Hello, I'm Rebecca Scarberry (Scarberryfields on Twitter). Thank you for visiting my blog. If there are any of you who don't know, I only post my books on my blog. Please take the time to read my short story, Rag Doll (my very first posting, and you can now read Chapters 1-6 of my novella, Messages From Henry. I hope you enjoy them.

Messages From Henry (Chapters 1-6)

Messages from Henry

 A Novella by Rebecca Scarberry

CHAPTER 1

  The first thing I notice when I walk out onto my wooden front porch is the silence. The birds, normally tweeting away as they hop from branch to branch in the cedar tree above my bird feeder, are nowhere to be found. Not even a buzzard, in search of its morning feast. I feel a strange tension in the air.

I sit down in my rickety pine rocking chair, bundled up in my puffy red down jacket on this chilly November morning. Cinnamon, my longhaired orange cat is startled by the loud creak of the chair. She runs out from under the chair, sits under the table and gives me a sneer as though I scared her intentionally.

I place my coffee on a nearby wrought-iron table and search the meadow and the cow pasture for any movement.  Not even the sound of a distant dog barking, hawk squawking or wild turkey gobbling can be heard in the distance.  Even Cinnamon sits under the table, turning her head from side to side, searching the trees and bushes for any sign of life.

Fluttering wings startle us.

 

“Henry, what are you doing here?” I ask my neighbor Evelyn’s pure white homing pigeon, which has settled on my bannister. “You better skedaddle before Cinnamon decides to jump up there. What’s that tied to your foot? Evelyn joking around and sent a note to me?”

Henry stares at me with his bright yellow eyes and tilts his head to one side as I move towards him. I have grown quite fond of Henry over the years since his mother, having laid only one egg for some reason, refused to care for him once he had hatched. Evelyn, my elderly neighbor and close friend, took Henry into her home and hand-fed him. While visiting, I always enjoy helping. Her husband, Des raised and sold white homing Rock Pigeons, which can find their way home from extremely long distances, and made quite a bit of money doing so. Des passed away one year ago, and my husband, Frank passed away two months later.

  

Once Henry could eat regular feed, Evelyn put him in her yard where he could roam freely-unlike the other pigeons, which she keeps in an aviary. I have always enjoyed helping when I visit.

I untie the note from Henry’s leg and read it aloud. “Help, he is going to kill me, Evelyn.”

My swollen, arthritic hands tremble as I hurry inside the house. I let Evelyn’s phone ring eight times before disconnecting and dialing the sheriff.

“Sheriff, Kincaid here, how may I help you?”

“Warren, you have to go over to Evelyn White’s house right away. Henry just brought me a note from her. She’s in trouble.”

Ever since childhood, the three of us have been good friends.  I suppose the three of us were drawn together by our red curly hair and our unusual aqua blue eyes. Warren knows all about Henry’s devotion to Evelyn.

 

“Is Henry still at your house?”

“No, once I took the note off his leg, he flew away.”

“Wait a half hour and then meet me at Evelyn’s house. I want to secure the scene before you arrive.”

When I pull up in front of Evelyn’s house, Sheriff Kincaid and a team of three investigators are there. Before I reach the front door, Sheriff Kincaid grabs my arm and says, “We’ve found evidence of a struggle inside. I can’t allow you to enter. Investigator, Ryan Hobbs will be in touch with me just as soon as they know more. Hobbs is the tall, thin man with blonde hair. He just came out of the house.”

“Was blood found inside?” I ask as my hands tremble.

The look on Warren’s face reveals the answer and I start crying. He takes me in his arms and tries to comfort me. He says, “We will know more once the investigators run tests. Tammy, how do you suppose Evelyn was able to get paper and pencil to write that note?”

“Evelyn always has this tiny little pad of paper with a small pencil attached that she either stuffs in her bra or a pocket. She’s writing her memoirs and whenever she thinks of something she wants to add, she has it handy.”

Warren walks me back to my Jeep. I have a heavy heart and fear I may never see my close friend ever again.

He hesitates before opening the driver’s side door for me and asks, “Does Evelyn have a substantial amount of money or do any of her relatives?”

“Evelyn isn’t rich so to speak, but her only child, Scott Bury, as you know is a very successful novelist. Why do you ask?”

“It’s possible the kidnapper might call him and ask for a ransom.”

