened his grip on the handle of the shovel and stared at the impenetrable tangle of branches, scraggly brush, and stunted, misshapen pine trees. He saw nothing.
He again blotted his forehead, then returned to his labor. A second crackle sounded louder than a firecracker. Jay Jay dropped the shovel and spun around to study the undergrowth for any sign of movement. Nothing. He held his breath and strained to hear another crackle, but heard only a few distant birds and the droning of an airplane somewhere beyond the mountain.
Reminding himself that he needed to keep to his schedule in order to be back at the cabin at the allotted time, he once again began to jab his shovel into the yielding earth. One foot per hour. Four hours. There was no time for delays resulting from imagined noises.
Suddenly, the brush exploded behind him. A great weight slammed against Jay Jay’s back. Ragged claws slashed his face. His nostrils stung with a putrid smell more devastating than nerve gas. His eyes watered, the tears mingling with rivulets of blood. Growls and snarls pounded his eardrums. Muscular arms tightened around his throat until all he could do was croak in terror.
He staggered forward, then sprawled into the shallow grave, the weight on top of him driving his face into the mud. It filled his mouth and nose, threatening to suffocate him. The snarls intensified as he struggled to push himself free. His hands scrabbled for the shovel but found nothing to use to fight off his attacker. The mud blocked his throat as he tried to scream. His fingers tore at the hairy arms that were wound around his neck more tightly than steel bands.
As he began to lose consciousness, he managed to free his face for a brief second. An inhuman howl swirled about him, a primitive proclamation of a successful kill. His eyes clouded with speckles of red, and his lungs began to burn. His head dropped back into the mud. In his final flicker of life, Jay Jay Anderson realized there was one small detail he had failed to include on his meticulous list. In his next life, he vowed, he would have to plan more carefully.
Paper Trail
Wellington House
#1 Wellington Road
Hampser, NC 27444
November 13, 1972
The Hampser Hero
c/o Hampser High School
Hampser, NC 27444
To the faculty adviser:
Congratulations on your ranking in the national contest for high school journals. How exceedingly proud of your young men and women you must be! All I can say is “Bravo!” These days so many young people are obsessed with athletics, politics, and other less admirable pursuits. To have such a dedicated and talented group must bring you vast satisfaction.
I shall assume that you are aware of my novels published under the pseudonyms of Alisha Wells and Alexandra Worthington. I would be delighted to speak to your classes. Wellington House can be rather lonely at times, and I truly look forward to each and every opportunity to visit with my fans and discuss my work. I cannot begin to count the number of times I’ve presented talks at luncheons—and loved every bite of it!
Perhaps I take advantage of my position in the literary community when I make this modest proposal, but I think you will agree it offers a splendid opportunity for one of your students. My filing has simply gotten away from me, as if it were a freight train barreling through the door each and every day. I put away one paper, and three more arrive in the post! If it weren’t so aggravating, it would be amusing. But what with my editors calling, the publicity demands, and the necessity of responding to an increasing amount of fan mail, I can hardly find the time to write.
I would be so deeply grateful if you could recommend a student to come in for an hour or two a week and help me conquer this quagmire of paperwork. I regret that I can pay only minimum wage, but I hope one of your students who aspires to become an author might find it interesting to deal with my busy work. I would prefer a young woman, especially one who needs financial help and will appreciate any guidance I can give her in her future career. Please call me at your convenience.
Yours truly,
Aurora Wellington
T’was the night before Christmas
Or the week before, anyway
Dear Heather,
You are going to die when I tell you this! I mean, you’d better sit down before you read one more word! I am working for Aurora Wellington, who just happens to be Alisha Wells and Alexandra Worthington. Are you dead??? I was so excited when you sent me The Willow Lake Legacy for my birthday that I finished it that very night. Then last month Miss Hayes gets this letter from her, and she wants somebody to file papers for her, and Miss Hayes asks me if I want to, and I just about faint! Do I want to work for Aurora Wellington? That’s like asking me if I wanna marry Paul McCartney—right?
Hayes is waiting, so I say I might if the hours are right, and she says well, if you’re not interested I’ll speak to Rebecca Lawson, and I say maybe I’ll ask my mother and it might be okay (Ma’s the same and no, Dad hasn’t written, but I figure it’s hard to find stamps in prison). Anyway, I say yeah, and she gives me a letter that’s actually from Aurora Wellington and tells me to go to her house (!!!) Saturday morning at ten.
