Chapter 1
Ron Vance carried his own drink in one hand and Jerry’s in the other. He had ordered a Brandy Alexander and Jerry had a Jack and Coke. In the middle of the bar there was a table surrounded by young men. Jerry Matthews, a newspaper man visiting from Cincinnati, had called upon his old friends and colleagues for an evening of drinking and reconnecting. At the table were Arnold Frasier, a sports writer from Jerry’s old newspaper. Ron Vance, a college friend and well known author. Paul Taylor, Ron’s publisher; and Peter Sykes, Jerry’s childhood friend.
Setting the drinks down on their table, Ron laughed and said, “I’m telling you, this writer’s block has got me so down lately I just don’t know what to do anymore!”
Paul said, “I told him he’d better come up with something original soon or he’s looking at a lawsuit for all those second-rate, plagiarized short stories he keeps sending in…”
“What sort of books do you write?” Arnold asked.
“Murder mysteries,” Ron said sinisterly. “I tell you, writing them is murder itself! Trying to find an original idea will drive you mad. How many times can you make a crime of passion interesting? How many different ways can you kill for money and still shock your reader? I tell you, it’s murder!”
Everyone laughed.
Everyone, that is, except for Peter Sykes.
“I say there, Mr. Sykes!” Ron called over in a mock British accent. “I say, I’m thinking drastically of going over to your home country for some proper inspiration. All the best murder mysteries seem to come from Jolly Old England!”
“All the best mystery writers, anyway,” Paul laughed.
“Touché!” Ron said, lifting his glass.
“Some interesting murders happen right here in our little U.S. of A,” said Arnold. “Funny, Peter would still be your authority on that, wouldn’t he, Jerry!”
Jerry looked sideways at his old friend. He was already worried that this conversation was making Peter uncomfortable, but now his own associations were being brought before the table. Clearing his throat, Jerry said, “There’s no need to go into that now. I seldom see Peter anymore and would like to continue the evening in happy thoughts and good times!”
“Wait just a minute!” said Ron. “You can’t tease that a man at my table knows about murder and then change the subject. If I pay him enough maybe he’ll sell me the story. Come on, old bean, tell us the story!”
Peter glared at Ron, then finally spoke: “I find it difficult to see the entertainment value in something that has ruined so many people’s lives, Mr. Vance.”
Ron sat back in his chair.
“Okay,” he said. “But this is how I make my living, good man. Couldn’t you tell me just a little?”
“I’m sorry,” Peter said. “It involved someone very dear to me and I will not have their suffering used for monetary gain.”
“Then, you yourself are not the murderer?” Paul asked with a light chuckle. Everyone else at the table began snickering.
“It will ease your minds to know that you are not drinking with a killer,” said Peter. “At least, not a direct one.”
At this, Peter stood up and tossed some bills in the middle of the table. “That should cover my part,” he said. “Goodnight.”
While the men sat in silence, Jerry followed Peter out of the bar and onto the sidewalk. Peter had stopped to light a cigarette, knowing his friend would come to check on him.
“I’m sorry,” said Jerry. “I should’ve known better than to invite you to a gathering with a mystery writer.”
“They’re not all like him,” Peter said. “He just feels entitled to other people’s pain. I can’t allow that.”
“How is she?”
At this, Peter turned his gaze downward. He became like a statute, unable to move or make any sort of eye contact. Why couldn’t he answer such a simple question? Then again, the question was only simple in appearance.
Peter looked up at Jerry and said, “She’ll never be the same. And I know that’s my fault.”
“I’m afraid I don’t see it that way.”
“You weren’t there!”
“But you told me everything, and some of it was in the papers. You’re not to blame, pal.”
Peter smiled to mask the pain. He patted his friend on the arm and said, “Well, I’m afraid I don’t see it that way.”
“You know, I came back down here to try to cheer you up. I’m afraid I’ve failed seeing as how I’m leaving tomorrow. Listen, don’t worry about that fool in there. If somehow he learns enough to write a book about them, we’ll sue him.”
Peter nodded.
“Safe travels, my friend,” he said, then walked away.
He didn’t want to take a cab. Cabdrivers usually talked and he was in no mood. He needed to think. Think about her. No, that was too painful.
His mind wouldn’t listen to his warnings. Everything was now before him, like a movie on a screen. There she was. He could still see her standing next to him at that dance; that’s where her story began…
It was on April 4th, 1959. He remembered the date like one would a death. Strawberry Lane had its annual Spring Dance, but it would be the last one he ever attended. The dance was in the town hall auditorium, for it was the largest and most spacious building. Everyone in town was welcomed, and everyone came. Peter had told Ceil Clayton he would be her escort for the evening. They had grown up together and she always thought very fondly of him—like one would a older brother.
The picture of the dance flashed in his mind as clearly as if he were walking into that auditorium again. There was Ceil. She looked beautiful standing there in her yellow swing dress. Her sandy blond hair and green eyes sparkled with the lights. She looked forward to this dance every year. The hall was always so charming when it was decorated, and the people looked dapper in their finest clothes.
She was grinning from ear to ear, watching as everyone danced across the floor. Peter was standing nervously next to her, trying to summon the courage to ask her to dance. Ceil was hardly paying any attention. She kept looking around the room, seeing all the familiar faces, and some unfamiliar ones.