CHAPTER 2

The next day, while I am cleaning out my chicken coop, I feel the same unfamiliar tension in the air as the day before. There isn’t even a slight breeze and there is silence all around. The sun has just peeked over the mountain, setting the sky ablaze in lavender. There’s a thin layer of frost on the tops and outer branches of the trees. The frost sparkles in the early morning light like a kaleidoscope. The reddish brown bark of the nearby madrone trees stands out against the forest of pines.  Any other day, the chickens would be pacing and clucking, anxious for their morning feed. Today they are all quietly standing in a row, looking out through the chicken wire. I begin to wonder if the chickens are staring at something behind me. As soon as I turn around, I see Henry. He’s standing motionless and quiet as he stares at me with fear in his eyes. I hurry over to him. “Henry, I see you have another note for me.”

I don’t remove the note from Henry’s leg for fear of contaminating evidence. I hurry to retrieve Cinnamon’s cat carrier. Once I have Henry in the carrier, I place it in the back of my Jeep and head for Warren’s office.

As soon as Warren sees me walk into his office, he tells the person he’s talking to that he’ll call them back. He looks very concerned.

“Good morning, Tammy.” He opens one of his desk drawers, pulls out a pair of white plastic gloves and puts them on. He then reads aloud: Riverside Park, outbuilding.”

“I’m glad the person holding Evelyn captive isn’t taking her out of state. Riverside Park isn’t far at all.”

“I’ll call you later with our findings. Riverside Park is a big park with lots of outbuildings. Don’t get impatient.”

I open my mouth to protest, but Warren raises his arm and rushes towards the front door.

*

Warren calls me four hours later. He’s excited, “Just as I pulled into the parking lot by the restrooms, a dark blue Honda Civic was speeding towards me with a Josephine County police officer on his tail. I saw Evelyn looking out of the back window.”

My knees weaken and my pulse increases with the thought of my poor friend trapped inside a vehicle with a possible murderer.

“I followed them to Murphys Pass. The outdoor arts and crafts fair was set up in the street and the driver of the Honda tore right through one of the barricades! We lost sight of him soon after.”

 I sat staring into space, asking myself if I recall ever seeing a dark blue Honda at Evelyn’s. Warren interrupts my train of thought, “Tammy, are you still there?”

“I’m here, Warren. Could you see the driver of the Honda?”

“No, the sun was reflecting on the windshield. All I saw was that it was a man.”

“What was the reason the police officer started chasing the Honda to begin with?”

“A park visitor thought she heard a woman moaning when she walked by the Honda, parked near the restrooms. There was nobody inside the vehicle that she could see. She got concerned and called it in. When the police officer arrived, he said there was a white pigeon on the roof of the Honda. He could see a man inside. Seconds later, the driver took off, heading for the parking lot exit.”

Again, my knees weaken and I have to sit down at the dining room table. My mouth becomes dry.

“The police officer described the pigeon and it sounded exactly like Henry. We’ve put out an all-points bulletin regarding the Honda. Hopefully someone will call with some valid information.”

“What about the license number? I assume the officer, on his tail must have gotten it.”

“The driver switched plates with a white 2000 Cadillac.”

CHAPTER 3

Two days have passed since I received the note about Riverside Park. Evelyn is still missing and there are no promising leads regarding the suspect.

After going over to Evelyn’s to feed the pigeons, I’m standing by my burn barrel, burning the daily trash when Henry lands at my feet. He has another note attached to his left leg. I take him onto my porch and place him in Cinnamon’s cat carrier. Henry isn’t one bit happy. He begins to flap his wings and tilts his head from side to side, glaring at me with his tiny yellow eyes. “I’m calling Warren, Henry. I know you are anxious for me to find your mama. We’re doing the best we can, sweetheart.”

 When Warren arrives, he removes the note from Henry’s leg and reads it aloud: “Gold Hill rest stop, Evelyn.” As Warren is placing Henry back into the cat carrier, he says, “Stay put, I’ll be in touch.”

*

I sit on my front porch petting my cat with trembling hands. “Cinnamon, it has been over an hour. I wish Warren would hurry and call me.” Cinnamon continues purring as she stares at a chipmunk climbing a tree.

It’s another hour before my cell phone’s ring makes me jump.

“Tammy, I need for you to come to the Gold Hill rest stop right away.”

When I get to the rest stop, nicknamed cave stop, I park next to Warren’s vehicle. As I step out of my Jeep, I struggle to avoid a large mud puddle.  I can hear the rushing river and smell the damp leaves, moss, and a strong scent of pine. Warren and Investigator Hobbs are walking towards me. Mr. Hobbs holds up a bloodstained scarf. “Do you recognize this, ma’am?”

I answer, “Evelyn wears a scarf exactly like that!”

As Mr. Hobbs places the scarf inside a plastic evidence bag, I’m horrified. It’s hard to breathe as I stare at Warren.

