<< Go Back

It's A Mystery...Birds

By Janetta Fudge Messmer

Order Now!

CHAPTER ONE
“Ben, are you sure you and the pooch will be okay at the campground without me? I don’t have to attend the writer’s conference.” Betsy’s insides danced around like hula dancers at a Friday-night luau.
“Hon, we’ll be fine. Once you walk inside, we’ll be a mere memory. When your writer friends from Houston arrive, they and the conference will keep you occupied for the next three days.”
“Fine, I’ll go.” Bets collected her belongings. “I’ll text you what room Debbie and I are in…in case you—”
“In case of what? You’ll be fine. Now go, or I’m driving off with you still in the truck. Oh, but I can’t. You paid good money to attend. Here, let me get the door to aid in your sooner-than-later departure.”
Her hubby’s laughter, antics opening her door, and helping her out of their vehicle increased her angst. “Ben, I’m having a traumatic moment, and you’re making jokes. I’m going because my editor said, “You have to make an appearance with your first book.”
“And…”
“And, Dillon McCloud is here. I’m dying to meet this new-to-me author.” Betsy swooned over the famous mystery writer. “Ben, her ability to weave words leaves me feeling like a kindergartener wrote my novel.”
“Bets, you’re in your head again. Get out of it. Listen to the verse the Lord gave you in Philippians. ‘Whatever is true, whatever is noble. You know the rest.’” He smiled at her, but his slightly miffed expression showed his true feelings.
“You’re right, Benjamin Stevenson. And it’s time for me to scoot. Love ya!”
Ben returned to the truck and lowered the side window. “Hon, don’t forget to talk to Mr. Pickle about your idea. He’s sure to agree since it’s the premise of your second book. And, when writers find out about it – they’ll clamor to enter a contest to win a trip in our RV.”
“Will do.” Betsy turned toward the hotel but realized three steps into her journey, she’d forgotten to wave goodbye to her hubby. “No worries. Ben understands Dillon McCloud is inside this hotel, and I have to get her autograph.”
At that moment, the automatic doors opened, allowing Betsy and the other guests to enter the hotel. The lobby’s opulence contrasted with the casual clothing all around, including her own. Lord, even if going to this conference scares the wits out of me – I’m here to learn.
Weeks earlier, without thinking or praying about it, Bets had signed up for the conference and every session of Dillon’s. Then reality hit. She’d have to tell Ben they’d be making a trip to Daytona since he confirmed their bank balance daily. He’d see the extra charges.
When she filled him in, he’d taken the news better than she’d imagined. “Larry can handle supervising the roofers. I’m glad you’re surrounding yourself with like-minded people. Let’s get packing. Oh, we don’t have to pack. We carry our belongings with us.”
Betsy made her next phone call to her best friend and RVing buddy, Rose Wilford. The same person who also adored Dillon’s books. Bets would act as if it wasn’t a big deal that she’d be hobnobbing with a New York Times bestselling author at the conference.
Their conversation proceeded as she expected. Nothing Betsy’s dearest friend said sounded like the English language. “Rosie, take a breath. Larry, are you there if she keels over?”
“I’m fanning her as we speak.”
And when Ben and Betsy took off that morning for Daytona – Rosie came out to send them off. As she hugged them, she said, “I’m giving you extra, super-duper ones, so you don’t forget me.”
Betsy wheeled her suitcase to the front desk of the hotel, and grinned. How could I ever forget you, Mrs. Wilford? Oh, and I better call her when I get to my room.
~~~
Betsy flopped on the king bed after checking in and listened to her friend. When Rose’s words slowed, she jumped in, “If I meet Dillon McCloud, I may get to say two words to her while she’s signing copies of her books for us. I’ll try to get a picture of her and me together.”
“You better, and you know if the repairs on Sassy Second Two’s roof weren’t going on, I’d be there with you.”
“And you’d come with me to a writer’s conference…why?”
