brb

Please forgive my lack of new chapters here lately. I am in the middle of writing two papers for my university courses (and have been a bit ill), but hope to be back here with new and exciting developments in the storyline mid-December. Thanks for your patience.

chapter ninety-four

“Now? I thought we couldn't go digging around on Wild Bill's land until Monday." I was a fledgling land owner and unsure of the exact procedure for transferring possession.

"I have the deed of ownership in my car. We agreed to make it effective immediately. No reason to delay anything, but if you'd rather wait till Monday --" The detective made as if to turn and leave. I lunged forward and latched onto his arm.

"No, no. Today is fine. Absolutely fine." I didn't have the perfect outfit on nor a prepared speech ready, but considering the precarious position my earlier stunt had probably put us in, sooner was definitely better.

Cameron gave an affirmative nod. "Alright then. Shall we take my car?" I swear that the man winked at me before he led the way to the brown bomb. Perhaps I hadn't ruined everything after all. This very well might turn out to be the day of salvation for this town.

As we turned up Waverly Street, my stomach was starting to roll with butterfly activity. I held my breath as we approached the place where I had first met the unforgettable Mr. Hickory. I was surprised to see a fire truck parked in front of the lot. As we pulled up, I saw a mist of thin smoke hovering over the ground where the house had stood.

Cameron immediately jumped from the car and strode over to the nearest firefighter who was loading some gear into the truck.

“What’s going on?” he demanded. I got out of the car and stood a few feet away from them, taking in the dismaying scene.

“Must have been a flare-up," the man in the fire suit answered. "It’s under control now. Guess there were some hot spots we didn’t get the first time.”

Cameron was more than suspicious. “That was over seventy-two hours ago! Isn’t it a little late for that kind of thing?” The fire fighter just shrugged his shoulders and walked away to help a colleague roll up a hose. No one was paying any attention to me, so I carefully picked my way closer to the hazy site and soon had my worst fears realized. What had been a pile of valuable rubble only days before was now a pile of ashes in a gutted basement. There was no way the documents could have survived the second fire. The timing couldn’t have been worse. The butterflies in my mid-section were all starting to sink in cold, hardening cement.

Cameron came up beside me and surveyed the disheartening and irrevocable damage. “No one has this much bad luck. Someone found out about the documents.”

“How? We tried to be so careful.” I couldn't believe we had just lost all of our evidence.

“Obviously not careful enough. Who did you and Roman talk to yesterday?”

“Just Mr. Hickory and you,” I replied a bit defensively.

“Where?” The detective was determined to find the leak, though it was too late to stop it up now.
“In the hospital, on the phone.”

“Never in Roman’s office, right?” Wrong. Oh, so wrong. I turned my head away from Blair as a ton of heavy stones landed on top of the concrete in my stomach.

“It’s all my fault.” I could barely speak. “I was the one that suggested leaving the bugs in the office. And in all the excitement, I forgot about them yesterday when Mr. Hickory called." I was mortified by my own stupidity brought on by lack of experience, overconfidence, and a gaping void in the area of sound judgment. What had promised to be my shot at the starring role of saviour had turned into a casting reversal of grand proportion. I was now stuck playing the executioner, killing any chance of justice or redemption wherever I went. The case against Allstar was all going up in smoke, literally, and there was no one to blame except me. All I wanted to do was crawl into a hole and disappear.

Cameron put an arm around my shoulders. “No use in blaming yourself, Billy. There was probably not that much we would have been able to salvage here anyway.” It was a standard line designed to make me feel better and I hated the false ring it carried. His arm lay on my neck like a sack of condemnation, so I shrugged my way out from under it.

“I’ll ask Mr. Hickory to cancel the deal. You’ll get your money back,” I said flatly.

“I don’t want my money back. What would be the point of that? You’re being irrational, Billy.”