Warren takes me in his muscular arms and with my face buried in his chest, he says, “A few blood spots don’t mean a thing, Tammy. Those spots could have been there for years.”

I understand he is trying to console me, but we both know Evelyn would never wear any stained garments. As I watch Mr. Hobbs zipping the evidence bag that now contains Evelyn’s scarf, I’m thinking about Evelyn being in that cold, dark, damp cave with the filth and bats. The hair on my arms begins to rise.

 As Warren is walking me back to my Jeep, I spot Henry. He is nervously pacing atop the hood of my Jeep and periodically stops to look at us. Henry’s feathers are not at all in the pristine condition they are normally. As we get closer, we see a reddish spot on top of his head. His body is wet and sandy.

We look at one another, both afraid to say what the spot may be. I break the silence and say, “Warren, there’s another note attached to his leg. It’s wet and torn.”

As I reach out to Henry, Warren grabs my arm. “Wait I need to take Henry to Mr. Hobbs.” Warren takes plastic gloves from his back pocket. His hands tremble as he struggles to put them on. When he places his hands around Henry’s midsection, Henry flaps his wings and shrieks. In a sweet, soothing voice, I say to him, “You’re okay, Henry, calm down now.” I take the bird from Warren’s hands. I can see a look of disappointment on his face. However, I think it’s better to risk losing vital evidence than to have Henry fly away.

Mr. Hobbs rushes to his vehicle to retrieve a cardboard box.

When I place Henry inside the box he becomes agitated and lets out a shrill cry. He begins flapping his wings once again and jumps up and down, screeching. Mr. Hobbs quickly closes the lid and says, “I’ll be calling you, Warren, with the results of our findings. And ma’am, you’ll be able to pick the bird up when we’ve finished.

I haven’t been home more than thirty minutes when my phone rings. It’s Sheriff Kincaid. “The note said she’s at the Rogue River sawmill. I’m headed there now. Stay put until you hear from me.”

Within an hour Warren calls me, “Meet me at the south entrance to the sawmill as soon as you can.”

*

As I walk towards Mr. Hobbs and Warren, I notice Mr. Hobbs is holding something in one hand.

He holds up a shoe in his gloved hand. It’s bright red, dotted with pinkish spots. “We found this shoe on the grounds. Do you remember ever seeing Evelyn wearing anything like this?”

I cup my cheeks in both my hands and answer, “Yes, she wears shoes like that all the time. I recognize the bleach spots.”

Mr. Hobbs places the shoe inside an evidence bag. The hair on my arms rises and my pulse  races.

Looking at Mr. Hobbs, Warren says, “I questioned several people when I arrived and none of them saw anyone fitting Evelyn’s description.”

Before Mr. Hobbs has a chance to comment, we see a tan sedan across the river with tires squealing as it bolts down a narrow dirt road.

Warren immediately reports this on the radio, attached at his shoulder.

  

Suddenly we are all startled from our contemplation by a bird landing in an oak tree next to us. A few stubborn dried leaves, left over from fall, come down around us like feathers from a nest.

I shout, “Look, Warren, there’s Henry!”

I coax Henry to the ground. “Henry, you haven’t brought me a note. Where’s your mama?”

Henry doesn’t want to be held. He pecks violently at my wrists and fingers. I release him and he immediately flies towards the tan sedan.

*

It’s the next day when I call Warren. “Any news regarding that tan sedan we saw across the river from the sawmill?”

“That ended in a high-speed chase. There just happened to be an officer at the exit onto East Evans Creek Road. Unfortunately, the driver of the sedan was able to get away. Not sure if he is our suspect, but that driver must have racecar driving experience.”

“Was the officer able to get a license number off the sedan?”

“He did. The vehicle was reported stolen the day before.”

“Hold on a minute, Warren, I see Henry has just landed on my bannister. Looks like there’s another note attached to his leg.”

“Put Henry in the cat carrier. I’m calling Mr. Hobbs and we’ll be there as soon as we can.”

*

With gloved hands, Warren removes the note from Henry’s leg and places the bird back into the carrier. He reads the note aloud to us: “Offices of Wildlife Images.” Warren looks quizzically from the note to us, “This is that non-profit corporation that looks after sick, injured, and orphaned animals from the region, right?” Without waiting for a reply, he removes his cell phone from his hip and calls his office. “Lilly, I need for you to call Wildlife Images and find out if any of their offices have been broken into. If the answer is yes, tell them to vacate the premises immediately.”

