The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel
Raymond Benson
For Randi
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author wishes to thank the following individuals for their help: Laurie Fraser, Mike Graczyk, Herman Graf, Julie Hyzy, Kim Lim, Cynthia Manson, Jim Marks, William Simon, Pam Stack, and my most trusted critic, Randi Frank.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Limite is an invented town in West Texas. It has been used before in some of my other works, such as Evil Hours and Artifact of Evil. Its similarity to a real place is intentional, but this is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of a fevered imagination.
1
One of the most frightening and challenging things a human being can do the first thing in the morning—and by that, I mean after you get out of bed, pee, put on something warm, and have some breakfast and coffee (that last part is essential)—is to sit down at a computer and begin to write a new novel.
I hate it. Actually, no, let me rephrase that. I hate starting a new book. I love everything else about the writing process, but I’ve always found it difficult to initially propel myself into that quagmire of caffeine-induced, delirious hair pulling and sleepless torment, because I know this will be my reality for the next couple of months until I get my groove on and become comfortable with the characters and storyline.
That’s what I’m attempting to do when I hear the doorbell downstairs, followed by the sound of Billy opening the door. Voices—the mailman. I glance at the digital clock on my desk—is it already eleven? It’s nice that my postman delivers the mail early; other people I know in Chicago complain that their carriers don’t come until nearly supper time. I reckon Billy will bring it up—right now the important thing is to stare dutifully at that blank page on my screen and figure out how the hell I am going to start the next Patricia novel without becoming an “imitation of myself.” That was what some genius in one of those book review magazines said about the most recent Patricia. Even after forty-two Patricia Harlow books and a handful of stand-alones, a comment like that can still bug me. I might be successful, but what the hell, I’m also human.
I’m taking the criticism to heart—I really want to start the next one with something completely different from what I’ve done in the past. There is already a finished book going through the editing stage at my publishing house. The manuscript I’m supposed to start today is the one that will appear after that, and it probably won’t see publication until two years from now. Nevertheless, a deadline is the biggest motivator in this crazy business of mine. I know I’ll get it done. I’ve averaged a book every ten or eleven months since I was in my thirties, and I don’t have any plans to retire yet. Writers never do that. As long as we can still think, dream, and somehow lay it all out on paper, we will continue to work.
But after age sixty, it does get harder.
I glance at the now-empty coffee cup and decide to boost the caffeine dose. Procrastination is my friend. Hmm, maybe I should have another cup of joe, shower, do my hair and nails, and exercise early. Shake up the routine.
“Shelby?”
It’s Billy, downstairs.
“I’m up here!” I call.
“Should I come up?”
“Is that the mail? Bring it up, will you? But start a fresh pot of coffee first, okay?”
Billy, my personal assistant, is thirty-eight, gay, single, and an excellent secretary. Once I became an international bestselling author, I found that I couldn’t handle everything alone. Fan mail, social media updating, proofreading, and all the other stuff authors have to do that isn’t actually writing, which can suck up half a day or more. I pay Billy to come in part time and do it for me, especially the social media nonsense, which regrettably is vitally important these days. He often works on updating my website; he is good at stuff like that. He also meticulously makes sure anything about me that appears on other websites is accurate and up to date, and I trust him to take care of my “brand.” Billy has a small workspace on the first floor of my three-level townhouse. My office is one of three bedrooms on the top floor, which sometimes causes a lot of shouting up and down the stairs. When I’m in the zone, I prefer a solitary, lonely cocoon of silence. Sometimes I put on music, which doesn’t bother me.
After a few minutes, Billy appears in the open door and knocks. “Is this Shelby Truman’s office?” he asks.
“Unfortunately … yes.”
“Your mail, madam.” He brings it over and places the bundle on my desk. “Mostly bills, junk mail, and this … I signed for a piece of registered overnight mail from, well, look.”
The return address on the top of the envelope indicates that the sender is Robert Crane Esq. of Limite, Texas. I know the name.
Eddie’s attorney.
A twinge of anxiety starts deep in my chest. I’d been trying not to think about Eddie, but that’s impossible this week.
The thing is, I’ve always thought about Eddie. We go way, way back, to when we were children living in Limite.
Billy stands there, waiting for me to open the letter. I look at him, and he shuffles his feet. “Oh, sorry, I guess you want to be alone. I’ll go get the coffee. Should be ready in a minute.”
“No, stay. Open it and let me see what Mr. Crane has to say.”