“Don’t give me that rational crap,” I snapped back at him. “The logic of Einstein couldn’t fix even one of the disasters that I've managed to pull off lately.” I stomped off toward the car, ready to make a strong and angry exit, but he was my ride and he was in no hurry. I had to settle for leaning against the brown vehicle and kicking at the dirt, hoping it would make my point emphatically enough.

Cameron slowly walked over to where I was standing, his eyes taking in the activity on the property as he made his way. I had never cursed much in my life, but I thought the situation merited it, so I tried out a few choice phrases that I had heard used to great effect in the movies.

“That’s pitiful,” Blair commented, unimpressed by my novice attempt at blasphemy.

“You can take my name off this land. It’s a worthless piece of shit. Just one and a half acres of stupidity.” I spat the words out and slammed my fist into the side of his car. It resulted in a gratifying surge of pain.

“If you dent it, you’ll pay for it.” Blair informed me without humour.

“I hate this,” I said through gritted teeth. “How could I be so stupid?" Cameron stood in silence, impassive. "I'm finished! It's over!" I yelled at him, throwing up my hands inches from his face.

“Okay. I’m going to talk to the firemen one more time before they leave. Don't go anywhere, ” he replied calmly, as if I had just told him nothing more upsetting than what I had for lunch. I envied him his well-executed departure. I was also dimly aware that my angry reaction was inappropriate and self-centred, but it was the only avenue I could find for my frustration at the injustice of it all. I needed to pay for my unforgivable mistakes, of that I was convinced. A punishment worthy of this fiasco had to be found.

The fire truck pulled away and Cameron sauntered back to the car with a report. “Seems they had an observer this morning. Richard Sanders was here watching nearly the whole time.”

“Just making sure nothing was left for us to find,” I said bitterly.

“Perhaps. He was also the one who called it in. Identified himself and everything.” Blair fingered his chin as he relayed the information.

“That’s stupid.” It was my new favourite word. “Set a fire, then call it in? What kind of bizarre cry for attention is that?”

“Sounds like someone trying to manage their guilt.” Cameron gave me a sharp look before he continued. “You remember what a fireman mentioned to me when the house first burned down? Sanders happened to stop by as well and wanted to make sure no one was hurt. It seemed a bit unusual to me at the time, but I had nothing to reference it to. Well, now it appears that Sanders is developing a conscience. Your visit to him may not have been such a bad idea after all.” Blair was becoming annoyingly positive about this new development.

“Pfft. I find that hard to believe,” I retorted with every bit of disdain I could muster.

“Oh, you of little faith.” He gave me a slight smile. How dared he smile at me!

“Look who’s talking, Mister.” It was the cheapest shot I could take, bringing up his past.

Cameron paused to study me. “How long are you going to keep this up?”

“Till I figure out what to do to redeem myself.” I crossed my arms to let him know how serious I was about my stance.

“What if that’s not possible?” The words came with no guile whatsoever.

“Then I guess I’ll settle with becoming a bitter old woman. I really wanted to save the world, but I just found out that I suck at it!” I kicked at a worn tire for emphasis and received a satisfying frown from the man.

chapter ninety-three

I sat in my dreary Dodge beside my apartment building, my palms leaving greasy sweat marks on the steering wheel, trying to think through what had just happened at the Sanders' home, though it was probably a little too late for that. My first mistake had been not thinking through anything at all before driving over there, that much was sure. I had thought I was doing Viola a favour, but who had I been kidding? Because of my big head and my big ideas, I had walked into the lions' lair, so to speak, and just stirred up a hornet's nest. Not only was I horrible at keeping a low profile, I couldn't even string together two consistent metaphors. If those men were half the resourceful scumbags I knew them to be, they were already rigging a bomb in my apartment, if nothing else than to keep me from showing up at the most awkward moments and interfering in their personal lives.

I don’t know how long I sat there, stewing about the atrocious state of things and how I had compromised my personal safety, before I heard a tap at my window. My heart leapt in my chest as I looked up. It was Cameron Blair, thank God, and not a mobster sent to kill me.