Around eight o’clock that night, the phone rings. I drop the butter knife into the sink and rush to answer it. “Tammy, Warren here. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

My heart begins to sink. I just know the next words out of Warren’s mouth are going to be that they found Evelyn dead. “It’s concerning Henry. We didn’t find any trace of Evelyn, but Henry was found unconscious right outside the black bears’ enclosure at the wildlife center. The veterinarian on duty says he’ll recover. He’s suffering from exhaustion.” Warren kindly leaves out the part about how the bears were clawing at the fencing, trying to reach Henry.

“The vet says Henry will recover, but how soon?” I fret. “Without Henry, we’ll never be able to find Evelyn.”

“The vet says Henry should be well enough to return to his home by tomorrow afternoon. He said he should be put into the aviary and not allowed to leave until fully recovered.”

“Henry isn’t going to like that one bit. He’s never been confined to the aviary like the others. The only other allowed to roam freely in the yard is his mate, Cecilia.”

“We can put Cecilia in the aviary with Henry. That may help him recover sooner.”

I think for a moment and then I say, “Good idea and all, but there’s a strong possibility that Cecilia might be able to find Evelyn and deliver a message to me.”

 “Was Cecilia trained?” Warren asks. “How close was Cecilia to Evelyn?”

“Evelyn personally trained Cecilia. While she was in training, Henry made every trip along with Cecilia. While in flight, you couldn’t tell them apart. I don’t recall Cecilia following Evelyn to places like the market or the library, but Cecilia loves Evelyn no less than Henry.”

“Okay, maybe we will allow Cecilia to roam freely and cross our fingers she will realize Henry is in no condition to fly. Like Henry, she must miss Evelyn very much.”

CHAPTER 4

 When I return to Evelyn’s the next afternoon, I’m greeted by Cecilia. She looks sad and confused. The wind howls, blowing leaves high and bending small saplings horizontal. The confined pigeons are restless. They pace the aviary and peck at one another in frustration. I sense that they all miss Evelyn’s kind greeting each day and her gentle manner.

Warren arrives with Henry. He lays him down on some straw inside the aviary. Cecilia begins flapping her wings and climbing the outside of the chicken wire.

“Warren, I told you Henry and Cecilia wouldn’t like being separated.” Just as I finish my sentence, Henry staggers to his feet. He sees Cecilia, peeps softly and waddles up to her. They touch beaks through the chicken wire. Cecilia is happy to see him. Staying close, she occasionally hops a foot off the ground.

“See what I mean, Warren?”

“Yes, Tammy, I see they love one another, but you see how exhausted he is. I just know the vet would advise we leave him inside the aviary.”

“Okay, let’s put Cecilia in the aviary. I’d like her to have the opportunity to find Evelyn and bring me a note, but this is too painful to watch.”

“Looks like we’re going to have to,” Warren says as he walks towards the two, who continue greeting one another.

*

By the third day of Henry’s return from Wildlife Images, I can no longer stand to see Henry and Cecilia confined. “You two love birds want to get out of that aviary and peck at the grass and bugs, don’t you?”

When I enter the aviary, all of the pigeons scatter except for Cecilia and Henry. They rush past me, nearly making me fall. As soon as I finish latching the aviary door, I turn to the two of them. To my surprise, Henry’s not waiting with Cecilia; instead, he’s already flying west, high in the sky.

Cecilia turns her tiny head up and looks at me. I can see sadness in her bright yellow eyes. “Don’t be sad, Cecilia, Henry will return soon.”

The next morning I decide to run to the market before feeding Evelyn’s pigeons. I feel exhausted. I have been planting my garden vegetables, worrying about Evelyn and walking four miles a day to and from her home.

 As I head for the aviary, I see Henry and Cecilia cuddling by Evelyn’s back porch. Their feet are tucked beneath them and their breasts are puffed out and shining in the morning sun. Cecilia has her head bent down, and Henry is straddling her neck with his head. As I get closer, their eyes pop open. “I see you two love birds. No need to rise on my account.”

As I’m pouring the feed into the bowls inside the aviary, Henry begins to peck at my ankles. “Ouch!” I shout. When I turn around, I notice a note attached to Henry’s left leg. “Henry, why didn’t you bring the note to my house?”

I drop the feed bucket and grab Henry. After rushing home and securing him in Cinnamon’s cat carrier, I load Henry into my Jeep and head for Warren’s home. It’s his day off, but I know he’ll want to see the note.

Warren’s wife answers my knock on the front door. Without hesitating she opens the door wide for me to enter and calls for Warren.

Warren reads the note to himself. “He has her at the Brandon Cheese Factory. That’s eighty miles from here. I’m calling for a helicopter and a forensic team. It will take us two hours to drive there on those curvy mountainous roads. Go on back home, Tammy and I’ll call you with our findings.”

