5 Twists

5 Twists Short Stories by Camille LaGuire First Smashwords Edition Copyright 2011 Camille LaGuire Find other books by Camille LaGuire at Smashwords.com .

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5 Twists

Table of Contents: Burning Bridges Balancing Act Deadmen Don't Eat Fruitcake Power Is Greater Than Love The Unexpurgated Story of the Baby Shoes Which Were Sold Unused Bonus: The opening chapter of The Man Who Did Too Much

Burning Bridges When a young bimbo gets herself in trouble, a cynical older woman has to decide whether to help her out.

THE GIRL WHO walked into the tiny country convenience store was slim, with an angular face and narrow jaw, and sun-washed blond hair that would have fallen into her eyes if she hadn't been wearing silver wrap-around sunglasses. Madge noticed that the glasses didn't quite cover the bruise across her cheek. The color of the bruise matched the jeans which wrapped as tightly as skin around her legs, and the shoes...the shoes were new, just like the bruise.

There was likely a connection between the two. They were, after all, nice shoes, not sexy ones. John was a shit about things like that.

Madge tried to remember the girl's name. Joni, or Jacki. Or Dopi, Sneazi or Grumpi, or...or Bobbi.

"You okay, hon?" said Madge, begrudgingly.

Bobbi looked up, surprised at the almost friendliness. Madge was a bit surprised about it too.

"I...," said Bobbi. She didn't finish. She stood, head slightly ducked, cautious of Madge's deviation from her gossip-born reputation as an unsympathetic bitch.

"Look honey, we aren't rivals," she said with a heavy sigh, leaning on the counter next to the cash register. "I lived with Johnny for a while when I was younger than you, but I didn't look good in blue."

She pointed to the bruise and then down to the jeans, and tried not to sound too cynical.

Madge didn't want John any more. Never really wanted him, except that he had that way of carrying anyone off with him on his bursts of mania. John somehow managed to be exciting even when he was mean. Sometimes. He could be wild and mean, or he could be gloomy and mean.

Madge had lasted through several bouts of wildness, but not one minute of gloomy.

But this kid was too young, and her breasts and butt too pert and her lower lip too pouty.

Madge couldn't help herself but feel a pang of competition. Youth is wasted on the young.

The girl turned, and Madge heard Dave's raised voice outside, as he talked with a customer.

John? No, it wasn't that kind of excitement. Madge flipped up the counter and stepped to the

door and pushed it open. Dave and two guys were looking off to the west. In the distance was a line of smoke rising in the dry hot air.

"Oh lord," said Bobbi, under her breath, and she sank back. From where Bobbi was standing inside, Madge was sure she couldn't see the fire, just the reaction of the men.

"Brush fire," said Dave, as he pushed past Madge, and into the store.

"Looks like John's place," said Madge, looking at the girl. Bobbi raised her head with effort.

"Yeah," she said. "There were those guys coming over. His...buddies. They were all mad at each other. I left before...."

Dave wasn't listening. He was on the phone talking to the fire dispatch. And then he grabbed his jacket and ran out. He was a volunteer, as were the two men at the pump. In a moment, with sirens and a squeal of wheels, the men were gone, and the two women stood in silence.

Bobbi stepped up to the door, and now stood still, almost frozen, looking across the road and ditch and fields to the hazy column of smoke. It seemed as though she were not breathing, especially when she finally did take a breath and it came in fast, raising her shoulders and making her twitch.

"Oh, Bobbi," said Madge. "Oh, what did you do?"

Bobbi gave another twitch and turned. There was fear and denial in her face, and she looked like a little girl. That kind of innocence seemed to bring out the worst in John, but just now she looked too vulnerable even for him. Then she pulled herself together, with a quick, physical motion. Yes, she'd have to have learned to do that around John. Her shoulders squared as she tried to decide how she should act.

"I bought some shoes," she said. "I...I went and bought some shoes, and he had his friends coming over. His druggie friends."

The kid had remembered her story okay but her delivery was bad. She started shaking, and then she wavered, and looked like she was about to fall right off those hip new shoes. Madge stepped forward and grabbed her by the upper arms, and guided her back to the popsicle freezer to sit down.

"He's dead, isn't he?" said Madge.

Bobbi nodded and started shaking. Madge put a firm hand on the back of her neck and pushed her head down.

"Come on, head between your knees and breathe slow and shallow."

And kiss your ass goodbye, she added mentally. Stupid kid. Hopeless stupid little kid, like a bunny in the headlights.

"What happened?"

The girl took a long shuddering breath. Madge let go of the back of her neck, but the girl didn't raise up.

"I just wanted some nice shoes," she said. "He said I could have them if they had nine inch heels and were made out of straps. I didn't want those. I wanted nice shoes."

"And he hit you?"

She straightened and looked at Madge. Her hand went to her face.

"Well, yeah. Earlier." The girl chewed her lip and began thinking about it. Madge had given her a defense, which was more than Madge owed the stupid kid. She should just drop it now, and call the cops. But....

"What are you going to do now?" said Madge. "Have you thought of that?"

Bobbi looked at her in surprise.

"You aren't going to...?" She stopped, afraid to finish the sentence as if it might give Madge ideas.

"I don't know." Madge pushed aside the other door of the freezer and pulled out a green popsicle and handed it to the girl. "Here, put this on your face to stop the swelling."

Then she went back behind the counter and looked over the array of bottles. She picked a pepper vodka and held it up for Bobbi to see. Bobbi sat up like Madge had offered her a cookie.

"Stoli!" she said, impressed, and she jumped off the freezer, and bellied right up to the counter. A budding lush. Johnny'd found himself a drunk that he could control. Which made him stupid too. The both of them made a good candidates for Darwinism.

Madge pulled down a shot glass gift pack and broke it open. Bobbi'd already opened the booze. She poured two shots, and knocked one back with expertise. But then she stopped and bent in shock as the pepper added the extra burn. She nodded, and then unwrapped the popsicle and sucked on it while Madge poured her another. This time Bobbi dipped the popsicle in the drink first, licked it off, and then drank down the shot.

"I bet Johnny really loved you," she said. Bobbi's head snapped around. She looked at Madge in fear, taking it as criticism. "I mean you were his kind of girl."

"Yeah," said Bobbi, taking a breath.

Madge picked up the other shot glass and held it up in toast.

"Here's to John."

"Yeah," said Bobbi. She poured herself another and drank up. She started to reach for the bottle again, but Madge pulled it back and put the cap back on.

"You've had enough. You've got to think now. What are you going to do?"

"I'm heading for Canada."

Madge let out a slow breath and stared at the counter. Running seemed stupid, but who knew what the police would find? Maybe there wasn't a chance they could be fooled into thinking it was John's drug friends, or even self-defense.

"Do you expect to get that far?" she finally said, running a finger around the shot glass.

"I don't know," said Bobbi lightly. She imitated Madge's move on her own glass, and stared into its tiny depths. "I figure this is my last stand, so I might as well get something out of it. And I've got money to go anywhere I want."

