Carys Jones - Second To Cry

‘You get much work when you golf?’ Aiden asked, remembering how when he worked back in Chicago either an exclusive gym or golf course was always a great place to scout for new business. He had no idea that Edmond would be as astute to make connections that way and admired the old man for his initiative.

‘Son, I get nearly all my work from when I golf!’ Edmond laughed to himself, pulling back towards his desk, clearly feeling that the conversation was concluded.

Aiden turned his attention to his own computer and the various emails which needed his attention, but his mind remained on the paternity case and something was pressing its way to the front of his thoughts, refusing to subside.

At last he just had to ask, needing to know the answer.

‘Edmond, how come I’m handling the Sam Fern case if he came to you about it directly?’

‘He asked specifically for you to work on it.’

‘He did?’ Aiden was surprised, shocked even. His previous case had been high profile but he didn’t expect clients to be seeking him out by name, not yet.

‘Sure did. I imagine he heard about how well you got on with Buck which warmed him to you!’ Edmond chuckled to himself once more, his body jiggling within his chair.

*

With his mind still very much on the Sam Fern case, Aiden decided to delay responding to his emails and instead run a quick Internet search on the local millionaire.

Sure enough, there were loads of stories about him. He seemed to be somewhat of a local celebrity.

Most articles were focused around a charitable donation he had given. He had funded a new MRI machine at the local hospital, along with a new ward for the children’s services. He’d given various donations to the local church and also the hospice at the next town over. He certainly appeared to be extremely generous.

Aiden found one article which contained a photograph of Sam Fern at the opening of the hospital ward where his wife was stood proudly beside him.

Had Aiden not known the connection between Sam and Buck Fern, he would still have made the assumption as soon as he saw him, as the millionaire looked almost identical to Avalon’s sheriff, aside from the fact that he was perhaps a bit taller in stature and had more hair, which may or may not have been his own. The heritage of said hair would be left to conjecture.

In the photograph Sam Fern was smiling broadly, but on such a flint-hard face the smile lacked warmth. His wife, however, was radiant beside him. With white-blonde hair and a ruby-red smile, she stole the picture from him, instantly drawing all eyes upon her.

It was easy to see why Mrs Samuel Fern had been in Playboy . She had the voluptuous figure and the flirtatious smile of a modern-day Marilyn Monroe. Her hands, adorned with fake nails, were wrapped around her husband as he was poised to cut an opening ribbon. She looked happy, they both did.

Aiden read the by-line to the picture;

Samuel Fern and his wife Deena, pictured outside the opening of the newly opened Fern’s Children Ward.

So her name was Deena. Good to know. Aiden added her name to his list of notes. He considered Googling her but hesitated, not sure he wanted a list of Playboy websites appearing in his Internet history at work. He would just take Edmond’s word for it for the time being that she had been Miss September at some point.

A sudden thought entered Aiden’s head and made him uneasy. No, it wasn’t a thought. It was a face. And it belonged to Brandy White. The woman whose life he had saved when he had uncovered the true killer of her husband.

Something stabbed at his heart. A pang of longing and for perhaps the hundredth time since she left he found himself wondering what Brandy was doing at that exact moment. Was she enjoying Chicago or did she miss the tranquillity of Avalon? He could picture her, working in the beauty parlour, smiling warmly at customers as they came in. They must love her, with her Southern charm and natural warmth.

Aiden found himself envying those customers because they got to see her and bask in her light. He was just left with memories and regrets and…

No. Aiden refused to wallow in his thoughts about Brandy. He needed to focus on the present. On his family. And on the case which he was currently working on. Brandy White was an old client, nothing more.

‘Which year did you say Mrs Fern was in Playboy ?’ he asked Edmond, who upon hearing the question immediately lifted his ample frame up out of his chair and almost bounced over to where Aiden was sitting.

‘Ooh, I can’t remember for sure,’ Edmond said. ‘2002, 2003 maybe. We should do a search.’

He prompted Aiden as he stood over him and who was Aiden to ignore his boss? Besides, he would welcome the distraction and it would please the old man to look at some racy pictures all in the name of work.

‘Wait!’ Edmond said suddenly as Aiden was about to hit search on Deena, Miss September Playboy.

‘We should send Betty out on some errand. Don’t want the poor girl walking in here and seeing something too saucy for her mature sensibilities to handle.’

‘Okay,’ Aiden agreed though he doubted Betty either looked at or cared what was displayed on their computer screens. She was more concerned about the contents of their coffee cups.

‘I’ll send her out for some doughnuts,’ Edmond declared proudly.

‘Good idea.’

‘Just don’t mention this to Mrs Copes.’

Aiden raised his eyebrows.

‘The doughnuts, I mean. She’s still got me on this diet.’

‘Right, gotcha.’ Aiden nodded, knowing that if he had a dime for every forbidden doughnut he’d had to conceal from Edmond’s wife he would be as rich as Samuel Fern.

*

Isla walked past the kitchen window but stopped abruptly when something caught her eye. At the end of the drive the arm of the mailbox had been lifted to signal the arrival of a new letter, which was strange since the mailman had already been and delivered the usual bundle of unwelcome bills. Frowning, Isla wandered down the driveway and opened the rusted front door of the mailbox and, sure enough, there was a single white envelope neatly placed inside. Reaching in, Isla picked it up and, turning it over in her hands, she was surprised to see that the front was blank, it wasn’t addressed to anyone specific.

Assuming it was junk mail, Isla was about to rip it in half when she instead tore the envelope open and removed the note from within. As she read it, she felt the air around her cool a few degrees and goose bumps broke out along her bare arms.

Within the envelope was a single piece of crisp white paper which when unfolded contained one single word. But instead of being written, the letters had been crudely cut from other sources and glued to the paper. Isla shivered as she read the word:

Leave.

It was a simple, succinct directive. Isla glanced around but the street was clear. Looking at the note in her hand she felt with the cold, distinct sense of dread that it was most definitely intended for her.

Isla refused to read the note again. With a shudder she promptly tore the piece of paper in half and shoved it into the garbage can before walking back in to the house.

*

Aiden still savoured his short commute home from work. The small town was the backdrop to his journey as he drove through the now-familiar streets. Traffic was always sparse, even at what would be considered peak times. He remembered all too well the complete gridlock which he encountered within the city on a daily basis and he didn’t miss it. There was something satisfying about being able to travel unhindered. It left him feeling less stressed when he walked through the door and greeted his family at the end of the day. There was no built-up tension souring his mood; he was a free man.