Back in March of this year my friend Cathy and I embarked on a road trip to visit several bookstores. If you stick around to the end of the list of places we visited, I’ll reward you with a short story.
We stopped first in Waco at Fabled Bookshop and Cafe. I had heard they have a secret entrance to the children’s book area but we were so engrossed in our own book search that I forgot to look for it. If you make it to Waco, be sure to stop in here and check out the Narnia type wardrobe door into the kid’s section.
We spent the evening in Austin, and shopped at Birdhouse Books.
There were lots of welcoming faces here. Birdhouse Books is a woman-owned, queer-owned, veteran-owned store that focuses on giving back to the community.
https://www.birdhousebooksatx.com/
The next day we rose early and headed to Lockhart, Texas to visit Haunt Happy Books – a horror themed bookstore. We also had barbecue for lunch, a requirement in the barbecue capital of Texas. At Black’s we had brisket, and I was thankful that jackalope wasn’t on the menu.
While we waited for Haunt Happy Books to open for the afternoon, we walked around the square and found an unexpected stop – Colossus Books. I picked up a first edition by Charles Bukowski for my husband.
https://www.colossusbooks.com/
The red door at the back of the store made me think of the hidden wardrobe door at Fabled, but on closer inspection I saw this sign and thought better of trying to open it.
Our last stop on the book tour was Haunt Happy Books. As a horror writer, I was thrilled to find a store that featured so much horror! I found all my favorite authors here, and discovered a couple new to me. So many books and so little discretionary funds leads to hard decisions. (They would not take my soul in exchange for a stack of hardcovers)
https://www.instagram.com/haunthappybooks
The entrance to Haunt Happy is down a set of stairs and into the basement that houses the store.
If you’ve made it this far into the post, thanks for sticking around. As promised, here’s a flash fiction short story I wrote a couple years back for the NYC Midnight contest. For these challenges, the writer is assigned a genre and prompts that must be included in the story. It makes for some mind-stretching creativity, especially when you only have 48 hours to write a complete tale. For this one my genre was Spy Thriller and I had to include a blank check. There was a third prompt as well, but I don’t remember what it was. The story had to be under 1,000 words, not including the title. I’ve added a couple here, to fill in a missing bit that one of the contest judges pointed out.
I have folders filled with these contest stories. Some of them I’ll edit and include in a book of short stories, but the ones where the genre is not within my usual type of writing I had been stumped to figure out how to get some use from them. Then I remembered my neglected blog/website. I’ll post an odd story here now and then. For now enjoy this one.
A Dish Too Cold by Terrye Turpin
The invitation appeared Thursday afternoon. The gold script on the card didn’t tell me why I’d been picked to attend the gala for Ken Hollister. Hardy and I had worked with him in Panama, 1990. There weren’t many people left who knew about that time. On paper, he worked for the General Services Administration. Unofficially, that other alphabet agency employed him. Rumor was, Hollister had arranged recent defections of Russian military officers. I wandered down the hall to my boss, Hardy, Special Agent in Charge.
“Hollister is retiring?” I tapped the envelope on Hardy’s desk.
“Yep. Enjoy the party.”
“You’re not going?” Despite their history, Hardy could have put it behind. A decade had passed since Rita, Hardy’s first wife, had divorced him and then married Ken Hollister two years later.
My boss spread his hands. “Only one invitation. We must make sacrifices.”
“Thanks.” I grimaced. “Promise me you won’t embarrass me like this when I quit.”
“Jack, old dogs like us don’t leave.”
“I’ll dust off my black suit.”
“Dust off more than that.” Hardy tossed me a thick folder. “There are threats on Hollister’s life.”
“The spooks aren’t taking care of it?”
“Hollister requested you.”
Of course. He needed someone he could trust, someone who shared memories of the same humid jungle. Someone he thought would owe him a debt. I flipped through the folder. Photos and printed dossiers on the guests. I recognized a four-star general and a Hollywood movie actress. A lot of wealth and influence crammed between a fold of cardboard.