“What’s going on?” he asked through the closed window. "Everything okay?"

I unlocked the door and slowly extricated myself and my damp palms from the car. “I think I did a bad thing," I confessed. The detective put his hands in his pockets and nodded, waiting for an explanation. I closed the driver door and leaned against its dusty dents. "I went to see Viola," I began, "and everything went downhill from there, I'm afraid." I searched the man's face for a moment, hoping for some sign of the compassionate, caring Cameron who couldn't care less if I had screwed things up, as long I was unharmed. No such luck.

"Go on," the officer prompted. "What did you do this time?"

The inference was not lost on me. Yes, I had put everything in jeopardy once again with one of my notoriously well-meaning, but counter-productive impulsive acts. My chin began to quiver as I poured out the sad tale of another failure. "Well, Viola was pretty confused because she had talked to her husband again and he was stringing her along with all these empty promises so I got mad and went over there and guess who was sitting in the kitchen having coffee, those two horrible men and well, after I had yelled at him for being such a jerk, one thing led to another and the next thing I know he's unconscious on the floor and I ran out." I took a few shaky breaths. "I don’t know what I was thinking, but I'm pretty sure I'm not on the Allstar Christmas list anymore.” I tried to laugh at my own small joke, but was feeling too miserable to pull off anything more than a hiccoughy semi-sob.

Blair was silent for a bit while he pensively stroked the side of his face. "Did you say you went to Sanders’ house?” he finally asked.

Hadn't I made that clear? I guess not. My story was a bit muddled and spotty, it was true. Perhaps even bordering on hysterical gibberish at times. “Yes,” I confirmed.

“I’m not sure that was such a good idea, Billy.” Blair was looking down at me with concern, or some disappointment, I wasn't sure which.

“I know, I know." I sighed. "I just hope Mr. Sanders is okay, because I'm in big trouble if he's not.”

“What exactly happened? I'm a bit unclear on the details.” I thought I detected some sarcasm in the man's voice, but perhaps it was just my imagination.

I wiped my nose, which had begun to seep a bit, and cleared my throat, gaining what small composure I could, because what I was about to tell him was not going to sound convincing or believable at all.

“Um, I thought maybe God told me to touch his eyes, so I did. Then the guy jerked like a shot of electricity hit him and fell down and didn't move. It scared the heck out of me, so I ran. I don't know what happened, but I think I might have hurt him somehow.”

Cameron hmmm-ed knowingly and said, "Let me see your hands.” I obediently held them out and he took both of them in his and turned them over. “I see. Just as I thought." He pointed at a faint glistening on my palms.

"Yeah, I know, my hands have been sweating ever since I showed up at Sanders' house. I should have known better than to go in there if I was so scared and nervous."

"No, Billy," Blair said softly. "That's not sweat. It's oil. Look at it."

I rubbed a forefinger back and forth on my palm, and it did indeed have the same velvety consistency as an expensive perfume oil I had tried once at an aromatherapy store trial counter. I raised my finger to my lips and touched my tongue to the moist spot. Instead of being salty, it was subtly woody and mildly sweet and spicy, reminding me of cinnamon.

"Where did that come from?" I wondered. "I didn't put on any lotion today. Mr. Sanders had some fancy stuff in his kitchen, but I didn't touch anything in there. Wait a minute! Viola had just come out of the shower so maybe she had used some sort of bath oil. But I didn't touch her either and she smelled like flowers, not spices. I don't get it."

"I do," Blair said. "I've seen it before. In my dad's church. The same thing happened to his hands sometimes when he prayed for people."

"What does it mean?" I shook my head, not comprehending the significance of what he was saying.

"It means that you just gave Richard Sanders a dose of the Holy Spirit!” He raised his eyebrows and gave me an amused smile. Well, it did sound rather absurdly comical when he put it like that. Perhaps I hadn't killed him after all and that was certainly a relief.

“I wouldn’t worry about Sanders too much,” Cameron reassured me with a small chuckle.