“I’m not answering it because our second-hand store is Larry and my first priority. You’ve heard, ‘God’s got the whole world in his hands?’ Right now, He and the helpers He sent are finishing up the job in the next few days. No more leaks to ruin any more of our donations.”
“Amen! And I’m guessing Everly and Douglas are thrilled to be back to work at the store.”
“They are, and their wedding plans are coming along as well. But enough about us in Florida, what other writerly things will you be doing? Oh, and is it raining where you are? I heard it’s a downpour in Houston where Debbie’s coming from.”
“We had rain all the way here.” Betsy’s head still hurt from the squeaking of the wiper blades. “About my plans, I’ll attend classes tomorrow. Tonight, I’m signing my books. I hope the box arrived, or the five copies I have in my purse will have to suffice.”
“Betsy, I have a grand idea. Dillon will have a table where she’s signing books. How about you ask her if you can share her space? You have one book, and it doesn’t take up much room.”
“Rosebud, I have to go. I promise I’ll call you later.”
Betsy unpacked and texted Ben with the room information. The bed beckoned her again, but she overcame the urge to nap. Instead, she surveyed her clothes in the closet and verified nothing needed ironing.
And she checked through her pouch where she’d stuck her business cards and rack cards. “Yes, they’re still in the same place I put them this morn—” Her phone rang, and a glance at the screen prompted her to yell, “Debbie, please tell me you’re at the hotel?”
“I wish I could, but the airline canceled our flights from Houston today due to thunderstorms. We’ll give it another shot tomorrow.”
She stared at the phone. “Are my ears plugged? I thought you said you weren’t on a plane, flying to Daytona.”
“That’s sort of what I said. Maybe the rain, which is creeping up my sidewalk, is garbling our connection. It’s crazy, Bets, but I’ve never seen so much water in such a short time. Hope to see you tomorrow, but I doubt it.”
“I’ll pray the rain ends soon and the gang can get here.” Betsy clicked off her phone and texted Ben the latest news. He called a second later. Instead of “Hello,” she said, “So much for catching up with my Texas buds.”
~~~
Betsy changed into her business/casual outfit at 6:00 and headed to the elevators at the end of her floor. She pushed the button, and the door opened, revealing Dillon McCloud and another lady.
The mystery writer spoke first, “Hello there. Come on in and tell me what brings you here this weekend? I presume you’re here for the writer’s conference?” Her Southern accent drifted out into the hallway where Betsy stood.
Seconds ticked by before her feet made forward progress, but words stayed stuck in her throat. That was until she tripped, then out came, “I’m taking all of your classes, but it looks like I should have signed up for one on how to enter glass enclosures with a famous author inside.”
Snickers erupted, but as the elevator door closed, Dillon came and stood next to Betsy. “Honey, I’m no more important than the squished bug on that glass wall. You settle yourself down, and no fussing over me. You know my name. What’s yours?”
Betsy heard Barry Manilow’s quip in her head from years ago. At one of his concerts, he called a woman to the stage and asked if she knew, “Can’t Smile Without You.” Her reply, “I did before you called me up here.” At that very moment, Bets concurred with the woman at the concert. What is my name?
“It’s not hard. Dig in your purse and show me your driver’s license.”
Bets regained her composure after a long, cleansing breath. “My name is Betsy Stevenson.”
“I’m so glad to meet you. This is Arlene Peterson, my agent.”
The Arlene Peterson. Goodness and mercy all the days of my life!
“Betsy, you do know, my bug sits next to Dillon’s on the wall over there.” The elevator stopped on the first floor, and the doors opened. “Come see us at the book signing. We’ll have Dillon’s latest book waiting for you. It’s not even in the bookstore yet. Hope to see you.”
The two women exited the elevator arm in arm, and Betsy concluded if a boat ventured into the open elevator, they’d be able to park in the gaping hole she called her mouth. “I’m dreaming and don’t want to wake up.”