I put on my blue jumper and the super shirt you gave me for Christmas last year, but I’m about to wet my pants when I ring t
he bell. She’s written—what? forty books?—and I’m standing on her porch, ringing her bell like I’m a Girl Scout selling cookies. Finally, she answers the door, and is she beautiful! Think about it—how would you expect her to look? She’s old, sure, but she has ash blond hair to her shoulders, deep lavender eyes like Elizabeth Taylor, and she’s wearing—get this—a peignoir that’s the exact same shade as her eyes. She’s got to be at least fifty, but her complexion’s right off the cover of Seventeen. She wouldn’t make cheerleader—but who wants to be a dumb cheerleader when you can make zillions of dollars writing steamy novels?
My knees are knocking, but I manage to stammer my name and before I know it, we’re sitting in the “parlor,” as she calls it, me with a Coke and her with gin, and she’s telling me (your humble second cousin!) her problems. Since I doubt Paul McCartney’s going to call (for the record, Charlie and I broke up, so he’s not calling either), I figure I’ve been snatched straight up to heaven. She tells me how she cannot concentrate on her “work” with all the paperwork lying around to depress her, and she wants me to come in for three hours on Saturday mornings and help out.
So for the last three Saturdays your cousin, the one and only greatest soon-to-be world-famous novelist, drops by the home of Aurora Wellington and reads her mail. Officially, I’m getting paid for three hours, but she comes in to chat and somehow it turns into four or five. Last week she had me do her grocery shopping on top of everything else, and I was so hungry I ate one of her apples on the way back from the store. If you’d like further details, you owe me a letter.
Eat your heart out,
Kristy
Wellington House
#1 Wellington Road
Hampser, NC 27444
March 15, 1973
Friends of the Barport Library
101 Swinton Lane
Barport, NC 27031
Dear Miss Chart,
Miss Wellington is dreadfully sorry that she will be unable to speak at your luncheon next month, and has asked me to pass along her regrets. As you know, Miss Wellington has always felt nothing but the deepest respect for the public library system’s dedication to literacy. Only her frantic writing schedule could deter her from the opportunity to express her gratitude for your good works in the community. She dearly hopes you will forgive her when you read Devilish Delights (by Alexandra Worthington) a year from now.
Yours truly,
Kristen Childers
March 23, 1973
Dear Miss Hayes,
I’m really sorry that I didn’t have time to do the interview with the head of the creative writing department at the college. I know it’s too late for excuses, but Miss Wellington is having me work all day on Saturdays and sometimes on Sundays, and my mother’s in the hospital again. I promise that I’ll do better and won’t miss any deadlines.
Sorry,
Kristy C.
Wellington House
#1 Wellington Road
Hampser, NC 27444
May 3, 1973
Dear Tommie,
Your idea was absolutely brilliant! The girl isn’t especially brilliant, but she is ever so diligent and such a perfectionist that at times I want to throw my hands in the air and give up the ghost. The child can be dictatorial, if you can believe it—I’m almost afraid to open my mail, read it, and lay it down somewhere in my office, because along will come grim little Kristy, the incriminating evidence clutched in her sweaty hand, demanding to know if I’ve lost the envelope with the return address or gone completely batty and responded without consulting her! Consulting her, mind you! I’m old enough to be … her big sister, not to mention being a best-selling author (did you see the divine review in Heartbeat Digest last week?), and I’m being ordered about by a sweet young snippet who’s not yet graduated from high school.
I know, I’m being utterly absurd. Now that I’ve trained her, why shouldn’t I allow her to take complete control of the tedium so that I can take advantage of all the lovely free time to write, write, write—and meet the next nasty deadline? Yes, Tommie darling, I’m well aware that the book’s due in less than a month and that daft young adolescent in publicity is putting together the tour. If you were more of a friend and less of a slave driver, you’d absolutely insist they put me up at the Plaza this year.
Huggies,
Aurora Borealis
A midsummer night’s eve (maybe)
Dear Cuz,
I am absolutely pea green jealous about you going to Chapel Hill! There’ll be so many gorgeous men that you won’t have time to study, much less to “pursue a degree in political history.” Try to think fondly of me as you take a toke (just joking!!!).
The junior college will have to do until I find a bag of money on the street. Ma’s back at the butterfly farm (a.k.a. the rehab center), as I’m sure Aunt Sissie has told you, and her health insurance has run out. Miss W. is letting me work every day for a few hours, but I’m barely scraping by. I’d ask Dad, but I think he earns about ten cents an hour making license plates. He sent me a box of stationery for graduation. I hear you got a car, you lucky dog. Want a personalized plate? I know where to get one—ha ha.