“What about the other two?” I wondered. "They didn't look all too happy with me or with what happened."

“Oh, they probably got a little well-deserved scare. We can only hope that it makes them think twice about what they’re doing. Put it out of your mind, Billy, because we've got more important things to do today. How about paying a visit your very own piece of real estate and seeing what we can find?"

chapter ninety-two

The Sanders lived in a multi-level modern house in a new suburb. Richard had done well for himself, and we all knew at whose expense that was. There was a dark car in the driveway, so I parked across the street, marched right up to the double oak doors, and rang the bell. “God help me, I have no idea what I’m going to say to him,” I whispered just as the door opened.

“Richard Sanders?” I asked of the balding man in a sweat suit.

“Who are you?” he responded in a guarded voice.

“I’m Billy Ellis, a friend of Viola’s from work. I was wondering if I could have a word with you.”

“This is not a good time,” he replied and started to close the door. Taking a lesson from Cameron’s book of entering without an invitation, I leaned into the door, pushed my body through the opening, and got past the startled Sanders.

“I’m sorry, but it will have to do,” I insisted. Taking advantage of the temporary element of surprise, I installed myself deeper into the house, quickly walking though the spacious foyer and into a large eat-in kitchen. There were two men sitting at a glass table near the French doors, drinking out of coffee cups. Shock registered on both their faces when I entered the room, and I immediately knew who they were: one from a previous awkward encounter, and the other by association.

“Mr. Tait, Mr. Applewood,” I acknowledged them.

“What’s going on here, Rick? Who is this?” Mr. Applewood's voice carried a concerned tone. Mr. Tait's face began to purple up, just like the last time I had seen him, but he held his tongue.

Behind me I heard Mr. Sanders reply. “Just a friend of Viola’s. She can’t stay.” He took me by the elbow to escort me out, but I wiggled out of his grasp.

“I’ll stay long enough to find out what I need to know.” I put my hands on my hips and faced him. “I just came from seeing Viola, Mr. Sanders, and she’s a mess. It's bad enough that you threatened her and pushed her around, but now that she’s pregnant and in a vulnerable state, you’re playing the compassionate card, for what selfish purpose this time, I don’t know, but she’s not strong enough to deal with your emotional manipulation." I took a step towards him and thrust a finger in his face. "What she really needs right now is someone who can support her, care for her, and love her, and as far as I’m concerned, you’re not a good candidate for any of the above.” I spat out the last few words with vehement and righteous indignation.

“And how would you know that? Maybe I've changed,” he stared at me, his eyes unblinking.

“God would tell me if that was the case,” I replied without hesitation. Applewood and Tait started to snicker behind us. “Quiet!” I thrust out my hand in their direction without taking my eyes off Sanders; the snickering abruptly stopped.

Sanders leaned towards me, his breath smelling of coffee and lies. “Okay, then, ask the big guy.” The consonants snapped in my face and everything became still. My skin prickled at the challenge, and I instantly regretted forcing my way into this place. What did I really know about Sanders? God had not told me anything about the man, and my statement was coming across as a badly thought-out bluff. How could I have neglected to take into account that there were three men in this room not afraid of using violence and only one pacifist me? There was a black flash across my eyes as a surge of fear threatened to overwhelm me. No, no, Billy, keep your head clear. Focus on the task at hand. I tried, but desperation had me by the throat.

“What do I do now?” I cried out. Sanders opened his mouth to reply, but my plea for direction was aimed much higher than his bald, little head. I don't know if any words came out of Sander's mouth for all I heard, loud and clear, thundering in my ears, was, "Touch his eyes."

Before fear could render me immobile, I flung out my hands and placed one over each of Sanders’ eyes. At my touch, the man jerked backwards, let out a startled yelp, and crumpled to the floor. What had I done? Applewood and Tait sat frozen at the table. Sanders was sprawled out on the tile, unmoving. I sprinted for the door.

