Perilously Fun Fiction: A Bundle by Pauline Jones (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

I kept thinking it would swerve. When it didn’t, I did a running jump onto the hood of my car vacating the spot just before the car went over it. It didn’t stop, just sped away, squealed around the corner and disappeared from sight.

“Oh, here they are, in my purse.” My mother turned around. “Isabel! What are you doing up there? Get down before someone sees you like that!”

I brought my knees back together and smoothed down my dress. “Didn’t you see that car?”

She put her hands on her hips. “What car?”

I opened my mouth, pointed down the empty street, sighed and desisted. “I’ll just get down.”

I was still trembling as I slid into the car. What a close call. If it had happened yesterday, if it had been a green minivan…but I hadn’t offended any silver Datsun’s that I knew of. Uneasy, but not sure why, I took my mother home and went up to my room to mope. In the doorway, I stopped, the unease sharpening to a sense of intrusion coming from the shadowy quiet of my space.

It was over, the CIA, the police, everybody said so. So why did I have this feeling I was forgetting something important?

“Stan?”

I didn’t recognize Candice until I was well on the way down from the ceiling.

“Geez, you’re jumpy. What’s your problem?” She stuffed a cookie in her mouth.

I could have told her, but as a teenage child of divorced parents she already had enough self-esteem problems.

“What are you doing in here?” It was a violation of the strict separation of aunt and family, and she knew it.

“I was wondering if I could borrow your typewriter. I’ve got a report I need to type up for school.”

“It’s in my closet.”

I turned wearily towards the bedroom. I had a date to be tortured by bingo, followed by getting shoved around a room to accordion music. I didn’t get far when Candice called from the living room. “Stan, I can’t find the cord to plug it in!”

“It’s in the little compartment on the back.”

Like a wave it came over me. What I was forgetting. Mrs. Carter’s purse. The little blue claim slip in my coat pocket.

“That’s where the cord is?” Candice said. “Wow, it’s like a secret hiding place. Cool.”

Yes it was. It was exactly like a secret compartment in the back of the typewriter. Mrs. Carter had been at Kenyon Business Machines the night she died, Kel had said, at a PT-PAC meeting. The repair slip was from Kenyon. Was it possible? Could she have hidden something in the compartment of her typewriter? But why would she hide anything in her own typewriter and then take it in for repair. Unless she was afraid someone would come after her at home. Which was exactly what had happened. According to the newspaper, her house had been trashed. Maybe the round headed guy had searched for whatever Mrs. Carter was trying to give Kel before coming after us. That’s why it had taken them so long. Ironic if what they were looking for was sitting safely at Kenyon’s.

My first impulse was to call Kel. Trouble was, my theory sounded pretty farfetched rattling around inside my head. To have to actually say it out loud…I winced and not from wound pain. I write about a roach, but I do have limits to how far I’ll humiliate myself. The idea had serious flaws, even I could see that. There were better hiding places than the back of a typewriter. The whole idea was silly.

Except for the fact that nothing else in her purse had produced more than dead bodies.

I could go and check out the typewriter myself, for my own peace of mind. How could I enjoy bingo when I might be withholding an important piece of evidence from the CIA? It only took me a moment to find the slip in the pocket of my coat where I’d left it. Kenyon Business Machines closed early on Saturday, so I’d have to hurry. I grabbed purse, coat and keys.

“Candy, I have to go pick up something before the store closes and I have this date coming. Could you like, stall him for me until I get back? Maybe introduce him to Grandma?” She looked inclined to resist, so I played my trump card. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“You mean?”

“Cold, hard cash.”

“Okay.”

I said my thanks with only a hint of sarcasm, grabbed my coat and ran. I made it to Kenyon’s in record time and pulled to a stop in front. Inside a young woman, pretending to type gave a pointed look at the clock edging toward four, before giving me a stiff smile.

“Can I help you?” Her tone said she’d like to help me out the door.

“I came to pick up a typewriter. Here’s the slip.” I returned her smile with a false one of my own.

She studied the slip for a long moment, a real speed reader, then pushed back the chair and stood up. She was tall, well endowed, and dressed to flaunt it. As I watched her swaying hips retreat, I curled my lips in disgust. One guess which Kenyon hired her.

“Isabel, darling.”

Had I conjured up the toe rag with my thoughts? I turned around. Hadn’t I suffered enough?

“See, darling. That’s twice now I’ve not confused you with Rosemary.”

“I’m underwhelmed.”

“Why didn’t we meet first? I like a woman with spirit.”

“The only woman you wouldn’t like is one with a sexually transmitted disease. And then you’d have to think about it.”

My words just bounced off his ego. “So how’s the dog doc?”

“He’s dating Rosemary.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she’s so happy, I’ll bet she’d let you have the Mercedes back—if you offered her a financial incentive.” Now that it was full of bullet holes, she didn’t want it.

“Thanks for the tip. I will. Is Mimsie helping you?”

Mimsie. Why was I not surprised? “Yes, and here she is now.”

The heavy typewriter accentuated the sultry sway of her hips and squeezed her breasts