DELILAH’S DILEMMAS

HOMESTEAD Delilah’s DILEMMAS

by

DIANE BROWN

MEDICAL An unfamiliar sound woke Delilah. The television was still on. She laid in her bed a moment, attempting to work out what the noise could have been. It wasn’t the air conditioner. But it was definitely inside the house. Or was it? It could have just been something on the television. She rolled over and looked at the clock on the side table. It was 11:43.

There was the sound again. It didn’t sound close; downstairs perhaps. It wasn’t exactly footsteps. More like a shuffling vibration of sorts. It certainly didn’t sound like any noise Pandora had ever made. So, she ruled out the cantankerous, old goat, who had a habit of gaining entrance to the house by stealth means. Why hadn’t she taken a gun to bed with her? She sat up in bed. She turned the television off and the lamp on, and she listened.

“Joel?” she said weakly. “Is that you?” “No,” came the reply.

Delilah sprang from bed. He heart was pounding fiercely, and she could scarcely find her breath.

She knew that voice, that female voice. What to do? Play dumb? Be confrontational? She reached for her cell phone on the side table. It wasn’t there.

It was charging in the kitchen. “Patty?” Delilah called out.

She picked up the receiver of the land line and held it to her ear. The phone downstairs had been taken off the hook. This did not bode well.

“Yes, Dear,” Patty replied in her sweetest, old lady voice, from the bottom of the stairs. “Why don’t you come downstairs? We need to have a little talk.”

Said the spider to the fly.

Delilah’s mind was reeling. She had to find some way to contact Joel. She gasped. Had Patty been to the trailer, and “taken care of” Joel like she was about to “take care of” Delilah?

Delilah shrugged on her robe and slid her feet into her house shoes. By the time she made it from her bedroom to the top of the stairs, a lamp in the living room had come to light.

Delilah slowly made her way down the stairs, and found Patty sitting in the wing back chair in the living room. She had been right to assume Patty had a weapon. But she would never have guessed that the weapon was the 9MM Ruger from her own gun cabinet.

“I would ask how you got in my house and then in my gun cabinet,” Delilah growled. “But I forget you have a history on this ranch that supersedes my tenancy.

“Unfortunately,” she added, under her breath.

Patty laughed heartily.

“True,” she said. “My close friendship with your aunt has proven beneficial beyond my wildest dreams. She gave me a key to the house ages ago, to look in on things when she was in Georgia visiting you. She never asked for it back, and I never offered to return it.”

Delilah stood in the doorway to the living room, arms crossed in front of her.

“You might as well make yourself comfortable, Dear,” Patty said. “This may take a bit.”

Delilah ambled into the living room and plopped down on the sofa. She couldn’t fathom that pulling the trigger of a gun would take any time at all, but what did it matter, she was going to die. May as well stretch out what was left of her life as long as possible. Besides, there was a chance, however remote, that she would have a brilliant flash of inspiration that could save her life.

“Did you do it?” Delilah asked. “Were you the one who shot and killed Blaize?”

“Heavens no, Child,” Patty chided. “I had my best man handle that little chore.”

Delilah drew in a deep breath. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Patty talked as though the death of Blaize was as insignificant as taking out the trash or making the bed. How was it possible that Patty could be so kind and caring, and yet be so malicious? She glanced at the gun in Patty’s lap and wondered if she could snatch it away from her.

A long stretch of silence passed between the two women, during which, Delilah was trying to devise a strategy for escape.

“Was . . . IS George Armstrong part of your organization?” Delilah asked.

“Of course,” Patty replied. “When I left the Justice Department with my measly pension, and a vast knowledge of the world of espionage, I suggested to George that we . . . reverse our fortunes.”

There was a moment’s silence as Delilah contemplated the next question, fearing the answer could entirely change her view of her beloved aunt.

“And Aunt Nettie?” Delilah ventured slowly

Patty smiled wryly, as though taunting Delilah. She waited, torturing Delilah just a little bit longer.

