Foxy

Chapter 1

In Devil's Creek, folks knew me as Josie Fox. In Freedom, a mid-size city thirty miles northwest of the Creek, I was Joe Fox. After all, who'd read a sports column written by a girl. I didn't venture into the city often, twice a month at the most. For the remaining days, I holed up in my little cottage, writing my column.

As either Joe or Josie, I stood five-two, weighed one hundred and ten pounds, and the color of my eyes--brown--matched my hair. My editor quipped that my tongue could cut through granite. I preferred to say I called 'em as I saw 'em. The opposite sex didn't interest me, but neither did women. Since I couldn't call that shot, you might say I sat on the fence on that one. That's fine. I figured there's time enough for love, if destiny had that in store for me. I doubt it did because, truthfully, my social skills were not only atrocious, but I was an unremarkable woman.

Currently, I was in Freedom, but not for the reason you might expect. Two nights ago, at around ten-fifteen, I received a call from traffic cop Curtis Dempsey of the Freedom Police Department. He sadly informed me that my half-sister, Amy Lenihan, was in a single vehicle mishap and was presently being prepped for neurosurgery.

After throwing a few things in a carry-all, I called my boss to explain my intended absence and to arrange a pinch writer for my column. I left for Freedom then, making the forty-five minute drive in thirty.

Amy survived the surgery, but sank into a coma. Her prognosis was not good. The next two days, I spent at Amy's side, waiting and praying.

In one of the frequent intervals where I was requested to leave while health care professionals examined her, I'd made two telephone calls--the first to arrange a bed sitter for Amy and the other, to Officer Dempsey to obtain more details on the accident.

Amy was an excellent driver. I couldn't believe someone didn't cause the accident and declared as much to the detective.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Are you familiar with Blind Man's Curve?" he asked.

"Of course, I am," doofuss ,"I'm familiar with all the hazards of Freedom," I said, having spent two-thirds of my life in that city. "After twenty-six years, Amy would be too."

"That's strange," he said.

"What's that?"

"There were no brake marks. It's as though she came into the turn unaware of the danger."

"The road was dry at the time of the accident?"

"Uh-huh."

"So, if she had tried to stop, there would be evidence on the asphalt that she did," I said more to myself than him. No, not really. The thought was a statement and an intentional gibe at his investigative skills. "I assume you checked the brakes on her car?" I still couldn't believe something or someone else hadn't caused the accident.

"Yeah."

I sighed, purposely heaving the breath. I hoped he'd understand it as I intended. Dempsey's sociability was lax too, but then it wasn't a requirement of his job. Obviously, a forthright manner wasn't in his makeup either, otherwise he would have told me his thoughts on the matter instead of making me say it. "You're suggesting my sister attempted suicide." I shook my head. The movement jarred loose another question. "Was the car a rental?" I could hear paper shuffling on his end of the phone.

"No. The car's registered to her. A 1969 robin egg blue Mach 1. It's a write-off, by the way."

I came to the conclusion then I'd desperately tried to avoid making. Amy had tried to kill herself. She loved that Mustang and gave it more care and love than some mothers did their children, which went to show her state of mind that night.

After bidding the officer an abrupt farewell, my thoughts turned to Amy. The sister I knew would not take her life. Maybe I didn't know her quite as well as I thought.

Now here I was, snooping around her apartment, looking for the reason that made my sister want to commit suicide. I looked under the sofa--like dust balls would tell me why an upbeat and chronically happy person like Amy would choose to end her life. They didn't, so I ran down the short list of possible reasons for suicide: job; health; depression; addiction--alcohol, gambling, drugs; a man. Since Amy was an exemplary and healthy employee who didn't suffer from depression or any addiction, the most likely culprit was a love gone wrong. I still couldn't see Amy becoming so distraught over a failed relationship that she wanted to kill herself. I could be wrong. It happened.

Maybe it was road rage. That was popular these days.

I looked around for her address book, but couldn't find one. That wasn't extraordinary. She'd probably had it in her handbag, which was now in her personal effects at the hospital.

Her apartment was neat and tidy, everything in its place.

Her computer was password protected. Why, I didn't know. A friend, a computer guru, had shown me how to get past the safeguard, but I didn't want to breach that privacy. I moved on to her telephone and checked the last number dialed. She phoned for Chinese food three nights ago. We shared a passion for take-in. The menu didn't matter as long as we didn't need to cook.

Amy and I didn't speak to each other every day, but we kept in close touch either by text messaging or email, never letting thirty days pass without a personal visit. It was as though any longer and the distance would grow wider. It was an unspoken pact between us. We were all the family we had.

Sometimes, nearing month's end, she'd appear at my door, worn out from a buying trip or just plain worn out. We'd drink wine and roast marshmallows in the fireplace and reminisce. Come morning, Amy would hop into her rental, blow me a kiss, mouth 'I love you' and leave as abruptly as she'd arrived twelve hours before. That's my Amy.

Now, the task was on me to find the person or reason that wiped the smile from her face and took away her reason for living. She'd do it for me.