At seven-thirty the next morning, I awake to the ringing of my phone. Warren tells me Evelyn is still missing and they didn’t find any evidence she had been inside the cheese factory. My heart sinks.

“I’m so disappointed to hear this, Warren.”

“I was disappointed, too, until one of the helicopter pilots spotted a tan sedan speeding down dirt roads, ten miles from the cheese factory. When the driver saw the helicopter circling above, he ditched the car and ran into the forest on foot. He was dragging a woman behind him.”

“Oh my God! That has to be Evelyn.”

“They have organized a search party. Sit tight and I’ll call you this evening around six.”

When I go to feed Evelyn’s pigeons later that day, Henry is missing. Cecilia is frantic. She begins running circles around me. She occasionally pauses to look up at me with dilated eyes and unkempt feathers. As I’m reaching for the latch on the aviary door, my cell phone rings. “Tammy, Warren here.”

My heart begins to race and I’m trying to prepare myself for the worse possible news regarding Evelyn. “What is it, Warren?”

“We got a call from Scott Bury just a little while ago. He got a ransom note in the mail and he should be in my office this evening. He’s very upset over his mother’s kidnapping.”

“I hope there will be fingerprints on the note, Warren.”

“Well, all we can really hope for is that Scott comes up with the money, pays the ransom and Evelyn is set free. In the meantime, maybe Henry will bring another note from Evelyn and she will be rescued.” Warren’s silence begins to worry me.

“Scott will pay the ransom won’t he, Warren?”

Warren ignores the question, “Call me if you receive any more notes, Tammy and try not to worry. I’ll call you right away if Evelyn is set free.”

*

  Henry brings another note from Evelyn the next morning as I’m sweeping my front porch. I immediately put Henry inside Cinnamon’s cat carrier and call Sheriff Kincaid.

When Warren arrives, he has Investigator Hobbs with him.

Mr. Hobbs instantly picks Henry up with his gloved hands and heads for his vehicle. Within a few moments he returns and says to Warren, “All Evelyn’s note says is freight car 1193. Do you have any idea what she’s talking about?”

Warren answers, “I know exactly.” He turns to me, “Tammy, you remember when all of us kids used to play in the old abandoned boxcars over by the Rogue River Post Office.”

“Oh, yeah, hidden by all those tall pine trees along Depot Bride Road.”

Warren responds, “Evelyn, you can follow us there, but I want you to stay inside the post office until I come to get you.”

*

I wait nervously, pacing the floor of the small post office, dodging patrons as they rush by to get to their postal boxes and dump their junk mail in a nearby trashcan.

Just as I’m stepping outside for a little fresh air, I see Warren pull into the parking lot and I rush over to him.

As I stare at him with questioning eyes, he says, “No sign of Evelyn, but just as we drove around to the boxcar side of the trees, a tan sedan bolted out from behind the last car. We chased him, but he got away again. We searched all of the boxcars and didn’t find Evelyn or any evidence.”

CHAPTER 5

It’s a beautiful March morning. There’s a slight breeze, no frost and it looks to be a sunny day. As I bend down to pick a bouquet of tulips, Henry lands at my feet. I drop my gardening snips and I see a note secured to his left leg. I run into the house and grab a pair of plastic gloves, my cell phone, and Cinnamon’s cat carrier. When I get back to Henry, he’s pecking at some birdseed I spilled the day before on my cobblestone walkway. “Let’s see what that note says, Henry.” As I’m untying the note, Henry is stretching his leg forward, now used to the routine. I read the note aloud, “Butterfly farm.”

Warren answers on the first ring. I blurt, “Butterfly farm. I just got a note from Henry that Evelyn is at the Rocky Mountain Butterfly Farm.” Warren is silent. “I know what you’re thinking. I bought a box of plastic gloves. I’ll put Henry into the cat carrier just as soon as I hang up.”

“I’ll pick up Henry as soon as I can. You wouldn’t happen to know what time the butterfly farm opens on a Saturday morning, would you?”

“They open at nine every morning.” There’s no response and I see the call has been ended.

My cellphone rings three hours later. It’s Warren. “Tammy, I think we might have a break in the case. I’m not allowed to divulge any more information than that, but we’re very excited about it. When I got back to my office, Evelyn’s son, Scott was there. The ransom note is being checked for evidence. He’s staying in his mother’s home and I plan to go over there later this evening to talk to him some more.”

“I’ll wait until morning to go over there and show him where the feed is.”

“I would like for you to continue to feed the pigeons, Tammy. Henry has brought notes to you there more often than at your home. You can talk to Scott after he and I have a discussion.”