Madge paused, and looked up.

"Money?"

Bobbi nodded slowly with a little girl pout.

"John's money. His secret stash from under the floor boards. Fifty thousand."

"That will get you quite a ways."

"Yeah, and when it's gone, you know, I figure I can find some other guy outside the law--you know, like John--and I can just join up with him and become a non-person and nobody can find me."

She said that as if it were something good. Madge stared at her for a moment.

"Why would you want another one like John?" she said tightly.

Bobbi just shrugged and eased the bottle back toward herself, slyly, like she was just playing with it.

"He could take care of me."

Madge snatched the bottle away and kept hold of it.

"You don't deserve help," she said in exasperation. "You're a waste of fifty thousand dollars and a good pair of shoes."

Bobbi nodded and then her face squinched up, and she started crying, her shoulders shaking.

She covered her face with hands that were sticky with popsicle juice. Young and pathetic and stupid and a waste of energy. And she hadn't a chance in hell on her own, even with fifty thousand dollars.

Madge didn't have all that much trouble making up her mind. She lifted the counter and took Bobbi's elbow.

"Come on. If you're getting out of here, you need help. I've got some maps and things in the shed down behind the store. You pull the truck down there, and we'll figure out your best way out."

Bobbi went gratefully and jumped into the truck. She pulled it around with some spinning of wheels, bumping down the low drive to the shed down the hill, which was behind the store and hidden from view. Madge walked down carrying the vodka and thinking over the details.

"All right, here's your plan," she said, as she led Bobbi into the shed and flattened out the map.

"You go west."

"But...if I go west I'll have to go all the way around the lake."

"If they think you're heading for Canada, they'll expect you to try to cross at the Soo. And I'll help by telling them that you told me you had a cousin over there. You go west, and cross over on some little road in Minnesota."

Madge traced a route, and Bobbi looked at it for a long time, but finally nodded.

"I can do that," she said, as if surprised. "I bet fifty thousand American goes a long way in Canada."

They walked back to the truck. Bobbi got in. Madge walked around to the passenger side and opened the door to talk.

"Now, you need to pay me for the shot glasses and vodka, so they don't think I was helping you."

"Oh, yeah," said Bobbi, reaching for a bag on the floor.

"Wait," said Marge. "If John had it stashed, maybe it was marked. You think they can trace it?"

"Nah," said Bobbi. "He used it all the time, and they never tracked him. Nobody even knew what he had." She pulled open the bag. Madge could see money inside, and a gun. Good. She wouldn't have to ask where it was. Bobby pulled the gun out of the way and set it on the seat, while she fumbled out two twenties. "Is that enough?"

"More than," said Madge. She tucked the twenties away, and then held out the bottle.

"Look, hon, I'm giving you this bottle, but you are not to get drunk. You are not to get caught after I helped you."

Bobbi started to take the bottle, but Madge let it slip, intentionally spilling it.

"Oh!" said Bobbi, twisting around to avoid the spill.

"Wait, I'll get it," said Madge. She took up a shammy cloth from the dash and started to wipe. Then she picked up the gun as if to move it. The kid just looked down for a napkin, and didn't even notice. She was too easy to fool. She wasn't going to make it to Canada anyway, was she? Madge raised the gun and shot her as she looked at the spill on her lap.

It was an uglier and messier scene than she expected to create, and the noise was louder, but lone gunshots were a common sound out here. It wasn't likely to draw attention, unless she was unlucky.

She used the shammy to place the gun in one limp hand, and placed a lighter in the other, and the bottle in her lap. She glanced up at the road, but no one was there, so she hustled the money into the shed, and hid it. She hurried back to the truck and looked in the back. There were gas cans back there. The stupid kid hadn't got rid of them. Hadn't left them to burn when she set fire to the house.

There was some gas left in one of them. Madge spilled it over some sacking and the shammy, which would make a decent wick. She fed it through the sliding back window into the cab.

Then she went back to the cab and paused at the mess. She glanced down at the shoes the kid had bought in defiance of John's control.

"Well," said Madge. "At least you got to die with your shoes on." They wouldn't have let her keep them in jail, and if she had found some jerk like John again, he'd have taken them away as soon as he knew she wanted them.

Madge took out her own lighter and lit the rag.

Maybe I'm just as stupid, she thought as she headed back into the store. Maybe I'm burning a bridge I need.

THE EXPLOSION WASN'T as loud as she expected, more of a poof then a roar, and no bang. She ran back out of the store, like she would have if she hadn't expected to hear it, and saw the truck half engulfed in flames. Then she went back in and called the police. She had no trouble sounding shaken. She was, a little. She'd tell them bout the girl's strange behavior when they arrived. How Madge had given her a drink, and told her she could go down to the shed and stay until she found out if the fire was at John's. How she heard a shot and ran out to see the fire already started--like she'd lit it and then shot herself.

Madge flipped the closed sign on the store, and went out to the roadside to watch the smoke rise in two directions, and listen for the sirens.

It didn't matter if she burned her bridges, she supposed. When she chose a direction, she never considered going back. That would be a waste. Madge didn't like waste.

Balancing Act A klutzy woman, a charming man and a the theft of a jewel. The question is whether the fellow was just a bit too charming....

"MY GOD, THAT'S gorgeous!" said Minnie. She clutched Lisa's hand hard as she admired the ruby ring. Lisa didn't mind. She hadn't seen Minnie since high school, and it was fun to show off her hard-won success, especially since Minnie had been the one who always seemed to have everything. And now, at the company's charity ball, Lisa could shine a bit. Minnie ogled the ring and kept talking. "It's huge! Where did you get it? A fiancĂŠ?"

"No," said Lisa. "No, I've been too busy working to have relationships. I bought it myself, with the bonus I got for saving the company so much money this year."

"Hmm?" said Minnie, unimpressed by Purchasing Agent of the Year. The ring, though, was impressive. "I am so jealous, Lisa."

She looked up from the ring, eyes wide with admiration, but then she saw something beyond Lisa that made her squeeze Lisa's hand.

"Ow!" said Lisa, but Minnie looked beyond her, eyes going wide with even greater admiration.

"Now I'm really jealous over him," she said, lowering her voice.

Lisa turned to see a very good-looking guy across the room, watching them. Minnie clutched her arm and leaned closer.

"Is he yours?"

"No," said Lisa, although frankly she wouldn't have minded if he was. "I've never seen him before."

"He's had his eyes on you ever since you came in." Minnie let go of her arm and gave her a little shove toward the man. "If you don't introduce yourself to him, I'm going to hit you."

Lisa murmured a protest, but she had to admit she was interested. It had been a long time since she had paid attention to her social life, and here she was dressed beautifully, coiffed and bejeweled, and there he was ready and waiting.

He was good looking. Tall, with dark hair and eyes that moved and took in the whole room-not nervously, but intelligently. He looked at her again and caught her looking at him. He gave her a crooked smile. Crooked smiles were her downfall.