Yeah, I’d like to hit up Miss W. for a raise, but writers don’t make as much money as you’d think and she has a pretty quiet life. Nobody ever comes by, as far as I can tell, and she doesn’t do anything except write all day and brood all night. She got mad at her agent because of some silly thing, and changed her telephone number, so now it’s unlisted. I may be the only person on the planet who can call her. And, boy, did I learn my lesson last week! On the way to her house, I had a flat tire, and by the time I got it changed, I was two hours late. She about had a kitten, and made me promise to call whenever I’m going to be five minutes late. Remember that crazy lady who lived next door to us the summer you came? Miss W. makes her look like a Junior League president!!!
Okay, I’m exaggerating—Miss W. doesn’t own three-dozen cats. Just one, and it’s a mangy, motheaten old thing named Lady Amberline after the heroine in Sweet Surrender (or vice versa). I wish the darn thing would surrender itself to a garbage truck! Every time I look at her, I get itchy, and I spray myself for fleas once a week.
Charlie joined the army and shipped out to some base in Texas. The night before he left, we went out to dinner at a fancy restaurant and had this really serious talk, but basically he wants me to stay home and knit socks for two years. I would have laughed in his face—had I not been so tired that it sounded like a super idea.
To answer your nosy questions: I snooped through Miss W.’s papers and she is fifty-seven years old! Can you believe it? In person she looks every bit as sleek as she does on her cover shot, even if it was taken at least twenty years ago. She’s never been married, although she does drop dark hints about a lost love, and her only relative is some cousin in Tallahassee who occasionally calls or writes. No, she doesn’t read anyone else’s books, but she absolutely despises Veronica St. James and is forever making hysterically funny comments about her. The house is about a hundred years old, and not in great shape, but it’s “the ancestral home” that she inherited from dear departed “Papa” back in the days of the dinosaurs. The living room’s a shrine to her awards (lots of them!) and yes, her bed has pink satin sheets and a ruffly canopy.
So, days with Miss W. and nights without Charlie. Life’s a bowl of cherries, and I’m in the pits!!
Love,
Kristy
Wellington House
#1 Wellington Road
Hampser, NC 27444
February 27, 1974
Darling Tommie,
I shall arrive at the Plaza around five in the afternoon on Friday. I would adore to allow you to take me to dinner, but the train does take quite a long time and I’m afraid I’ll be utterly exhausted. Tell Natalie that I shall call upon her at eleven the next morning to discuss this latest travesty of a cover. No reader in her right mind would give it a second glance—much less buy it!
Kristy
will stay at the house during my tour to feed Lady Amberline, collect the mail, water the plants, and fend off burglars. The girl is a dear thing and ever so courageous about her family situation, which has all the makings of a gothic horror story. I’ve told you about her mother, a pathetic alcoholic, and her father, a contemporary blackguard if ever there were one. He’s currently in prison for burglary, assault, attempted homicide, and a host of other barbaric charges.
Several weeks ago I drove by her house, simply out of curiosity, and it’s one of those quaint tract houses with a weedy yellow lawn, at least one broken window, a cluttered carport, a roof within minutes of collapsing, and located in a development called, of all things, Clover Creek. Dandelion Dump would be more fitting!
Kristy dropped out of college this semester, saying she was unable to pay her tuition. She mentioned that she’d applied at a local restaurant for the night shift, but I told her in no uncertain terms that I should not be comfortable employing someone who, if I may lapse into colloquialisms, slings hash. No greasy fingers on my correspondence, thank you! Although my budget is already stretched to its meager limit, I told her to plan to put in a full day’s work five days a week until she is able to return to school.
I must tell you this, Tommie dear, but never ever breathe a word of it to her! She’s been dating a local boy for several months, and with her mother unavailable, I felt that someone should take a maternal interest in the matter and assess the boy. She arranged for him to come to the house to pick her up one evening last week, and brought him into the parlor to meet me. For the occasion, he chose blue jeans, white socks, sneakers, and the sort of blue cotton shirt one associates with factory workers (and why not? It seems he works at a poultry processing establishment!). I said nothing, of course, but the next day I did tell Kristy that he seemed curiously inarticulate, unintelligent, and we laughed until we cried as I painted a vivid picture of his dreary, beery future as a line foreman of a merry little band of chicken pluckers. I do believe we’ll see no more of that young man, thank God. Kristy’s indispensable and I’m not about to allow her to elope with a moon-faced factory worker!