"Knock, knock," a female voice said behind me.

Like I'd been caught with my hand in my mother's purse, I whirled around. Amy's landlady, a woman who I never met but recognized from Amy's description--short, round and dimple-cheeked, stared at me from the doorway. "Hello," I said, smiling to let her know I was a friend and not a burglar. The last thing I wanted was to explain myself to the police, especially after my recent treatment of Freedom's finest, Officer Dempsey. "I'm Josie. Amy's sister." Amy told me they often chatted. She would have mentioned me in conversation. I waited for Marie Palter to remember.

She regarded me through narrowed eyes. I knew the minute she placed me. Her face burst with friendliness. "I heard someone rummaging around up here and thought it was Amy. Sometimes, we have tea after she gets home from a trip."

"You don't know," I said.

"Don't know what?" She brought her fingers to her lips then, opened her eyes wide like she'd had a revelation, an upsetting one.

Before she could assume the worst--death--, I said, "Amy's had an accident. She's in the hospital."

"Will she be all right?" she asked.

I saw that Marie genuinely cared for Amy. That didn't surprise me. Anyone who knew her did. Amy was that kind of person. "It's too soon to tell. I'm optimistic." I still would not admit the truth, the more than likely possibility that Amy would never recover from her injury. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"I'd like something stronger, if you don't mind. Amy has a bottle of whiskey in the cabinet above the fridge."

"Whiskey?" Amy never drank hard liquor.

"She bought it for me," Marie said, artfully telling me what I needed to know.

I nodded. That sounded like Amy. She was always gracious and attentive to the needs and desires of others.

"How do you like it?" I asked, looking at the cabinets.

"Straight up," she said. "I'll get it."

While water for tea boiled, I sat with Marie at the kitchen table and questioned her about Amy. "When was the last time you saw her?"

"The night before last. I saw her taking her car from the garage."

"Amy told me how kind you were to let her use your garage." I pictured her behind the wheel of her Mach 1 and smiled. "She loves that car."

Marie looked at me. "She loves you more."

I knew that. We were all we had. Maybe soon I would be the only one left. Tears borne from self-pity clouded my vision. If I started crying, I wouldn't stop. I stood and walked to the counter and unplugged the kettle. I filled the teapot with water and threw in two tea bags, figuring Marie liked her tea as much as she liked a nip. "Was Amy seeing anyone? Seriously, I mean." I brought the teapot, milk and sugar and two cups to the table.

"There was someone." Marie nodded. "He owns an antique store. I think he's in the middle of a divorce."

"Amy never told me about him." I grimaced. "She knew I would be against the relationship."

"He was here that night."

"The night of her accident?"

"Yes. They had a terrible fight." She looked at me. "I didn't make a habit of listening to her conversations."

I put my hand over hers and squeezed. "I'm sure you didn't. Walls are thin in these old homes." I filled our cups with tea.

"That they are." She poured a dollop of whiskey in her cup and sipped.

"Were you able to make out what they fought over?"

"I think he'd promised to marry Amy after his divorce became final and came here that evening to renege on that promise." She looked at me. "That's what I gathered from what I heard of their conversation."

That made some sense to me. Love hurt, but rejection, lies and deceit could cause someone to do something they wouldn't normally contemplate. Like killing themselves.

More and more, Amy's accident looked like attempted suicide. Why didn't she come to me? I would have told her no man's love was worth her life.

Amy's lover obviously possessed a great power over her. The worst, though, was that he knew. How could he not? For that, I would show him how it felt to be deceived and manipulated.

Minutes after Marie left, I fingered the business card for Carlisle Antiques sitting atop the hall table. I figured it was as good a place as any to put myself into play.

Twenty minutes later, I was strolling down East Avenue in downtown Freedom, feeling like a minus-one among the businessmen and women dressed in tailored suits and designer dresses. I tucked my T-shirt tighter into the waistband of my department store jeans and lifted my chin. If I didn't bring attention to myself, no one would notice me. I'm foxy, I told myself. The mantra served me well for all of two seconds. There were no two ways of looking at me. I was out of place and underdressed. If I wanted to make the man who broke my sister's heart pay, which I did, I would need to play and dress the part of a sophisticate. First, though, I needed to check out his antique store, which would help me determine how to handle the attack on his heart.

Where I've been done wrong, I went for the jugular. That practice wouldn't serve me well with Carlisle. I needed to apply patience and discretion, two qualities that anyone who knew me wouldn't say I possessed in abundance. I had a moment of apprehension, thinking that I overestimated my capability. I learned how to change the head gasket on my car. By damn, I could learn how to seduce a man into bed.

How hard could seduction be?

On holey Reeboks that had seen the better part of ten years, I strode over the cobblestone street toward the sign marking Carlisle Antiques. Even from this distance, I recognized the opulence of the establishment. That didn't intimidate me, though. My mission was to take down this Carlisle fellow and, come feast or famine, quakes or tornadoes, take him down I would.