She took a breath and headed across the room. Unfortunately she was concentrating so hard on her elegant walk that she didn't see the waiter who was rushing across her path. She stopped short and tried to draw back. The waiter did the same and managed to sidestep her, but she was off balance. She waved her arms, one foot in the air, and tried desperately not to tip into the buffet table.

Luckily Mr. Gorgeous, as she'd come to think of him, dashed forward, nimbly avoiding any accidents of his own, and not even spilling a drop of his drink. He grabbed her hand and pulled her upright.

"Thank you," she said, blushing and closing her eyes in absolute mortification. I look like a complete idiot, she thought.

"Glad to help," he said, crooked grin and all. But before she could actually die of embarrassment, or reply, he tripped. Thank god, she thought, as she reached out a hand to help right him. He weighed more, and it took more effort to steady him, and he ended up almost leaning on her.

"Oh, sorry," he said. "I guess 'Pratfalls Are Us', eh?" They both laughed, and he gestured toward the corner. "Maybe we should sit down before we hurt ourselves." But then his smile went away. "Oh, wait, I...can't. I've got to talk to somebody. I'll be back. I promise."

He headed off across the room, his head raised to look over the crowd, but somehow he seemed to be heading toward the exit. She laughed at herself. I'm not that scary, she thought, even when I do my Daffy Duck impression. She sidled to the buffet and thought if she did see him again, she'd have to flash her ruby at him quick....

She looked at her hand. The ring was gone.

She looked at the ground, but didn't see it on the clean white carpet, but it couldn't have fallen off. It fit too well. It had been stolen--pulled off her hand in a wild grab.

She wheeled and looked across the crowd. He was moving purposefully but not fast, but he was almost to the exit. She dashed across the room, not looking elegant, but she didn't care. She grabbed his arm, and he turned and looked surprised.

"That trip was fake," she said angrily. "I can't believe I fell for it."

"I'm sorry," he said, looking contrite, but the crooked grin was still there. "You looked so embarrassed, I thought it would break the ice if I tripped too."

"And then you took my ring!"

"Ring?" He cocked his head, and looked down at her hands, as if interested. "You weren't wearing a ring. I would have noticed."

"Oh yes I was!"

"Did you shake hands with anyone? Maybe a stranger who claimed to know you?"

"Just you," she said. "And it was on my hand just before that, when I showed the ring to my friend Minnie...."

She could see the realization in his face as he looked up and quickly scanned the crowd.

"Minnie the Moocher," he said, almost to himself. He reached into his jacket for something.

It was only then that she noticed the lump under his dinner jacket--a shoulder holster.

"You're a cop," she said.

"Yeah," he replied. He pulled his identification from his pocket and flipped it open, still looking for Minnie. He was a cop all right. And Minnie.... Minnie had grabbed her hand and then distracted her. Minnie who had always seemed so rich, because she always had everything the other girls admired. But there were other ways to have everything.

SORTING IT OUT took forever. Minnie was caught with a purse full of jewelry that didn't belong to her, and there were statements to be made. At least Lisa got his business card and name--Detective Brian O'Brian--and he had her phone number on her statement. Still she waited around until he had a moment so she could apologize for calling him a thief.

"Okay," he said, before she could speak. "I tripped so you wouldn't be embarrassed about your fall. Now what can I do to balance out you calling me a thief?"

"Maybe you shouldn't," she said. "We have too much trouble with balance. Take me out instead?"

Deadmen Don't Eat Fruitcake It's a Noir Christmas when tough guys get their stolen jewels mixed up with fruitcake and on tough old lady.

IT WASN'T A dark night on account of the snow, which reflected the light of the two street lamps from every available surface, except the bloody patch under Tig Arbuckle. That is, under Tig's body. There wasn't anything left of Tig inside there. His life had leaked out faster than his blood, which stained the snow around him.

Phil stuck his gun back in his pocket and knelt down as Bud came running up.

"Geeze," said Bud, his breath puffing out in a wreath around his face. He paused as Phil pulled off his gloves in the freezing air and quickly searched the body. "He got the fruitcake?"

"No," said Phil, rising and heading back toward the car.

"It wasn't in the car, neither," said Bud, looking back and forth from Phil to the body.

"He must have left it with old lady," said Phil. Four hundred thousand dollars worth of hot jewels, and Tig had to hide them in a fruitcake. It made him want to spit, but the freezing air was too dry.

THERE WAS A police car outside the Arbuckle Bakery when they pulled to a stop across the street. They sat a moment and watched. A cop came out--a young woman huddled in her short thick jacket. She adjusted her belt, and paused to warm her hand over the small bag she carried, which steamed slightly in the frigid air. Then she got in the car and left. Just a customer. Phil considered.

"You know anything about the old lady?"

"Tig always said she was a right guy," said Bud. "A what?" said Phil, turning to look at Bud. Bud shrugged and shrunk a little.

"That's what he said. She's like one of the guys. Tough. A regular wise guy, he said."

"A wise guy baking fruitcakes," said Phil with a sneer. He shoved open the door and got out.

THE OLD LADY was shoveling cookies off a sheet and onto a rack when Phil and Bud entered.

She paused to look them over, but she didn't say anything.

"We're friends of Tig...," began Phil.

"I know." She kept shoveling the cookies. She put away the sheet and started on another one without looking up. "He was here a few minutes ago. You just missed him."

"We're gonna meet him later," said Phil with a reassuring smile. "We're just here for the fruitcake."

She turned to look more closely at them, and her eyes were sharp with suspicion, like a teacher. Phil was immune to that kind of look, but Bud's shoulders twitched. Bud chafed his hands and looked over his shoulder.

"What were the cops doing here?" he said. "You been robbed?"

She put the spatula down and came up to the counter, wiping her hands slowly.

"You know cops and donuts," she said.

"You don't sell donuts," said Phil.

"My niece happens to like cookies instead."

"Niece?" said Bud. Bud shuffled nervously and looked at Phil. Phil wasn't sweating.

"Yeah, my niece, Maggie," said the old lady. "She stopped by for a present for her boss...a fruitcake."

"We're here for fruitcake too," interrupted Phil. "Tig said you had one for him. Special for him. We're here to pick it up."

The old lady narrowed her eyes and looked them both over, then she leaned forward and set her hands on the counter.

"Yeah," she said slowly, like she'd just remembered something, "he did have one picked out.

Stupid kid messed with the dough. Ruined it." She nodded to herself, and then jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "I threw it out."

"Where?" said Phil.

"Out back, in the dumpster." She watched while Phil considered. "If he wants another one, he has to wait. I gave the rest of the batch to my niece."

Phil headed for the door. Bud followed, grumbling.

"What's Tig doing with a cop in his family anyway?"

"Every family's got a black sheep," said the old lady. She came around the counter and followed him to the door. She turned the lock as he went out, and stood and watched.

THE DUMPSTER WAS full of cartons and garbage and dough, all blending into a sickening cement in the cold. Phil stood on his toes to look in, and he wrinkled his nose.

