And so these hands of mine
Began to write.
At first I feared that
Living through it all again
Would be my death.
I'm still alive.

7 -- Each Day A Decision

Jack shoved the report into a folder. For what it was worth, he now knew the make, model and serial number of the stolen laptop. Whoever had removed the computer would make damn sure it never surfaced. It was gone, along with any clues it might hold regarding the murder of its owner: Robert Lowry.

He’d dragged Starky back to the dead man’s apartment in the hopes of finding something – anything – that forensics might have overlooked.

Brown studied the shelf. Four missing books, each exactly the same size, had stood side by side edged by a ring of dust.

But why, the Inspector wondered, would anyone keep four identical books?

Of course, they could be volumes of a set, like four dictionaries, but then the sizes would vary at least marginally. These four books had been identical.

“The laptop’s a dead end,” he said to Starky. “We’re not likely to recover it. It’s going to come down to the books. What was the late Mr. Lowry reading? His sister and brother don’t know. What about the neighbours? The local bookstores?”

“The neighbours say he liked to read, but no one remembered a specific title. I’ll pull together a couple of guys and visit the bookstores.”

“Any news regarding our victim’s latest ‘love interest’?”

Starky laughed. “So far, Jack, that remains a mystery.”

Brown studied the spines one more time, his gloved hand removing the book that had stood nearest the missing four. As he lifted it, a flash of blue caught his eye.

“Hold on, Starky. Have a look at this, will you?”

A bright blue feather moved slightly on the shelf. Brown used a pen to hold the feather in place.

“Does this look dusty to you?” he asked.

Starky leaned in close. The feather showed no trace of the heavy dust that covered the rest of the bookshelf.

“Nope.” He opened a plastic evidence bag and used a pair of tweezers to drop the feather inside.

“Lowry didn’t own any pets, right?” Brown said.

“No pets. Besides, this feather has been dyed. It’s not a natural blue.”

“So far as we can tell Lowry wasn’t a cross-dresser.”

“No girly duds in his closet,” Starky said. “No feathery fashions.”

“Lucky thing,” Brown said, “that mysteries are our business.”
***

“Welcome back to sunny Toronto.” Maggie’s warm smile was in sharp contrast to the dreary afternoon. Her office was bright, the walls decorated in best-selling covers.

Leda Maguire shook her coat and hung it on the rack.

“Very funny,” she said.

“How was Boston?” Maggie hugged her client. Leda’s book had raised her status as an agent, but beyond that she was genuinely fond of the author. The cover of Two Good Hands held a place of prominence on her wall.

“Let’s just say it was an ‘interesting’ trip.” Leda launched into a review of the past few days: Hamish’s attempted suicide, the hotel maid’s troubles with her daughter and her sociopath son, the break-and-entering of her Boston hotel room. “I was glad to have Helen Strachan with me, that’s for sure,” she concluded.

“So the bodyguard thing is working out?” Maggie said.

“To tell the truth,” Leda said, “my friendly stalker was a no-show for the first time in months. I don’t know what happened to him. I was a little disappointed, seeing as I’d gone to the trouble of hiring a bodyguard. But as it turned out, there were enough other crazies in Boston to make the expense worthwhile.”

“Speaking of worthwhile,” Maggie said, “the University Bookstore called. They ordered 1500 copies of Two Good Hands. They plan to make it compulsory reading for their Psych students. They also fished around to find out whether you would commit to an annual visit to Boston, but I talked around that one. Who knows what our schedule will be like next year?”

Leda sat back in her seat. 1500 copies in a single order – five years ago the concept would have been unthinkable!

“Anyway,” Maggie continued, “as far as our schedule goes, we’ve got nothing on for the next two weeks. You deserve a break. I was thinking of booking us both a flight to Cuba. How does sun, sand and a steady stream of piña colada sound?”

“Sounds wonderful, Maggie, and thanks for offering. To tell the truth, though, I really need to get up North. The contractors are almost finished the new place. I have to spend some time there, find out if there are any problems before I make the final payment.”

Maggie stifled her disappointment. She’d been talking to Leda about the possibility of a trip for months, and her friend had seemed open to the idea. It would be good for her to get away, unwind in an unfamiliar place. The truth was, Maggie had no family, no lover, and she counted Leda as one of her closest friends.