An older gentleman walked in and said, “It’s not a dream, but if you don’t exit, the doors will close, and you’ll be going back up again.”
Bets thanked the man and hurried out. A sign pointed her to a room where they’d hold the book signing. She entered the double doors and spotted a flowered bench, and sat down. “Rose is going to lose all sense of smell and taste when I tell her about my chance meeting.”
She sent her a text, but no response came. Her friend had either lost her phone, left it at their RV, or Betsy’s news triggered her to lose consciousness. “Or Rosie’s mad and is no longer talking to me.”
Bets stashed her phone and spied Dillon and Arlene across the large room. The famous author appeared to motion to someone, but they must not have gotten the message because her arm movements continued. It finally hit her – she’s telling me to come over.
As offhanded as her jubilance allowed, Betsy acknowledged her with hand gestures of her own. However, they resembled signs she gave Ben when he attempted to back into an RV site—unrecognizable to the human eye, and today, to a famous author and her agent.
The two ladies made it clear her moves left them in the dark. So to clear it up, Betsy summoned the courage to walk over and explain. However, a dozen other authors blocked her way, and it appeared the opportunity had passed. Maybe later.
She retreated and searched for her table. When she found it, her delivered books sat behind the chair. Betsy tore the tape off of the box and brought out a half dozen copies. Arranging them gave her a sense of accomplishment. Lord, you and I did this together.
A scan around the room reminded her she needed to find her plastic stand and sack of candy she’d brought. Betsy hunted in her bag and found both, along with the pouch she’d put her stash of rack cards and business cards.
Bets placed her copy of Always Enjoy the Journey, her single offering, on the stand and stacked another six behind it. The candies, she scattered around them. “People always want something sweet…and they also want to see more books. One novel won’t cut it.”
The tiny space Betsy’s books equaled three and a half feet. The rest of the table lay bare. She prayed that the hotel had installed a retractable roof, and it would open, and decorations would fall from it, filling the rest of the white tablecloth.
Bets laughed at the absurdity of her deliberation but knew if Rosie occupied the chair next to her, she’d have her lie on the table and point at her single contribution to the literary world.
Her thoughts again amused her, and it prompted another glimpse at her phone – still no reply from Rosie. Betsy stuck it away in her pocket and headed to the other side of the enormous room, hoping to find Dillon’s table.
A large sign in the middle of the room announced Dillon’s book signing. It and people weaving through the temporary maze jiggled Betsy’s memory about the organizers starting the mystery writer’s event an hour earlier than the rest.
Betsy stood in line and waited her turn…until Arlene Peterson approached her. “Dillon said for you to bring your books to her table. She loves to help out new authors. Come along, she’ll make room for you.”
“No, I’m fine where I’m at.” But, unfortunately, Betsy’s blasé statement didn’t match the response of her sweat glands. Instead, they flowed like the Mississippi after the rainy season. “Arlene, my table is just fine. But please thank her for me.”
“If you’re sure. But when Dillon and—”
“Sorry to interrupt, Arlene, but I’ve been looking for my client.” Andrew Pickle stepped up next to them. “Will you excuse us?”
“Sure.” Dillon’s agent glanced her way. “Betsy, when we finish, we’ll come see you at your table.”
“And it’s time for us to get to it.” Betsy’s editor held the rope up, and she ducked under it. He ushered her to her table, which now included a young woman with an adorable pixie haircut.
“Amy Spencer, I’d like you to meet Betsy Stevenson. She writes comedy, and from her reviews – she keeps her readers laughing. Amy’s brand new, and her first book is a fantasy. Now it’s time for me to check on my other authors and for you to get set up.”
Mr. Pickle left, and Bets turned to her tablemate. “It’s nice to meet you. I thought I’d be by myself. If there’s anything I can help you with, let me know.” Other than giving you the whole table and escaping with my books to sell them at Dillon’s table.
“I hope you’re into decorating. I brought along two trash bags full of all kinds of colorful streamers and confetti. It’s enough to cover every table in the room if they’re into that sort of thing.”