Later that evening, I’m sitting in my recliner reading a magazine when I come across an article about Scott Bury. The magazine isn’t a reliable source of information, but I begin reading it anyway. My pulse increases when I get to the part about Scott Bury’s gambling addiction. I tell myself repeatedly to calm down and that it’s possible he hasn’t lost as much as they claim.

When I get to Evelyn’s the next morning, Warren is waving goodbye as he drives away.

When I see Scott coming towards me, I realize, not only has he grown a lot taller, but he’s also smiling at me with dimples in his cheeks that are hard not to notice. It’s a bit odd he would be smiling, but maybe he’s remembering how I used to sneak a baggie full of chocolate chip cookies into one of his pockets before he went home, after a day of pulling weeds in my vegetable garden. I go to shake his hand and he unfolds his long muscular arms to embrace me. Well, I haven’t been hugged by this handsome a man in quite a while and I feel awkward. His aftershave smells nice and before releasing me, he gives me a peck on the cheek. “Hello, Tammy.”

“It’s good to see you again, Scott. I wish we were meeting again under much better circumstances. I’m certain Warren has told you Henry is trying to help us find your mother.”

“He mentioned the name Henry, but I don’t have a clue who he is.”

I’m not surprised for I can’t remember the last time Scott visited Evelyn. “Follow me. I see Henry and his mate snuggled up to one another by the blackberry bushes.”

“Okay, I get it now. Henry’s delivering messages. My parents spent hours training those pigeons.”

“Yes, they did and all that hard work just might payoff one day soon. The way I see it, Warren will eventually catch the kidnapper or once you pay the ransom, she’ll be set free. Congratulations on your success. You always said you wanted to be rich and famous, whenever I asked what you wanted to be when you grew up.”

“Well, I might be famous, but I’m no longer rich. I had a publishing company rip me off last year for millions. I think my contract lawyer and the publishing company were in on the scam together.”

Scott is scratching the top of his head and avoiding eye contact. This is exactly what he did as a child when he was telling a lie. “I’m sorry to hear that, Scott. If you don’t have the ransom, maybe you can raise it somehow.”

As Scott steps closer to Henry, Henry shrieks and flies away. “Go find my mom, Henry and be quick about it!” I don’t like Scott’s tone and I can easily see he doesn’t share his folks’ love of pigeons.

Later that evening, I call Warren’s home number. He answers. “Warren, I had a little chat with Scott today and he says he doesn’t have the ransom.” There is silence. “Last night I read a magazine article about him and it said he has a gambling addiction and has lost a lot of money over the years.” I receive a grunt of acknowledgement and nothing more. “I know for a fact the magazine has a lousy reputation for trustworthy information, but I’m wondering what you’ve found out about him.”

“Tammy, we’re doing our homework and I want you to calm down. Please do not broach the subject of gambling with Scott. Let the investigators do their job and you keep Henry happy and well.”

Out of frustration, I jab my finger on the “end call” button of the phone without saying another word and take a deep breath.

CHAPTER 6

It’s been three days since I last spoke to Warren. As I’m packing away my winter clothes, I resist the urge to call him. I’m worried about Henry. He hasn’t been at Evelyn’s in the last two mornings and neither has Scott.

As I’m placing my last heavy jacket into a duffle bag, I hear the crunching of gravel in my driveway. I hurry to the bedroom window, facing the front of the house. It’s Warren. I meet him at my front door.

“Good afternoon, Warren.”

Warren gives me a brief hug without saying a word. He guides me inside. “I need to ask you some questions.”

“Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“No thank you. Tammy, when did you see Scott last?”

“Well, four days ago his car was parked in Evelyn’s driveway. I haven’t seen him or the car since.”

“When did you see Henry last?”

“Three mornings ago.  I’ve been so worried all morning about him and of course, Evelyn.” I ask Warren, “When did you last speak with Scott?”

Warren doesn’t answer and heads for the front door. The screen shuts with a bang and I hear his voice trailing behind him, “I’ll be in touch.”

At ten o’clock the next morning, I get another visit from Warren. As I’m pouring him a cup of coffee, he holds up a clear plastic bag for my inspection. “Take a look at the second ransom note and tell me if the wording or anything about it is familiar.”

I read the note to myself and realize it contains ransom drop-off instructions. “When did Scott give this note to you?”

“Please, Tammy, just concentrate on the note.”

I read the note again, more slowly this time and the only thing that catches my eye is the sentence: “Place the unmarked, small denomination bills in a leatherette case.” Scott always referred to his shoes as leatherette instead of leather. A show of his mother’s honesty. They couldn’t afford to buy their son real leather shoes. No need to explain this to Warren for his son, Dean, attended the same preschool as Scott.