As I sped home, hyperventilating, I chided myself on being stupid enough to go over there alone. What had I just set in motion? Something had happened to Sanders when my hands came into contact with him, of that I was sure. Maybe I had killed him. Maybe I had accidentally knocked him out. To a group of men who knew how to exact revenge in very personal ways, either one was bad news.

chapter ninety-one

My eyes opened just after 6 am on Saturday morning. The night had been a short one. I had extricated myself from Blair and his house as politely and quickly as I could, citing his early meeting with Wild Bill and the attorney as reason to cut the evening short. Frankly, the man's behaviour was scaring me. I had to admit that I found his odd advances flattering and could scarcely believe that any man would want to kiss me twice in the same night. However, I had grown rather fond of the detached and deliberate Blair and found his steely composure and cool head very comforting. This man who laughed and hooted at the slighted provocation, who carried me around and planted kisses on my face like one would a beloved dog...well, it was very strange, indeed, and quite unnerving. A woman needs security in her life, not some passion-crazed uncommunicative pseudo-philanthropist.

The two Blairs had tormented me until the early hours of the morning, carrying on a lengthy conversation in my head, each arguing that they were the "real" Cameron. I yelled at them to stop it and let me get some sleep, but this accomplished nothing. They simply included me in the debate and began to address all their pleas to me. Detective Blair calmly presented his history of sound judgment and dependability. Cam insisted that he had always been a warm and caring person, but his family background had caused him to repress his innermost feelings. Blair admitted that he counted me as a close friend, but would not comment on the status of our relationship. Cam pressed his hand to his heart and vowed that I was his true love. I found them both annoying and wished I could exorcise them, but they seemed to be quite comfortable where they were and showed no signs of leaving anytime soon.

So I changed the topic on them and began to go over every minute detail of the impending land sale which would give me an opportunity to finally do something that would make my family proud of me: I was about to save an entire city from ruin. Cameron's kind gesture of putting my name on the deal, which was really just Blair's way of inserting a legal loophole to protect all the parties involved, would guarantee that my name would be the one in the paper on Monday morning when the incriminating documents were unearthed. This was my chance to make something of myself, and I did not want to waste the opportunity. It would probably never come my way again. Plan for success, that's what I needed to do. The two Blairs, finally silenced by my grandiose vision, let me doze for a few blessed hours.

Success does not sleep in and all too soon, the sun was up and with it, an impatient insistence that I secure my future heralded accomplishment. I dragged my body out of bed, sat down at the tiny table in my kitchen with a strong up of tea and made a check-list. The first order was to select an appropriate outfit for Monday's press conference. First impressions were crucial, especially when my picture was sure to be plastered on the front page of the newspaper. I couldn't be seen as a mousy file clerk. I had to come across as a confident businesswoman and model citizen. Next up was to write a short speech for the press that provided several poignant sound bytes. I had to come across as sincere, yet not naive. A reluctant and likeable hero, trustworthy and admirable. I grimaced at that last point and quickly added a few easier tasks to the list: breakfast, tidying my apartment, and ironing the lump of clothing on the chair beside the bed. Heroes were always well-fed and tidy.

Numbers 3 to 5 were easily accomplished by ten o'clock. Numbers 1 and 2 were best left for another day, I determined. It seemed like a good time for the model citizen to follow-up on Viola and see how she was doing so without calling ahead, I hopped in my car and drove over to the faded yellow house that served as a woman's shelter. That wasn’t such a brilliant idea, I soon found out. The dour desk lady informed me that Viola was not available. The confident businesswoman in me insisted that this meeting was imperative for the poor woman's benefit, and the receptionist reluctantly revealed that yes, Viola was in the building and that if I cared to wait, she might appear. That left me to pace the tiny waiting room for half an hour. I refused to sit on the single cracked orange plastic chair. Heroes have certain standards, you know.