"That idiot," he said. "What did he hide the jewels in a fruitcake for anyway?" He reached in reluctantly to pull a couple cartons out. He poked at them with a stick, and then at the garbage still inside. No sign of a fruitcake, but maybe it had blended in to the rest. He tried to reach for some bags in the back, as Bud climbed up on the edge. But then Bud hesitated.

"Say, Phil," he said. "Your ma ever make fruitcake?"

"No," said Phil shortly.

"How long you think it takes to bake a fruitcake?"

"I don't know and I don't care." But he looked up at Bud anyway.

"Try an hour and a half," said Bud. "That's at least what it took my ma to bake it. And then it had to cool for a while."

Phil dropped the stick. "So if he dropped those jewels in the fruitcake dough...."

"They're still in the oven, or maybe just coming out now. They weren't in the batch she threw away or gave to the cop."

Phil was already headed back up to the street. Bud jumped down and scrambled after him.

The lights at the front of the store were already off, and the sign said closed. Phil pounded on the glass, and then pulled the pistol out of his pocket and pounded the glass with the butt of the gun.

"Freakin' old ladies," he said. "Freaking Tig!" "Hey, Phil, cool it," said Bud, looking around nervously.

Phil shoved him back and took aim at the glass of the door. It was shatter resistant, but not really bullet proof. Three shots cracked it up enough to break. He knocked the rest in with the butt, and reached in to turn the lock. Bud stayed back and craned his neck to keep watch. Phil didn't bother. He was gonna get that old lady. She was just like Tig. A cheat.

He yanked open the door and charged in.

He was met at the counter by a shotgun blast. Buddy, who had rushed in after, didn't have time to back pedal. The second barrel got him.

FLASHING LIGHTS DECORATED the front of the bakery, as officers milled, and the CSI unit worked over the mess in the front room. In back, in the kitchen, a detective and two officers accepted slices of fruitcake from Granny Arbuckle.

"Granny," said one of the officers, the niece, Maggie. "Why don't you stay with Ma and me tonight?"

"No, no. I'll settle down better in my own home."

"Well, then, let me stay with you."

"No," said the old woman firmly. "I'll be fine."

"Let me do something!" said Maggie. "I feel awful. I saw them out there casing the place, and I didn't even notice."

"They're friends of Tig," said Granny, patting her on the arm. "You recognized them."

"Yeah, and that itself should have put me on alert."

"Eat your fruitcake, Maggie," said Granny, and then she waved a finger at the detective who was attempting to slip the uneaten bit of cake back on to the plate. "You too young man."

She turned back to the racks of slightly burned fruitcakes, and pulled a sheet from the big box of tin foil.

"You young people don't appreciate something good," she rattled on. She picked up a fruitcake and set it in the center of the foil. "I remember when I was a girl, I always thought it was a treasure. All those little colorful pieces. Like jewels...."

Maggie pointed at the cake in Granny's hands.

"Granny, that one's all messed up."

"That's all right...."

"You won't be open tomorrow, so there's no point in saving the good ones for customers.

Take the best one home."

Granny stopped and looked down at the little misshapen cake and smiled at it.

"This is the best one, dear. Trust me, I know fruitcakes, and it may be ugly on the outside, but it's the best on the inside." She finished wrapping it in tin-foil. "A little jewel chest just for me."

Power Is Greater Than Love A dictator knows only power, a simple woman knows only love. Which is stronger?

"YOUR PEOPLE LOVE you," said the First Advisor to the Dictator. "It must be wonderful to have the love of your people."

The Dictator laughed. He knew, of course that the advisor was full of it.

"I have power," said the Dictator. "I can demand love from anyone. Is that not so, Aline?"

A quiet woman from among the cadre of concubines, looked up at him fondly.

"I don't know, Dictator," she said. "I don't anything about power. I only know about love."

The Dictator sighed, and then turned back to the Advisor.

"She is a simpleton," he said. "But everyone else here loves me because it's good for them to love me."

The advisor nodded in hasty agreement. "That is the nature of love," he said. "Love is good for us."

"Loving me is good for you," said the Dictator.

ALINE WAS A puzzle to the Dictator. She alone among his followers and sycophants never asked him for anything. She never tried to advise him. She never tried to gain advantage. He was sensitive to the most subtle manipulations, but she never tried any of it. When he was in a generous mood, she stayed firmly at his side while the others fought ever his gifts. When he was dangerous and angry and unfair, she stayed as his side no matter what. She kept her head down, but she never cringed, and she never stepped back.

WHEN THE NEIGHBORING country cast a jealous eye on the Dictator's holdings, and saw itself as stronger, the Dictator found himself in a terrible war. Some of his people defected, and he shot several others -- killing them with his own hand in front of the others. His people got back in line quickly, and they fought valiantly, because the knew he could do much worse to his enemies, so they were not his enemies.

But there were some hairy moments, and when the foreign troops came close to the city, the Dictator was persuaded to send the women to a safer location. The other women packed and fled, but Aline didn't even look up. She stayed near the Dictator.

"You may go," he said to her. "You do not have to fear my displeasure." When she didn't go, he added, "It is not safe here."

"I don't know anything about safety," she said. "I only know about love. I will stay with you."

"And if their troops crash through the gates? And the bombs bring down the building?"

"I will stay with you to the very end."

THE WAR CAME to an end, but part of the Dictator's territory was in enemy hands, and threats to his safety and power continued.

Even when the neighboring country's government fell, it brought no relief, because their people only incited the Dictator's people to rebel. He did not have the power to command their love, or their labor or their loyalty. Not all of them. Not any more.

Through it all, Aline stayed at his side. When he made an appearance, and there was fear of assassination, she went with him though she didn't have to. And when he went to rally his troops at the front lines, though it was dangerous, she stuck to him even closer.

It seemed to him that the more dangerous it was, the closer she came. There were even times he felt like sending her away because whenever she came closer, he would look over his shoulder.

And in all of it, she never asked for favors, never objected if he grew paranoid and insisted that everyone be searched and everyone be tested. She only looked at him with quiet energy that he came to understand was passion. Adoration. Even as his power faded, he had power over her, and that was a consolation.

AT THE VERY end, when the guards abandoned their posts, and the rebels were celebrating in his outer courtyard. He gave her a last chance to flee, but she said again: "I will stay with you to the end."

"Then we shall die together?"

"If that is the end."

He smiled at that answer because though she accepted death, she also left the outcome open to hope.

He led her down to the bunker, where he revealed that he had kept one secret from everyone.

There was a tunnel for escape. They had somewhere to go, just the two of them. He had been moving his money for years into an off-shore account. He'd put the money in her name, and the World Court would not find it to seize it.

He pulled back the covering from the escape tunnel, and she looked into it...

And then she pulled away his gun and shot him in the belly. It made a horrible wound, and pierced his spine, so that he lay helpless on the floor, dying as his heart and lungs still yet worked.