“You can go to your grave knowing that Nettie went to her grave an honest woman,” Patty finally said. “Well, I mean she certainly was not part of the Mrs. Wrigley operative. Her poker skills could be called into question, I suppose.”

Delilah forced back a grin.

“What about Abigail?” Delilah asked. “Did you approach her, or did she come to you?”

“I approached her,” Patty confessed. “And she was more than willing to come on board.”

“You took an awful risk there,” Delilah said.

“Really?” Patty said sardonically. “You don’t actually believe that, do you? You of all people know how narcissistic she is. No, the more Nettie told me about Abigail, the more I knew what a perfect fit she was for the organization. George thought you might be a good fit also. But you’re far too honest. And demonstrative. That was proven when we were playing poker earlier.”

“I really didn’t think I’d given myself away,”

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Delilah said.

“I’m sure to the untrained eye, there was nothing out of the ordinary about your reaction,” Patty said. “Surely you realize that I said what I said to draw you out. My objective was to solicit a response from you.”

Delilah sighed. She stood up, suddenly feeling a burst of energy.

“You see,” Patty continued. “When I got the alert from my associate in D. C. that Eli and Dooby were there, trying to make a connection with Abigail, I had to initiate a plan.”

Delilah went cold. She couldn’t allow herself to believe what Patty was insinuating. Her eyes began to sting. NO! This could not be happening.

“Yes, Dear,” Patty said, with a malicious gleam. “I’m afraid your fiancé and your best friend, and your cousin had to be eliminated. That’s why you haven’t been able to reach them.”

Delilah’s eyes filled with tears and she began to tremble.

“You’re lying!” Delilah yelled, as she stepped toward Patty.

In an instant, Patty raised the gun and pointed it at Delilah’s chest.

“Sit down, Dear,” she said, her voice, absent of warmth.

“Don’t,” Delilah growled, as she sat down on the sofa.

n “Call. Me. Dear.

“So, what’s your plan?” Patty chuckled.

“As prone to perils as you are, you make the options for your demise limitless,” she said, standing and sashaying to the fireplace.

“So glad I could accommodate you,” Delilah snarled. She sniffed back tears.

“And I do appreciate the accommodation,” Patty offered.

“Why would you not have your best man kill me?” Delilah asked. “Can’t imagine you getting your hands dirty.”

“I usually leave those tasks to the more experienced hand,” Patty said. “But I must concede I’m finding a certain satisfaction in doing it myself.”

“Gonna make it look like suicide, I presume,’ Delilah said.

“Heavens no,” Patty said. “Joel is going to kill you, and then set fire to the house. He goes to prison; your remains go to the morgue.”

Between the pangs of grief, Delilah seethed. She considered her options. Fight or flight. Patty was in her early seventies. Thirty years older than Delilah. Surely, she could overtake the old gal. After all, she Delilah, was not weak. But the gun in Patty’s hand complicated any plan to escape.

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Dooby and Eli dead. She couldn’t believe it. It had to be a mistake. But why else would they not have answered her calls? Or called her back? Why would Dooby not have answered Karon’s calls? Karon! Delilah wondered if Patty knew the extent of Karon’s knowledge. Patty had not mentioned anything about Karon. Nor would Delilah. At least one person would remain safe. At least one person would still be alive to tell the authorities the truth.

“You won’t get away with this,” Delilah said. Patty just smiled and shook her head.

Delilah wondered if Patty had locked the back door. If she bolted down the hall, Patty would be able to shoot her in the back before she made it to the kitchen. There was nothing on the coffee table substantial enough to throw at the old lady that would effectively put her off balance or knock the gun from her hand.

“Well then,” Delilah said, standing to her fullest height.

IS THIS THE END FOR DELILAH?

Is this her FINAL DILEMMA? Is there no one to come to her rescue? YOU KNOW THE DRILL! GET THE ANSWERS TO DELILAH’S DILEMMAS in the July edition of THE CORRIDOR MAGAZINE!

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