Viola finally appeared at the end of the hallway, blue bathrobe clutched around her shoulders, hair damp and dishevelled. We retreated to the cramped, stuffy living room. It was obvious she had just come out of the shower, so I forgave the inconvenience. Aside from being clean, she didn’t look too great, but you can’t tell someone that, so I just smiled and asked how things were.
She began to cry softly and I gave her a moment to compose herself before I probed further. She had been in contact with her husband, Richard, that much was obvious. I knew first-hand that the inconsistencies of men brought confusion and conflicting emotions into play.

Her confession was brief. Yes, she had spoken to Richard again. He had reiterated his concern for her and his desire to have her come home. I could see that she had been noticeably moved by his temporary tenderness and seemed to be conveniently forgetting about his past violence, so I reminded her. It was a tactless thing to do and resulted in an outburst of tears that a simple apology could not stop. Between sobs, she insisted that he did love her and that she believed that he was truly sorry for what he had done and was ready to make a fresh start. Yes, well, I knew that women tend to believe what they want to hear. I couldn't blame her.

I sat beside her on the lumpy couch, my heart surprisingly void of any sympathy and compassion. After Monday, her testimony would be of negligible value anyway - why not just let her go home to that nasty man. But something inside me shivered. People who save the city don't think like that. The bad guys think like that! “What is wrong with me?” I reprimanded myself under my breath.

Viola stopped her sobbing to glance in my direction. I looked into her pleading eyes and knew that she was asking for something to pin her hopes on, something concrete, something that would help her make the right decision. The last time I had seen her, I had told myself that I would check out Richard Sanders. It was time to do just that.

“I’ll go see your husband, Viola. I’ll find out what I can,” I offered.

Viola was so clearly relieved at having some support that she quickly dried her tears and gave me a quivering smile. She clutched my hand and confided that she believed her husband had had a change of heart because his long list of promises included giving up his association with Allstar. It sounded too good to be true. Let Richard try to pass the Billy test. I took down the address of the Sanders' home and left the safe house.

chapter ninety

The headline in my mind's newspaper had now changed to: Police Detective Finally Snaps Under Pressure of Top-Level Investigation and Outrageous Antics of Overly Emotional Girlfriend. There were two problems with the headline. Number one: it was too long. Number two: though any trash reporter would have quantified me as Blair's girlfriend, especially if a photographer had happened to catch that unexpected kiss, I was still confused as to what the state of our relationship was. Was the man just relieved that I wasn't hurt? Had he changed his mind since that unsettling Sunday night when he basically told God and Jim and me to go to hell? Or perhaps I had gained the status of trusted platonic friend by virtue of all that we had been through. The man was definitely going to have to do a lot of explaining over dinner.

Butter chicken, yellow curry, and mounds of fragrant rice landed in my stomach, producing such a sense of well-being and fullness that it threatened to crowd out the gnawing uncertainties in my mind. I had tried to introduce my questions at the beginning of the meal, but Blair had clucked like a hen at each word, reminding me that only after we had eaten our so-called celebratory meal would any details be discussed. He kept the talk distinctly playful and jovial while we dined, and soon I was drawn into his effervescent mood. When he accidentally dripped the sweet, orange, buttery sauce on the front of his clean shirt near the end of the meal, I giggled like a drunk teenager and rather obnoxiously pointed out that even a klutz like me had managed to avoid sullying the over-sized striped T-shirt he had lent me for the occasion. He simply smiled, the comment and the stain not affecting him in the least.

We were back at Blair's house, seated on the living room couch with glasses of our liquid of choice in hand when he finally brought the conversation back to the earlier business.

"Okay, Billy, what would you like to know? Ask me anything you want and I will answer it to the best of my ability."

I hesitated. The circus of questions was not nearly so animated nor cacophonous as it had been a few hours ago. What exactly had I been so confused about? Oh, yes, the land.

"Am I really the owner of Mr. Hickory's property?"

"No."

I sighed with relief. I knew I must have misunderstood. He had just been playing a silly joke on me.

"Not until we sign the papers tomorrow morning," Blair continued.