Warren is grinning. “You see something familiar, don’t you?”

I ask, “Do you think Scott wrote this and somehow involved in his mother’s kidnapping?”

Warren is sipping his coffee and staring at me over the rim of his steaming mug. “I found this note on Evelyn’s dining room table. Scott isn’t answering his cell phone and his suitcase is nowhere to be found inside the house.”

My mind is racing and I raise my voice, “If he has taken Henry away and harmed him in any way, I’ll track him down and…” Warren grabs me and hugs me tight. As he’s patting my back, I take a deep breath.

He places his hands on my shoulders and turns me towards the living room. “Look, Tammy there’s no reason to think that.” I see Henry on my bannister, stretching his neck to see through the front picture window. As I’m walking towards Henry, I hear the snapping of Warren pulling his rubber gloves on. When I step out onto my porch, Henry is cooing and his eyes are bright and cheerful. As I bend down to talk to Henry, I smell a strong odor of fish.

Warren removes a note with his gloved hands and reads it aloud, “Fish hatchery, hurry!” I’m rushing to retrieve the cat carrier, while Warren holds Henry.

*

Nine o’clock that evening my phone rings. Before I have a chance to say a word, Warren says, “I know it’s late, Tammy but I need to come over right away.” My heart starts pounding in my chest and I’m thinking the worst.

“I’m wide awake, Warren. Come on over.”

I’m pacing the floor and Cinnamon is watching every move I make. I turn the radio on, hoping music will sooth my nerves. Nothing seems to be working. When I hear Warren crunching gravel underfoot, I race to the front door.

“Tammy, I’m afraid I have some real bad news.” My eyes grow large, my hands are shaking, and the room starts to spin. “Sit next to me on the sofa. As far as we know, Evelyn is still alive, so please stop shaking. When we got to the fish hatchery, we found Scott. There’s no easy way to break the news to you. He’s dead. He was lying next to the trout tank. We found two gunshot wounds to his chest.”

I stammer, ”What…what was he doing there?”

“We found fake one-hundred dollar bills lying on the ground, next to his suitcase. The suitcase was full of the same. He was attempting to get his mother back and went about it all the wrong way.”

I’m speechless and thinking about how wrong Warren and I have been in thinking Scott was involved in the kidnapping. My mind returns to the wording in the second ransom note. If Scott didn’t write the ransom notes, who did? Who would use the word, “leatherette”?

  

Warren interrupts my thinking, “We can now rule Scott out as an accomplice.”

“What I’m wondering is if the kidnapper worded the second ransom note, using the word leatherette, to make us think Scott was involved. If that’s the case, our next question is who all knew that he used that word?”

With raised eyebrows Warren says, “I have my suspicions. If you think about this long enough, you’ll quickly come up with the same short list.”

As soon as Warren leaves, I search my address book for the number of my close friend, Zoe. She worked in the preschool when Scott attended. I also jot down the numbers of many mothers of children who also attended at the time. I plan to call all of them first thing the next morning. The list of possible suspects can be narrowed down by eliminating those no longer living anywhere near Scott or Evelyn. I’ve read that criminals usually choose to commit crimes within the area they live. I can’t picture anyone desperate for money, masterminding this kidnapping plot if he or she lived thousands of miles away.

Zoe answers on the second ring. After I ask for a list of children who attended the preschool when Scott did, She’s momentarily silent and then asks, “Are you trying to find someone in particular, Tammy?”

“I’m sorry, Zoe I can’t answer that question right now. It’s very important and I’ll explain everything to you one day. One day soon, I hope.”

“My sister-in-law now owns the preschool. I’ll call her this morning and ask her to check the archives and give me a list.”

The next evening, Zoe calls to tell me she has the list and I can pick it up from her. “Does this have anything to do with Evelyn’s disappearance?”

I didn’t want to be rude to Zoe, but I can’t answer her question. I thank her and quickly disconnect the call.

As I’m burning my trash, I decide not to get myself in hot water with Warren. I plan to call Zoe later and tell her I won’t need the list after all. I remember Warren being adamant about my letting the detectives to do their job.

Scott Bury

Hello. Thank you for visiting my blog today. I am Rebecca Scarberry—Scarberryfields on Twitter. Yesterday author, Scott Bury was my guest here. Please see what the master of words says about aspiring authors and my writing. Thank you to all visiting and a big thank you to Scott Bury.