"Power," he said, "is stronger than love. You see, I knew it!"

"You know power," she agreed. "But I don't know anything about that."

He choked and laughed. "You think you will be rich? The accounts are in your name? That's nothing. You must have the number and the password."

"I don't know about money," she said.

"And you will never escape through that tunnel. You have to know where to go. You are trapped."

"I don't know about escape," she said. "I only know about love. I loved my mother. I loved my family. They had no power, and you killed them all. So perhaps power is better than love. I don't know. Is it? Can you tell me?"

He could not speak now and so she continued.

"I have stayed with you so that I could one day see you die, because I have no power to do anything else, only the power to love my family. But I don't know about power, only love, so perhaps I should let you should die alone."

And with that she took the gun and considered the tunnel, but instead she went back up the stairs toward the palace. There was sunlight up there, and though it might be dangerous, she didn't know -- or care -- about danger. She only knew about love.

The Unexpurgated Story of the Baby Shoes Which Were Sold Unused The story behind Hemingway's famous six word story: "For sale, baby shoes. Never used" may be more complicated than he expected, as an upright Victorian spinster explains to a newspaperman.

THE YOUNG WOMAN who entered the offices of the Poolitstown Gazette was of a strapping height and firm demenour. She was dressed all in stern black, which set off her pale skin and blue eyes. Mr. Bandiwilt, the editor of the Gazette, looked her over and came to the conclusion that she was a woman of stong opinions, and might be there to sell him on the concept of temperance, or perhaps woman suffrage, or perhaps both.

"I wish to place an advertisment in your newspaper," said the young woman.

"Ah, yes, of course," he said with some relief. "Please sit down, Miss...."

"Whitley. Olivia Whitley," she said, and she sat. He picked up a pen and leaned forward.

"And the advertisement is for?"

"Baby shoes," she said. "I have some baby shoes to sell. Several pair. Never used. The ad should say that."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Mr. Bandiwilt, realizing that he must have missed the meaning of the severe black clothing.

"What?" said the woman looking confused.

"For your loss," he added indicating her dress.

"Oh, that," she said, looking down at her own skirts. "Yes, it was a loss, I suppose, but she was very old. Eighty-six, and every bit a bossy old bother to the very end. Still we will miss her--" "Ah, I thought--" "You thought what?"

"Well, that you'd lost a child."

"Of course not! Heavens, if I had lost a child I would have corrected you when you called me Miss."

"I... yes, I suppose."

"Really whatever were you thinking?"

"Well, if they're shoes meant for a child, and you're selling them new...."

"I didn't say they were new. I said they were never used."

Mr. Bandiwilt sat back for a moment and considered whether to ask and compound his offense or to simply apologize and take the ad down. She didn't, however, seem to be offended, and he was a newspaperman.

"Pardon me if this is none of my business, but how did these old shoes come to never used?"

"Oh, that was simply a question of whether my father had large feet or small feet."

"They were your father's shoes?"

"Oh, no. No. These are girl's shoes. Besides why would my father not wear his shoes?"

An aggravating woman. Mr. Bandiwilt paused and considered again whether he ought to press on, and decided he might as well.

"Would you mind, then, explaining to me what the size of your father's feet had to do with a set of girl's baby shoes?"

Miss Whitely cocked her head and gave him a surprisingly sly smile.

"It's a long story, and my poor departed aunt would be very upset if I told it to you," she said.

"Are you sure you want to hear it?"

"I am a newspaperman," said Mr. Bandiwilt. "I love to hear long stories which upset elderly aunts." * THE MAN CONSIDERED to be my father (said Miss Whitley) was named Johnny Whitley. He was the only son of a wealthy man, the owner of Whitley and Oshman Textiles -- now just Oshman Rugs, but I'm sure you've heard of them. The Whitley family has always been rather small-boned and weak. Johnny's mother died in childbirth, and he himself was a sickly child.

Now, Johnny married a woman named Sylvia when they were both very young. She was a sweet thing, but taller than Johnny, and I've heard tell the marriage wasn't a great match, but it never had much chance to blossom. Johnny went off to serve in the war, but of course he was rejected for being too scrawny. He was so offended that he went east to the big city and took a job as assistant to one of the war photographers, just to prove he was valiant and useful.

As it happened, the riverboat he was on in traveling to the battle lines never reached its destination. The war came up to meet it, and the boat was sunk, losing all hands. Johnny was never found and it was assumed he was dead.

Except he wasn't.

He was merely terrified and humiliated, and he swam ashore and headed back for the city. He didn't want to go home. He wanted a new life, and he so made one for himself as a photographer, and did quite well.

He had a mistress whom he very much loved. She was an acrobat named Laurentina, and very charming. I'm told she was able to clean her ears with her toes, although she never did it in polite company. They were very happy together, and he intended to make an honest woman of her. Of course, there was the issue of his previous marriage, but he had left that life behind, and he wasn't sure what to do about it.

Laurentina was a great reader of newspapers. She read them from front to back including all the advertisements, and she particularly liked the odd little ads put in by individuals. Everything might have been quite all right for everyone, if she hadn't read them so closely. But one day she saw an ad which changed everything.

IN THE MEANTIME, back home, Johnny's widow Sylvia was not left in dire straits. She was taken in by Johnny's father, and Aunt Eve, who was the father's sister, and who was happy to look after the girl. She'd always wanted a daughter, and Sylvia was very young when were married.

Everyone thought of her as a widow now, and sometimes young men would pay court to her, and lately there was a young Adonis named Charles Meckler. He was a very handsome man, and tall, and strong, and of extremely good health, and he was also very intelligent and well-mannered.

Aunt Eve was very pleased with Charles. Since the family now considered Sylvia to be a daughter of the house, it seemed to Aunt Eve that if she were to marry Charles, it would bring some healthy new blood into this sickly and undersized family.

But there was a problem. Unlike Johnny, no one in the family or the town forgot that Sylvia was married, and there came the question as to what to do about it. They could go to court to have Johnny declared dead -- which his father simply could not bear to do -- or they could go to court and declare that he had abandonned Sylvia after so many years, and then they could dissolve the marriage.

Aunt Eve thought that latter was simply unacceptable. She hated scandal, and the very idea that they should declare publically that Johnny had behaved so abominably toward his young wife...well, that would be a horrible mark against the family. And since they were sure he was dead, it would be pure defamation to say he had run away.

Sylvia didn't care which they chose, because she was eager to marry her beloved Charles.

However, her father-in-law and aunt argued so vehemently about it that the man had a heart attack and died.

Which put the kibosh on the wedding plans. At least for a bit.

But then there was the trouble with the textile mill. Mr. Oshman, who was partner to Johnny's father, did not like leaving things unsettled. He needed to know if Johnny was alive to inherit half the mill, or if there was some other person he should deal with. And if he had a partner, he wanted to deal with him face to face.