"What? Why would you do that? You're the one looking for good investments, if I'm not mistaken."

"You are not mistaken," he replied slowly, taking a slow sip of amber liquid.

I shook my head. "Okay, so then why didn't you buy it under your own name? No, wait, did Mr. Hickory have something to do with this? Is this a way to keep the bad guys off his trail? And yours, too? Yes, that's it! Because it would look awfully suspicious if a policeman bought up the property, wouldn't it?" I grinned with satisfaction at my incredible skills of deduction and took a big swig of lemonade.

He raised his eyebrows slightly. "So you have no problem accepting the land gift?"

"Oh, I know it's not a gift. Just a trick with names. I'm happy to do whatever it takes to lock up these guys and to keep Mr. Hickory safe, even if it is just lending my name to something."

Cameron's expression changed slightly, and I thought perhaps he was having second thoughts about what he had done. "Don't worry, I won't interfere with any plans you have for that land. You can just pretend my name isn't on that deed. It's your money and you own it, as far as I am concerned. Congratulations on your new purchase, Mr. Blair." I raised my glass to toast him, but there was no reciprocating gesture from his side of the couch.

He drained his beer and set the glass down. "All right, then. No other questions?"

The memory of his spontaneous kiss flitted though my mind and I felt a sudden flush of warmth on my neck. I couldn't bring myself to ask him about that, could I?

"Something on your mind, Billy?" He leaned forward and waited.

The heat continued to flood my neck and rose to my face; the events of the evening started to whirl around in my mind. The kiss, the grand declaration of my name on the deed, his concern for my well-being, the mention of a gift, his manic excitement of the evening, a shift in his countenance when I figured out why he had switched my name for his. Something was going on here that I was missing, but I couldn't pull the facts together to make sense of it all.

"I don't - I think - uh - did I miss something?" I sputtered.

Blair looked at me for a long moment, then nodded several times. "Yes, you did, but you're a quick learner. You'll figure it out soon enough." He took the half-empty glass from my hand and set it down on the coffee table. "I do have a request, though."

"Sure," I breathed, my heart pounding madly for some reason.

"If you don't mind, I'd like my father's Bible back." My heart stopped as I remembered effacing my name from the family page. Dear God, what had I done? I couldn't give it back to him like that. I got up and glanced towards the door.

"Um, I'll have to find it. It might take awhile. My place is a mess, you know," I laughed nervously and stumbled backwards. "Well, I should go. It's getting late. Thanks for dinner and the - uh - real estate." Strange, strained twitters came from my mouth. My discomfort was embarrassingly obvious, and I felt badly for Blair who was watching me unravel right in front of his eyes. Surely he could tell that something has happened to his one and only heirloom.

"What's wrong? Billy, tell me what's going on." He stood up and took my arm gently, pulling me away from the doorway. I hung my head low on my chest, shamefully. "It's okay, you can tell me. I won't be upset," he said reassuringly.

I had seen a bit of the tumultuous relationship between him and that Bible, and I hated to add one more incident to the mix. But he was a detective and he would find out, no matter how hard I tried to hide it from him. Let it be when he was calm.

"I kind of - um - the family page, well - " I struggled to find words for my offence. He waited in silence for me to finish the sentence. "I erased the last name," I confessed. "I didn't want it to trouble you anymore."

I waited for the reaction. It was wholly unexpected and took my breath away. He stepped towards me and drew me into his chest. "Thank you, Billy. Thank you," he mumbled into my hair. Then he pulled away, took both my hands in his, and held me in his gaze for a moment. I think he started what happened next, but I honestly don't remember.

He threw back his head and let out a huge sigh. At the same time, the relief was so great in me that short, breathy spurts of laughter started to bubble up from my throat. When he inhaled, there was a musical chuckling on his breath. As the mutual laughter grew louder and the mirth in the room increased, he lunged forward and scooped me up in his arms again. It ended much like the first occurrence earlier that evening: he hooted and twirled until we were both slightly dizzy. I shrieked and giggled and tried to avoid striking anything in the room with my head or my arms. And lastly, swaying slightly, he stood in the middle of the living room and planted a soft kiss on my lips.