As I stood to leave, Hardy grabbed something from behind his desk. “Wait. Can’t forget the gift.” He handed me a blank check, framed behind glass.
I squinted at the signature. “You’re kidding me.”
“A good forgery makes an interesting present. Or maybe it’s the real thing.”
I left Hardy staring out his window. How much would a blank check signed by J. Edgar Hoover be worth? I’d better take my suit to the cleaners. It would do for the fancy party. Or a funeral.
Saturday evening, I handed my Ford over to the valet and climbed the steps to Hollister’s Virginia mansion. The gala was in full swing. Light sparkled from the chandeliers and reflected off the polished marble entry. Laughter blended with the soft notes of a harp. I recognized the Russian harpist from her dossier. Alina Petrov. She and her husband, Nicolai, an opera tenor, had defected in 2010. I wondered if Hollister had a hand on that. He’d always been a sucker for beautiful women, especially if they were with another man. She rested the harp against one slim shoulder. Her hands flitted like doves across the strings.
Weaving through the crowd, I spotted Rita, Hollister’s wife.
“Jack!” She grasped my hand. “It’s been too long. I’m glad you’re here.” She looked over my shoulder as though searching for someone else.
“I’m the designated representative tonight. Hardy gave me his invitation.” I wondered how much she knew about the threat. Her makeup didn’t hide the dull blue circles under her eyes. The last time I’d seen Rita, her hair had been bright russet. She’d stopped dying it, and it topped her head in a snow-white crown that suited her. Older now, but hell, so were we all. Me, Ken, Hardy, and Rita.
“It’s good to see you.” I held up the framed check. “Hardy sends his regards. Where should I put this?”
“Oh.” Rita traced a finger across the glass. “That Hardy! Hoover! Ken will love this.”
I followed her to their library. Wrapped and unwrapped gifts were stacked on an oak table in the center of the room. I set the blank check next to a bottle of cognac older than me, then made for the open bar.
Carrying my drink, I wandered through the open French doors to the garden. The heavy scent of cigar smoke hung in the air. I followed the sound of male laughter, past plants drooping with crimson puffs of flowers. The copper red leaves, large as my hand, seemed familiar.
“Jack!” Hollister grabbed my arm and pulled me into a hug. “Which one of these bastards is trying to kill me?” Slurring his words, he motioned to the three men standing around him. Hollister’s sour breath stank of whiskey. The men shuffled their feet and laughed nervously before leaving to go back to the house. Hollister pulled me away.
“Seriously, Jack. I’m glad you’re here.” Red veins traced the whites of his eyes. Under his golf course tan, Hollister’s crepey skin had a sallow cast. “I can’t trust anyone but the old guard,” he said.
Taking his arm, I led him back inside. I left him with a group in conversation with the Hollywood actress while I went to find some coffee to sober him up. I passed the library as Alina Petrov stormed out, slamming the door. A red mark bloomed on her cheek. I located a coffee pot, a fancy contraption that ground the beans and heated the water instantly. I stared at the beans and suddenly remembered where I’d seen the plant with the copper red leaves.
In the few minutes I’d been gone, Hollister had disappeared. Alina took up the harp again, this time to accompany her husband as his voice soared through an aria. I pushed people aside, ignoring their protests, and headed for the library. I found Rita standing over Ken as he held the framed check.
“Can you spot a fake?” He flipped the frame and picked at the staples on the back.
“You shouldn’t be here, Jack.” Rita handed a letter opener to her husband.
“Don’t open it!” I grabbed the check and yanked it away.
“What we had was real.” Hollister’s lip trembled. “But I’ve lost her. She’s going back to him, after all this time.”
Nothing breaks up a party like attempted murder. The cops arrived, and I explained my suspicions. The check tested positive for ricin. Rita confessed. Hardy had offered the solution—a grim recipe using the castor plants in her garden. She supplied the beans, he ground them and dusted the check. Her job? Make sure Hollister opened the frame. Death, however, was a dish too cold for me.
Let's Get Out of Here 