Mr. Oshman did not give the shake of a lamb's tail about scandal or not, and he went straight to court to get the matter settled. The judge, however, did not think there had been a proper search to be sure if Johnny was dead or alive, and he insisted that some sort of effort be made to find out.

So Oshman put advertisments in all of the major newspapers in all the big cities back east.

And it was one such ad that Laurentina found that morning, while sipping her coffee.

JOHNNY HAD NEVER changed his name, so Laurentina saw at once that the ad referred to her beloved Johnny. And after he told her his story, it was very clear that answering the ad would be of benefit to both of them. After all, if Johnny inherited a fortune, they could marry and live in comfort.

So Johnny returned home to face the music, and collect his inheritance. And it all seemed to go quite well at first. He and Sylvia hardly knew one another any more, if they ever had, and he had no objection to the idea of a divorce. Quite frankly, he just wanted to settle all the legalities, sell his share of the business, and leave.

But there was a problem.

Sylvia was showing certain signs which Aunt Eve recognized. The girl was expecting a child.

Aunt Eve was horrified, scandalized and outraged. They could not possibly get divorced now.

That child had to be born in wedlock. There could be no question about timing and legal confusions. And there certainly could be no moral confusions. They would have to pretend that Johnny had come back to town somewhat earlier than he did.

After much discussion, it was agreed that the divorce should be postponed. Johnny, after all, had a great deal of business to settle and would not be leaving soon anyway. However he did not want to be away form Laurentina, so he sent for her so he would not be lonely.

Sylvia was less fortunate. Aunt Eve was adamant that Charles could not come to visit. It was one thing for Johnny to behave in a scandalous way, but a lady could not have any scandal associated with her. Aunt Eve began to stew about it all, and soon she was convinced that there could be no divorce at all, ever. It was simply impossible. How could a couple with a young child split up? The courts wouldn't allow it.

"Of course they would," said Johnny. "I'll just be sure that Laurentina and I are seen gallivanting around--" "No no no," said Eve. "Not with a baby on the way! The court would not allow a split, no matter how bad the behavior."

Which is when Laurentina revealed that they might well be two babies to consider if it came to that.

Aunt Eve nearly had apoplexy, but she had to give in. She could not have a scandal of that magnitude. She set about doing everything she socially could to ease the way to a quiet divorce.

I was born several months later, and the divorce was finalized and soon my mother Sylvia married Charles, who adopted me. Johnny married Laurentina just in time to see that their child was also born in wedlock. It was quite the happiest ending for everyone. * MISS WHITLEY STOPPED and leaned back with the air of someone who had just told a whole story.

"How very...bohemian," said Mr. Bandiwilt. "But what has this to do with the pair of unused baby shoes?"

"Fourteen pair of unused baby shoes," said Miss Whitley. "That was Aunt Eve's fault. My feet, you see, were much too large for ordinary baby shoes, and that was quite clear from the day I was born. Aunt Eve was horrified that someone would realize that my feet were too large to come from Whitley stock. Johnny, of course, had tiny feet. So Aunt Eve kept my feet covered up, and she went around buying baby shoes in every store in town, the tiniest size she could get.

She commented loudly on how tiny my feet were, and made sure everyone knew it."

"And none of the shoes fit," said Mr. Bandiwit.

"Couldn't even get them over my toes. Of course, if only Aunt Eve had bothered to look, she'd have realized that Charles had tiny feet himself. Some big men are quite dainty in the extremities you know."

"Indeed," said the editor.

"Yes, and my mother, bless her, had feet the size of seat cushions. In any case, Aunt Eve bought all those shoes, and hid them away. Last month when she died, we found the shoes among her things. If only we'd known she had them, we could have sent them to Johnny and Laurentina, but it was too late, so now I should sell them. She spent a great deal of money on them because she wanted people to notice she was buying them. They are excellent shoes.

Someone should wear them!"

The End Keep Reading! Just after the author notes, you'll find the first chapter of the new Michigan mystery novel The Man Who Did Too Much, in which a compulsive secret agent and an eccentric movie buff join forces to solve a kidnapping and murder.

About the Author: Camille LaGuire is a Michigan writer of mystery and adventure stories. She has published fiction in magazines ranging from Cricket Magazine to Handheld Crime, to Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fantasy Magazine. Her work has been reprinted in educational materials and overseas, and her short fiction has been nominated for Derringer awards. Her thriller play, Slayer of Clocks, was produced to sold-out audiences at the inaugural Discovering New Mysteries Festival in 2007.

The first book in her Mick and Casey Mysteries series, Have Gun Will Play, was named one of the top books of 2010 in the Red Adept Annual Indie Awards. The next Mick and Casey novel will be coming out spring of 2012.

Watch for her new Starling and Marquette series of cozy Michigan mysteries with The Man Who Did Too Much, coming January 2012. (See first chapter below.)

See http://www.camillelaguire.com/ for updates! *****

Bonus: The opening chapter of The Man Who Did Too Much Chapter 1 - Saint George Doctor Cannon was running late. She dashed in through the waiting room as a short cut, but saw the room was empty.

"Is Gwen here yet?" she asked the receptionist.

"Not yet."

Gwen Littleton often appeared reluctant to come to therapy, but she was always exactly on time for her appointments. Dr. Cannon frowned and went into her private office.

She almost didn't see the man in the perfectly pressed trench coat sitting quietly in the chair in the corner. She glanced back at the receptionist, who showed no sign that she knew he was there.

But he was there, sitting where he would see her before she saw him. Neat, quiet, exuding control like a goddamn spy. Exactly what you'd expect from Gwen's description, except Dr. Cannon had pictured him carrying a lance.

"You're George," she said.

"George Starling. Yes." Slight accent, vaguely British to go with the trench coat and the cool, lurking presence.

"Gwen sent you, didn't she?"

"Yes." "Dammit!"

She shut the door and threw her papers on the desk, then calmed herself and went to sit behind it. He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and watched her.

"I can't talk to you about her," she told him.

"I'm aware of that."

"Then why are you here?"

"Gwen was under the impression that I would talk to you instead.

"You can't take her therapy for her."

"It was that or cancel."

They sat and stared at one another for a long moment, before Dr. Cannon finally sighed.

"All right. Fine. I suppose you could fill in a little background." She shuffled the papers around on her desk to find a notebook. "Let's start with you. I'm not clear on what you are to her."

He furrowed his brow.

"Do you mean am I the controlling bastard of a boyfriend, the obsessive compulsive codependent, or am I the bodyguard who forgot to go home when the job was over?"

"Or something else."

"That would be nice, wouldn't it? But I'll be the first to admit that I can be a controlling compulsive codependent bastard who doesn't know when to quit."

"What about boyfriend?"

"That's... under review."

Dr. Cannon made a non-committal sound and a note. Not sure of his feelings, or of hers?

"Does she say otherwise?" he asked. She looked up to see that the super cool had melted for a moment. He looked at her with hope, uncertainty. She paused to underline hers.

"I can't talk about that."