"Are you starting to figure it out yet, Billy?" he asked with a wink.

chapter eighty-nine

I was hunkered down in my car, clutching two red packages of ketchup and desperately hoping that for once Blair would not see what was right in front of him and walk right by my blue Dodge. What had I hoped to accomplish by driving over to his house? If I simply wanted to affirm his decision to buy Wild Bill's property as a fine and noble deed, this was the least professional way I could have chosen to do so. If I wanted to try to patch up our friendship, this was the most intrusive and awkward gesture anyone could have dreamed up. I silently wished for a tornado to appear overhead, extract my vehicle and me, and toss us safely a mile or two from the scene. Alas, it was not storm season.

I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel and anxiously dug my nails into the packets I had pressed to my chest as I held my breath. The noise stopped right outside my car door, and I stifled a groan as I realised that I could not escape discovery. The exhausted and misshapen foil packages chose that moment to succumb to the pressure and released their contents. I heard the passenger door squeak open and saw the interior light above me blink on, blinding me.

"Billy, what happened?" Blair wasted no time in lifting me out of the car and rushing me into the house.

I struggled and wriggled against his strong arms, saying "No, stop, no," over and over again, but he ignored my clear instructions and tightened his hold on me, restricting my movement. The red sticky mess spread from my chest onto his and I stopped fighting him. Through the front door and into the kitchen he strode, saving my life, or so he thought. He flicked on the light with his elbow and glanced down to see if my heart was still beating. I meekly opened my hands and let the deflated red packages speak for themselves.

There was no immediate reaction from my rescuer. He just stood there in the kitchen, holding me and staring at the palms of my hands. Then the detective lost his mind. He let out a loud hoot and began to twirl in circles. He was laughing and spinning, louder and faster, and since I was still in his arms, I was beginning to fear for my safety. He staggered once or twice, dizzy from revolving like a top, and I let out a small shriek. He clutched me to himself all the tighter, but thankfully, stopped turning in circles. I could feel his elevated heartbeat as he stood wide-legged in the kitchen, his breath coming quickly, holding me like some trophy.

"You can put me down now," I said, a bit disquieted by his strange behaviour.

He smiled broadly at me and said, "I have never been so happy to see ketchup in all my life." Then he planted a noisy, swift peck right on my lips, and plopped me onto my feet. I stood there in shock, shivery fingers going all up and down the back of my neck. Was the man on drugs?

"Let's go out and celebrate, what do you say?" He peered expectantly into my face.

"Uh, what are we celebrating, may I ask?" I bit my lip, looked down, and dabbed at the stain on my white shirt, certain that the article of clothing was a write off. My sudden concern for my wardrobe was really a sad attempt to avoid his intense gaze so that he would not see the effect of the lingering tingling sensation on my lips.

"Why, Ms. Billy Ellis, tomorrow you become the proud owner of 52 Waverly Crescent," he informed me with a grand air.

I forgot about the ruined shirt and stared wide-eyed at him."What are you talking about?" The man needed a sedative or something.

"You asked me if I wanted to do something important with my money. The answer is yes," he replied.

I shook my head, not understanding anything the detective had done or said since he had hung up on me that afternoon. "I'm sorry, Cameron, but you're acting very strange. Did you bump your head? Do you have a fever? Maybe someone slipped you an illegal substance, I don't know. You're too happy and jolly and nothing you say makes any sense. It's just weird."

"You want to know what happened? I'll tell you what happened, Bertha Ellis." He suddenly became very serious and grabbing both my shoulders, brought his face within inches of mine. "Right after dinner," he finished, touching my nose lightly with a forefinger. Then he laughed and sidled out of the room. The next thing I heard was heavy feet running up the stairs and a male voice singing slightly off-key.

For a change, I felt like the most stable and mature human in the place.