She’d asked for decorations to fall from the ceiling, but Betsy never imagined the magnitude sitting in front of her. How did she miss a person carrying in two gargantuan bags? But there wasn’t time to ponder since her editor returned to their table.
“Betsy, I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for taking you away from Dillon’s book signing.”
Her agent’s apology impressed her, and she grinned. “It’s okay, Mr. Pickle. There’s always tomorrow.”
“Yes, tomorrow. Gotta run. Oh, and please call me Andrew. No need for formalities since we work together. Have fun, and I’ll check in on you two later.”
“Thanks, Andrew.” The urge to laugh and cry at the same time came close to overwhelming Betsy. So much for hanging out with a New York Times bestselling author. No one is going to believe me when I tell them what happened. Especially Ros—”
“Wait until you see this charmer, Betsy.”
She wanted to ignore Amy’s exuberance, but the item she held made of cardboard caught her attention. Her tablemate opened the tabs on the back, and the cutout grew into a three-dimensional stack of books with a person sitting on top.
“I’m speechless.” And, did I mention the showpiece measures three feet tall?
Amy centered it on the table. “Don’t you love it?”
“Well, it’s quite the showstopper.”
“I agree. Attracting attention is what I had in mind. And, Betsy, the teal blues and grays in it work with your book cover too.”
“They do. It certainly makes our table stand out.” Betsy’s earlier disappointment vanished, and she hollered, “Amy, hand me the biggest bag of confetti you brought? I feel a party coming on!”
“You’re my kind of girl. Go forth and glitter.”
When Bets finished flinging sparkly stuff on their table and the adjoining ones, she came back and found Amy in tears, twisting a tissue between her fingers. Pieces of it dropped on the carpet, creating a sizeable pile.
She hurried over to her. “Amy, I know how you feel. I’ve been there. You’re experiencing the newbie-book-signing jitters. After you sign your first book, you’ll feel as if you’ve reached the summit of Mount Everest. Then, you’ll be a pro.”
“Why would anyone buy my book?” The new author wiped her nose with the used Kleenex. “Betsy, why am I here? I’m not an author.” The twenty-something author slapped her novel. “These words are junk.”
“Our editor already gave you this speech.” Betsy stopped for a moment as Andrew Pickle approached their table, then she continued. “Amy, remember he always tells his authors. ‘Linnstrom-Peterson Publishing prints books—’”
“Yes, books readers want to read, and our prayer is that they point them toward the Lord.” Andrew touched the centerpiece. “Amy, you’ve got this. And with this elaborate addition to your table – I predict business will be booming.”
~~~
Betsy gathered her remaining books after another successful book signing. She peeked at Amy, and she glowed. Thank You, Lord, for giving both of us a stupendous night and helping my newest friend relax.
“How about we drop our books in my room and go get a latte?”
After a quick peek at Dillon’s table – still overflowing with fans, Betsy concurred, “Amy, that sounds wonderful. We deserve a goodie too.”
While they walked down the hall to the café, Betsy shared her elevator story. “I’ve been embarrassed on other occasions, but this one tops my list of faux pas.” Bets heard the young woman’s laughter, and at the end of it, a tiny snort escaped.
“Amy, my friend, Rose, doesn’t have children, but the last noise you made is exactly like hers. I wish she’d been here to meet you, but she’s in Fort Myers. She’d have given you the biggest hug you’ve ever encountered.”
Her eyes brightened. “I live in Naples. When we get back, let’s arrange to meet.”
They chatted about their writing journey while sipping their coffee. Betsy nibbled on a slice of pumpkin bread. In between bites, she shared her on-the-road experiences. “They gave me tons of fodder for my novel. I’m amazed at what I’ve overheard people say in public. My advice, carry a pad of paper with you at all times.”
“I will.”
“And, I hate to cut this short, but it’s 9:45. This lady has had a long day. I’ll swing by your room in the morning and get my books.”