At least she hadn’t given a deposit on the flight. That was something.

“That’s too bad,” she said. “Maybe another time. But are you sure you’re ready to stay overnight in the new place? I mean, it’s a lovely house and everything. It’s just so isolated. Won’t you be nervous?”

“I have to face it sooner or later. Might as well get on with it. I was thinking of asking Helen whether she can recommend a security firm in Midland. Maybe I can hire someone to keep an eye on the place while I’m there, and check it out occasionally when I’m not.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Ethan’s going to be in jail a long time, Maggie. At some point I have to find a way to get on with my life. If that means hiring a full-time companion, well, at least I have the money.”

“Absolutely. Whatever puts your mind at ease.”

Maggie studied Leda. Even knowing the author as she did, she still marvelled at her friend’s composure. After all, Leda’s past was a matter of public record. She had been to hell and… well… there was no way of knowing whether she had come back. As a child she had survived sexual, physical and emotional trauma. She escaped into a teenaged marriage, only to discover that her husband was even more violent than her father was – flat out psychotic by all accounts.

When the eighteen-year-old Leda Hammer learned she was pregnant, she made a terrifying decision to leave her abusive husband. He always told her he would kill her if she left. It took months to find the courage, but one day she sought refuge in a shelter for battered women.

She knew better than to return to her parents’ home. That was the first place Ethan would look for her.

Christmas came that year as it always does. Baby’s first Christmas – her mother’s first and only grandchild. After much discussion, Leda finally agreed to spend Christmas Eve at her parents’ house with her newborn son.

It was a fatal decision, one that would haunt Leda for the rest of her life. In many ways the events of that night had broken Leda, but she’d come back from the dead… come back to tell her story to the world.

Maggie had nothing but respect for her client. Her greatest wish was to protect Leda, to help her achieve success and happiness.

“You never told me,” Maggie finally said, “what the burglar took from your hotel room.”

Having decided to keep the missing bookmark to herself, Leda had rehearsed the answer. After all, she’d already been questioned by the Boston police.

“Nothing at all,” she said. “I’m guessing we interrupted him before he could get his hands on anything valuable.”

Maggie turned toward the window. The grey afternoon was giving way to darkness. She longed to give her friend advice, but Leda had a quiet ferocity when it came to making her own decisions.

“Drive carefully,” Maggie said. “The roads are going to be bad.”
***

Helen was waiting in the limousine. They’d shared a car from the airport, but she was travel weary and hadn’t felt up to meeting Leda’s agent.

“Let's go to your place first,” Helen said. “I’ll go in with you, make sure the coast is clear.”

“Thanks.” Leda looked out the window.

“Everything all right?” Helen asked.

“Don’t you think it’s a little strange,” Leda said, “that my stalker suddenly took a powder?”

“I hope you’re not disappointed.” Helen smiled.

“No. It’s just odd.” Leda pulled her cell phone from her pocket. “I’m going to email his photo to you.”

She fumbled with the applications till the 'camera-roll' appeared. She didn’t have many pictures – a couple she’d taken at various signings with Maggie.

“That’s funny,” she said, scrolling once more through the pictures.

“What?” Helen said.

“The picture isn’t there anymore.”

“That’s weird.”

“I must have accidentally deleted it. It’s no big deal. How would you feel,” Leda said, buckling her seatbelt, “about a little Northern getaway?”
***

Rhonda Copps glared at the phone and set her drink on the table. Scotch splashed over the rim onto her fingers. She licked them without dropping her gaze.

She’d be damned if some low-class Louisiana witch was gong to get the better of her! A dozen times she’d reached for the phone, determined to tell Sandy Burrows to go straight to hell. Each time, though, the memory of those crazy blue eyes flashing out of that dark African face stopped Rhonda in her tracks.

Rhonda's distaste for losing at anything competed with her sneaking suspicion that Sandy Burrows might make good on her threat. The professor had no desire to become fish bait at the bottom of the Boston Harbour.

Still….
_______________________________

TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, FOR VOLUME 8 OF "TWO GOOD HANDS", a Leda And Strachan mystery!

Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. No part of this story may be reproduced without the written consent of the author.

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