Scott Bury and what it's like to coach an aspiring writer

Rebecca Scarberry, whom I got to know after she reviewed one of my stories for the Kindle Book Review, asked me to write about what it’s like to coach an aspiring writer who seems unsure of her talent.

Let’s dispense with the “aspiring” label first. If you write something, a complete document, you’re a writer. If you make it possible for anyone else to read it by publishing it on paper or on the Web, you’ve published. That’s all there is to it. (Getting paid for it is another story.)

Rebecca has called me her “writing coach” for a while now, and I was flattered about that. A few other writers have asked me for advice, and it’s still flattering. I’ve been happy to offer whatever help I could. (If some of the really terrible writers out there who managed to score big publishing contacts were to ask for advice, I’d feel vindicated. I’d also charge a lot of money for the service.)

Coaching a writer who lacks confidence is like being a coach or teacher of anything. I taught English at colleges and university in Canada for over 10 years, and I heard a lot of that lack of confidence: “I can’t write. I know the material, but I don’t know how to put it down on paper.”

Teaching is unteaching

One thing that any coach or teacher has to do first is to unteach some of the habits or assumptions that new students bring. You have to show kids how to hold the baseball properly, and how to swing their arm the right way to make the ball go farthest.

Last year, I took a white-water canoeing course with my son. The technique I had to unlearn was stiffening up and trying to hold perfectly still when the canoe began rocking in the swirling water. I had heard the lecture: move with the water, stay flexible. I learned that my response—grabbing the gunwales and trying to keep the canoe steady by keeping myself still inside it—was not just futile, but counter-productive. I had to respond to the movement of the river and the canoe, shift dynamically.

Many new writers pour all the back-story or context into the first chapter of their books. They tell us where their main character went to school, how they learned martial arts, what was their business or romantic experience.

The writer is trying to paint a portrait of the character so the reader understands why the character behaves in certain ways, or why he or she does the actions that move the story ahead.

The lesson: bring out the back-story bit by bit through the story. Use flashbacks and other techniques to show the readers why the characters do what they do. Get on with the story—get to the action, whatever the action is. I don’t mean necessarily blow up the bridge or kick the bad guy in the butt; it could be break up with a lover, or proposition another one, or even sit on the beach with a good book. Get to the story.

Getting lost

When it comes to fiction, the common complaint I hear is “I’m stuck. I just don’t know where to go with this story.”

A lot of writers can think of a great start to a story or novel or movie. But it’s much harder to think of a good ending to the story. Think of the numbers of movies you’ve seen and books you’ve read with a great premise, but a completely unsatisfying ending, like a cop-out so that the hero and heroine live happily ever after. Or gaping plot holes that leave you thinking “But how could she ride into the sunset with him when his wife is still waiting for her with a shotgun?” 

Getting stuck in detail

Another problem is writers who put in way too much detail. Now, I don’t think we all have to follow Elmore Leonard’s rules, but we should know what they are. I like some description, and I like to write in ways that other writers have not already. But I have found that those two ideas sometimes lead me into writing 16 words to describe someone nodding “yes.” Assume that your readers are smart enough to understand that nodding means moving your head up and down.

Don’t tell me you can’t

You can write that story—if you know what the story is. Rebecca, for example, knows what the full story is for “Rag Doll.” She wrote an enthralling opening chapter, which she published as a short story, and summarized the rest of the novel. It’s a good story. Now she has to write it.

There’s no magic to writing fiction of any length. There is a lot of work, though. You have to figure out what the story is—not just the cool opening, but the ending and the path between the two extremes.

That’s always been the hardest lesson to impress on new writers of any kind: do the work. I’ve always found that once I have a good outline, the document, fiction or non-fiction, almost writes itself.

So what’s it like coaching writers who don’t have confidence? It’s like showing children that they can use good technique, and watching their faces when they see how far they actually can throw the ball.

Scott Bury

blog: Written Words

Story - "Sick Chipmunks"

This week's mini-story from Ballymore, "Sick Chipmunks", is now posted on BeAChildAgain.  It is based upon the characters in my new children's book: Tales From The Glades Of Ballymore.  Please visit when you can.

Thank you,

Bob Brooks

Story - "The Lily Pad Race"

This week's mini-story from Ballymore, "The Lily Pad Race", is now posted on BeAChildAgain.  It is based upon the characters in my new children's book: Tales From The Glades Of Ballymore.  Please visit when you can.

Thank you,

Bob Brooks

This week's mini-story from Ballymore, "Moon Rise", is now posted on BeAChildAgain.  It is based upon the characters in my new children's book: Tales From The Glades Of Ballymore.  Please visit when you can.

Thank you,

Bob Brooks