“Thanks for tonight, and for you and Mr. Pickle, oh I mean, Andrew, talking me off the ledge.”
“Anytime. We writers have to stick together.” Betsy hugged her friend. “Bye.”
On the way to her room, she remembered she hadn’t spoken to Dillon about not sharing her table. I’ll catch her tomorrow. She strolled to the elevator and punched the button for her floor.
As she walked the short distance to her room, Betsy relived the evening’s festivities. She unlocked the door without much thought, and it flung open to reveal the last person she expected. Rose Wilford stood in front of her with her arms opened wide.
“I’d ask you where you’ve been, but you’re with your peeps who don’t pay one lick of attention to the time. Come here and hug your friend.”
Dumbstruck, Betsy stayed put. “What are you doing here, and how did you get in my room?”
“Funny how far a little charm will get you. Now, where is Dillon McCloud? I’m dying to meet her.”
Betsy chuckled. “There’s a good possibility she’s in her bed snoozing, which I’d like to do.” She lay her purse and computer on the chair, gave her friend a huge hug, and then headed to her bed. “But I’m still perplexed how you convinced the front desk to let you in here.”
Rosie punched at the pillows on the other king bed and settled into them. “After reading your text about Debbie not showing up, I immediately told Larry, “I’m taking the Minnie Winnie and driving up to Daytona. So here I am.”
“Thought your store, and the need for a new roof, ranked higher than me?”
“Not when my best bud is all alone in a hotel room. I had to lend my moral support in such a dire situation.”
Betsy rotated to face her friend on the other bed. “Rosebud, this tops all of your other concocted stories. The truth is – you wanted a glimpse of Dillon McCloud and not just in a photo I’d bring home.”
“You are absolutely right. Nothing is better than the real thing.”
~~~
Betsy brushed her teeth the following morning and still wondered why Rosie drove the RV instead of their little car. But last night, after all her excitement with Dillon and Amy at the book signing, she’d fallen asleep while her best friend kept on chattering.
She came out of the bathroom and focused on Rosie. “You do know I have classes all day. And you’re aware you cannot come to any of them. You haven’t paid. You cannot sneak in. Am I clear on this?”
“I don’t want to say you rolled out of the wrong side of the bed…but Miss Smarty Pants doesn’t suit you this early in the morning. Also, the front of your shirt has toothpaste dripping off of it.”
“Great.” Bets changed into another top and left Rose to fend for herself. On her way to Dillon’s class, her phone alerted her of a text. Debbie’s message said, “PLANES STILL GROUNDED IN HOUSTON!!! WE’RE STUCK HERE!!!”
Betsy replied, “I’ll miss you and your smiling faces.” She pocketed her phone and entered the classroom. The mystery writer and her agent sat at a table facing the front wall. Betsy picked a seat in the third row to not appear as an overzealous fan or an eavesdropper.
She modified the placement of her computer to find the most comfortable spot, and her eyes beheld the bottom toolbar. Low battery? The cord must have jiggled out when I dropped my bag on the chair last night.
While she unwrapped her cord, Bets looked around for an outlet on the wall. None were available at the end of the row she’d chosen. But she’d arrived in plenty of time to find one in the row behind her original seat and plugged in. It didn’t work.
“Honey, not to use a cliché, but do you have ants in your pants?” Dillon McCloud stood next to Betsy at the non-working outlet. “If you will give me the plug, I’ll see if the one next to it works.”
Bets handed the cord to her, and the bestselling author plugged in her dying computer. The symbol showed charging, and a “Woohoo” slipped out of Betsy as well as an “I’m going to strangle my best friend.”
“What and to whom are you doing this?”
Dillon’s question remained unanswered when Betsy spotted Andrew and Rosie. They walked into the room – together. She remained calm but reflected on why she hadn’t stayed in bed under the covers that morning. Father, what is my friend up to now?

Order Now!

<< Go Back