"No, of course not." He glanced away, brow furrowed again. He tapped his fingers as he seemed to consider whether to put his guard back up or not. Then the guard came down altogether and he sat forward. "We'd had a flirtation. It was inappropriate. She was engaged, and it ended wh--" He cut himself short. "It ended. Then later she was kidnapped."

He looked at Cannon, an indirect look, as if judging how much she knew about Gwen's ordeal. She couldn't indicate anything, so she just watched him.

"She didn't have anyone in country -- I mean over there, where it happened -- and what family she has is not wealthy. It was months before anyone contacted me. By then we didn't even know who had her. They shuffle them around you know, the hostages. Trade them, sell them. And sometimes.... Well, we did track her down and got her out."

"We?" "I. I got her out." He paused. "She was in this awful pit in the back of a cave. There was a corpse in the pit with her, and she'd been abandoned there. I pulled her out and she clung to me.

She was dehydrated and she could hardly talk, so she whispered 'don't leave.' That's all she could say. Didn't even want me to step away to get her some water. So I carried her. Anyway, she said don't leave, so I won't."

He said that last in a defiant tone.

"I wasn't going to ask you to, George."

"She's under the impression that you don't approve of me."

"I don't even know you, George."

"And yet she has that impression, Ellen." He tilted his head, slightly mocking her tone and expression.

"She does or you do?"

"She does. After all, I don't even know you, either." He sat back, a cool Mr. Bond again.

But then he leaned forward again, and looked at her frankly. "You knew that I came here because she sent me. You know she's excessively dependent on me. It's only reasonable for you to think she's using me as a crutch. What's the word? Enabling."

"Well, you can't make her life for her."

"I can't breathe for her either, but if she asks I'll give it a go," he said.

"And she suffocates while you get all the oxygen."

He sat back as if slapped. She thought he was going to protest, but instead he shook his head and pressed his fingers to his eyes.

"Oh, god, that was an awful metaphor wasn't it? I swear it is not as revealing as it sounds," he said. "Listen, for months and months she had absolutely no control of anything, and that was demonstrated to her on an hourly basis. Now she has control of me, and of anything I can control. So what I meant to say was that I will enable the hell out of her until she is strong enough to do it for herself."

"Have you thought that you could be enabling her to stay weak?"

"She is weak. And I'm not going to bully her into anything she doesn't want."

"Tell me, George, do you think she's getting better?"

"Yes, Ellen, I do think she's getting better." He wasn't going to say more, but she waited and he conceded. "She was, but she stopped."

"And that's why you're here."

"Absolutely. That's why I'm here. I don't know what's wrong. I can't say she's got worse.

The anxiety attacks are almost gone, really, but she hasn't left the house in two weeks. It's like she's stuck."

Dr. Cannon sat back and put her hands together in a little steeple, which she rested against her nose while she waited for him to think about what he just said. He simply looked at her expectantly.

"I can't tell you anything of what she has told me," she said. "But what I'm hearing from you is that you feel your role is to make her feel safe."

"Yes." "But is there any actual danger?"

"No. And she knows it, but she is still anxious."

"So, you're the knight, she's the damsel, and there is no dragon. What else is there to the relationship?"

"We don't have a relationship. Yet." "That's right. You say she's stuck. Well, so are you. You need to get out of this crisis mode and start doing something normal."

He sat and looked at her for a very long time, and then suddenly he tensed up.

"Like what?" he said in a burst of angry frustration. He stood up. "Like what? I don't know what normal is. I've never lived a normal life. And she just won't. She wants cheeseburgers, so I feed her cheeseburgers until I'm sick to death of them. Is that what you mean?"

"What do you want normal to be?"

"Whatever she wants it to be."

"And that is?"

"I don't know."

"Then you need to find out, George."

This time he didn't mock or push back. His eyes were distant, as he absorbed it. Then he nodded, as if accepting an assignment. Dr. Cannon felt a slight twinge of regret, as if she had been conspiring against Gwen's desire to avoid getting better. But then if Gwen really didn't want to get better, she should never have sent her knight to her therapy session.

George stepped out into the cool, hazy air of a Michigan summer. It was a sunny day, at least as sunny as he'd seen yet. The locals seemed to think it was warm and brilliant. Was that normal?

It seemed to be for Michigan.

Normal. That was the package, and he had to retrieve it. That's what he did as a recovery agent for Benson Kravich International. He recovered things that people couldn't get back for themselves. Gwen had lost the comfort and safety of normal, but she couldn't give him a clue as to what it was for her, so he'd have to find it for himself.

But at the moment he was still at an utter loss as to how.

He pressed his hand to his head and sighed and headed off, in search of the requested minicheeseburger. No pickles.

When he got to his car, he paused to check his cell phone, and saw that he had received fifteen calls in the past hour. He tensed, but none of them were from Gwen. Indeed they were all from Eva Kravich, his former boss. Fifteen of them. He frowned, dialed and said: "I don't work for you."

"You're in Michigan," Eva replied, in her clipped but otherwise not discernable Flemish accent.

"And I'm staying in Michigan."

"Good. That's where the trouble is."

George paused. Hang up he thought, but he didn't.

"What do you want?"

"One of Raoul Tamaru's sons was kidnapped, and it appears he has been spotted not far from where you are."

"Tamaru would be Zero's territory."

"He's on his way, but it will be several days, and the lead is tenuous. All I want is for you to track it down and keep a finger on the thread until he gets there."

"It isn't really my sort of job."

"It's exactly your sort of job."

"No, Eva. I'm a retriever, not a pointer. And I'm retired. I have responsibilities."

Eva paused. "How is she?"

"She's...well enough. And I'd rather not be deported for working without a green card, thank you."

"Are you planning to become a resident?"

"I'm not going to discuss that with you."

"Which means you are not."

George sighed. "No, it just means that it's still an open question. We haven't achieved normalcy yet."

"It has been months. Perhaps this is normal."

"Please don't say that."

"But you are thinking it."

"Yes. Yes, I'm thinking it. I am thinking that things may very well never change, but I haven't made up my mind about whether that's all right or not."

"You are a man who makes things change, George."

"Not without her permission."

Eva made a rude sound. She was a lot more direct than the shrink, but on the other hand, she was nearly eighty and only played games for fun.

"Perhaps you could use a day off from your routine," said Eva. "A day for the retriever to run."

"The retriever doesn't know how to stop. Hire a local detective agency."

"Did you know that Gwen has a fax machine?"

"Yes?" said George with trepidation. He pictured the clunky old phone in the hall. It had a message machine and a fax built in. As far as he knew it didn't work, but....

"Yes, the dossier went through successfully. It was short--" "You sent it to Gwen? You had no bloody right! She doesn't need to see a dossier about some kidnap victim!"

He snapped the phone shut and tore out of the parking lot.

But then good sense took hold. Eva might not have actually sent it at all. There might not have been paper in the fax machine, or Gwen might not have looked at it.

He pulled over and picked up the phone again. Gwen answered quickly.

"George?"

She didn't sound upset, though there was a note of something in her voice. Eagerness or anxiety? His heart was doing flip flops, but he wasn't sure if it was because he liked to hear that lively note in her voice or because it scared him.

"I'm on my way home, love," he said. "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine."

"Listen, is your fax machine on?"

"Oh, yes. And you got a fax!"

"All right, well, just leave it, all right? Don't read it."

"I'm sorry. I won't."

She wouldn't apologize if she hadn't. Bloody hell.

"Well, good. It's nothing. I'm not going to bother with it--" "Oh? But don't you think...?" The anxiety was back in her voice, but she caught herself.

"I try not to," he said. She didn't reply, and he realized that whatever it was that had made her anxious, he would have to deal with it. "But I will think if you want me to."

She let out a long sigh of relief.

"Can you get me a cheeseburger?"

"Of course. Junior, no pickles."

He hung up and told himself that he didn't need to race home. It was all right.

He looked across the street at a Chinese restaurant, which was shaped like a fake pagoda.

The food was probably awful, but frankly right now he longed for anything other than a cheeseburger. Something with garlic, ginger and coconut milk. Or even just too much soy sauce and MSG. Something other than cheeseburgers and pizza. But smell evokes memory, and memories were still a problem for Gwen. Even pickles reminded her of lime and fermented fish, which was the predominant seasoning in Tolongao. The smell of any Asian food tended to set off bad dreams and flashbacks.

The restaurant did say it had cocktails. Perhaps a stiff drink would hide the scent of a spot of tang mien....

No, he had to get home. He went and got the cheeseburger and a grilled chicken sandwich for himself, which he could cut up and have with pasta and broth. No garlic, but it would at least not have any bread or cheese.

George was preoccupied when he returned to the flat with his bag of burgers. He set the food down on the counter and called to her.

She didn't answer.

She might be just listening to music with headphones. Still he went looking just to be sure.

He found her in her bedroom, on the bed, hugging her knees and rocking slightly. She hadn't done that in months.

"Gwen?" he said, a little breathlessly.

She looked up with a start, and then leapt up. Thank God. She wasn't off in a zone by herself. She really wasn't. She rushed across the room and threw her arms around him.

"George George George!" she said.

"It's all right," he replied, automatically. He wasn't quite sure what was all right, other than his own spirits, which had lifted instantly. They had been careful about displays of affection, and

the hug hit him rather hard. He wrapped his arms around her. She was still very thin. "I'm sorry I went away."

"I'm all right," she said. "It's that little boy."

She turned toward the bed, and that's when he noticed that it was strewn with pages from the fax machine.

"I told you not to read that," he said.

"You have to take that job," she replied. She pulled away and looked at him seriously.

"I don't. It's not really for me."

"You have to. George, that little boy has been kidnapped. He's a hostage."

"If he's here in the U.S., he's not likely going through what you did."

"You can't know that!" She pulled away, angry and... strong. "How can you even say that?"

"I'm sorry."

"You said you'd do whatever I asked, and I'm asking you to do this."

"All right," he said. "Why don't you go and eat your cheeseburger while I read the dossier then?"

"I couldn't eat."

"There's a milkshake too."

She looked at him closely.

"Will you do it?" she asked.

"Absolutely. Will you eat?"

She took his hand and smiled at him, and then, letting her fingers brush along his, she went off into the hall.

And what would happen if, or when, she had a panic attack while he was out tracking this down? It didn't matter, she wanted it. He turned his attention to the dossier.

There wasn't much to it. They had a set of pictures of a child at a small local amusement park called the Pier Marquette Playground, and that's all. They didn't even have the address of the park. The pictures looked like they were cropped from the background of something else.

Tourist snaps, from the look of the foreground elbows and shoulders in some of them. So was it just a bit of kismet where someone happened to snap a picture, and someone who knew something happened to see the picture? Bloody unlikely, but there he was, Prince Torio Tamaru, in a dirty Spiderman t-shirt, eating ice cream and smiling like any other seven-year-old at a park with ponies and trains.

Were they sure it was him? George glanced at the dossier. Yes, they were sure. There was a close up of the child's hand, blurry, but you could see he was missing half a little finger and had a slash across the back of the hand toward the thumb. Torio had survived an assassination attempt just over a year ago. The scar was distinctive.

George looked over the pictures -- flat and poorly detailed because it was from a fax -- and decided that there was either much more or much less to this than one would expect. You didn't have to keep a child prisoner, especially so far from home, but letting him run around in a crowded park seemed unlikely. And the woman he was with wasn't watching him. She had ice cream too, and seemed, by the look on her face, to be having an even better time than the child.

Were they even together? Yes, one of the other pictures showed her holding the car door for him.

George looked closer at the other pictures of the woman. She too was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. The t-shirt depicted a long-haired, bearded man who looked vaguely revolutionary.

George squinted to make out the slogan. The Dude Abides. He wasn't sure what it meant, but it didn't sound particularly political. And she had chocolate on her face and the person she was talking to appeared to be a policeman. Not exactly your criminal type. The car in the picture was an ancient station wagon. No sign that she was being paid well for keeping the prince of a foreign country.

He looked at the text of the dossier, but there wasn't much there either. They had identified her from the license plate. Karla Marquette was forty, never married, no criminal record, and since she shared a name with a park and pier, she was undoubtedly a local of long standing. Ah, yes, they had her voting record. She was a registered Democrat who had never missed a vote at the local precinct in twenty-two years. She supported herself with odd-jobs, and a website about old movies. Classic Movie Maven. She had profiles on social networking sites, but all the information there was about old movies rather than herself. Except for the pictures of her cat, which was old, fat and apparently named Orson Welles.

George looked at the pictures of the woman again. You can be fooled by people. They can be happy and relaxed and friendly even as they kill people. Torio's father was like that, so it didn't mean much that the child seemed relaxed around her. Still, such people gave off a vibe, and some people were very sensitive to that vibe.

He gathered the papers and took them back into the kitchen.

Gwen was sitting on a stool at the counter, finishing her cheeseburger. It as a small burger, but she ate it all. There was an open can of nutritional supplement next to the milkshake. George moved it aside to make room for the papers -- surreptitiously checking the weight and finding it empty. Good.

He sat down and held up the picture of the woman with the child.

"Is she a good guy?"

"Yes," said Gwen without hesitation. George held up a different picture, but Gwen shook her head. "I've seen them all. I think she's a babysitter. She's having fun like it's temporary."

"If that's true, then the job is easy," he said. "I just find out what she knows, and pass it on to Zero when he gets here."

"But if you find the little boy, you'll rescue him."

"Absolutely."

"You won't wait for Zero."

He glanced up and met her eyes. She was watching him, reminding him of how he'd let things go wrong in the first place, when Alan had disappeared.

"No," said George. "I won't wait."

End of excerpt.

The Man Who Did Too Much will be published January 1, 2012. Find it and other books by Camille LaGuire at Smashwords, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other online retailers.