Both Ceil and Peter attended that dance with different intentions. While Peter hoped for romance with the woman standing beside him, Ceil just wanted a chance to mingle with her friends and neighbors.
The music stopped for a moment. A man stood up on the stage with the band and said aloud, “It’s that time, folks! Every time the music stops, switch your partner with whoever is closest to ya!” Everyone cheered. The man said, “Keep going until the music slows down; then you’ll be dancing with that partner whether you like ’em or not!”
Everyone laughed and started dancing with their dates.
Then the music stopped.
Ceil began dancing with another man. It was actually her neighbor, Mr. Edward Jackson. He was sixty-three years old and a magnificent dancer.
The music stopped again.
This time Ceil was partnered with a much younger boy—in his late teens. The poor boy wasn’t much of a dancer, but it didn’t matter. The dance didn’t last very long.
Next was Mr. Jenkins from the drugstore; after that was Timmy Franklin, another childhood acquaintance. Then she danced with Johnny, her friend Betty’s boyfriend.
After Johnny there was another man. She had spotted him near the door a few minutes before the dance started. He was the sort of man that would catch the attention of any woman with his wavy light brown hair, blue eyes, and that mischievous yet shy grin. The grey suit he wore didn’t seem to be very expensive, but it looked mighty sharp with his black shoes and loose tie.
He wasn’t unfamiliar to Ceil, although she didn’t know his name. She had seen him around town before, but they never spoke. He was a quiet type and always seemed to be busy doing something. She would have liked to have spoken to him, though. Pretty was not usually a word one used for men, but she would say he had a very pretty face.
Ceil could tell by the way he held himself that he was reserved. He kept looking down, avoiding eye contact. In doing so, he held a shy smile on his face. Ceil stared. It was the most enchanting smile she’d ever seen.
The music wasn’t stopping. They both chuckled and looked away from each other, nervously.
The slow dance had begun.
“Looks like we’re partners!” said Ceil.
“I’m usually not so lucky,” he said in a gentle voice. “Hey, you.”
“Hey!”
“Would you care to dance?” he asked.
Ceil laughed.
His smile became brighter.
They had not told each other their names yet and, for some reason, didn’t feel the need to in this moment. It was just a dance with no hopes or ambitions. Just a dance between two people who were enjoying themselves immensely. Ceil told herself this, but there was still a part of her that did hope. The subtle charm he had displayed in such a short time made her heart flutter, and she wondered what his story was. Did he have someone? Was he enjoying himself tonight? How long had he lived here? All this could be answered, she just had to summon her courage to speak.
“You’re a wonderful dancer,” Ceil said. “I don’t remember seeing you at any of these dances before.”
“Sometimes crowds stress me out.”
“I understand,” she said. “Crowds can be… stressful.”
“Especially ones as stuck-up as this.” He looked at her and smiled. “Present company excluded.”
Ceil chuckled. “The people here can be nice. You just have to give them a chance.”
“Well, I’m glad the dance ended with you,” he said. “I’m afraid I really don’t know too many people here.”
She couldn’t believe this. A man as charming and handsome as him had trouble making friends? True, she hardly knew him, but he had already made her laugh a couple times and seemed genuinely sweet. He must be terribly shy, she thought.
Ceil was about to speak again when she noticed his eyes were locked on hers as a subtle grin came to his face. Tilting her head slightly, she asked, “What is it?”
“I don’t mean to sound forward. I usually don’t say things like this but… your eyes are such a beautiful shade of green. They’re like emeralds.”
Ceil blushed, turning her gaze to their feet. “Did I mention how wonderfully you dance?” she asked.
“You did. So do you.”
He let go of her waist and stepped back, lifting his other hand to guid her in a twirl. Her face lit up as she spun around and back into his strong arms. As they both laughed together, she asked him now, “Have you lived here long?”
He took his eyes off of her and looked around the room.
“No,” he said nervously. “Just a couple of months. I’m still getting settled, making acquaintances. What about you?”
“I’ve lived here all my life. It’s really very nice here, I hope you like it.”
“I like some things, so far,” he said with a grin. “It’s funny, I still don’t know what made me come to this thing tonight.”
“Maybe it’s fate?” Ceil said as the music stopped.
He smiled at her again. He was still holding her even though there was no music playing. Looking into his eyes, Ceil was in no hurry to correct this oversight.
Nodding, he replied to her, “I guess we’ll see.”
Taking her hand in his, he kissed it, then apologized but he had to be going. Ceil thanked him for the dance and watched him leave.
Peter approached.
“You looked rather familiar dancing together,” he said. Peter had been watching them ever since the slow dance started. He didn’t know the man’s name, but he knew his face. It was more than seeing him around town; it was something else. Something on which he could not put his finger.
After the party was over, Peter took Ceil home. He walked her to her front door and waited by her side as she fumbled in her handbag for her house key.
“Thank you for taking me tonight, Peter,” Ceil said. “I had a wonderful time!”
“I want to apologize, C.C., I hardly danced with you at all.”
“Don’t be sorry! I understand.”
“I don’t think you do.” He took her hands in his, stopping her from unlocking the front door. His moves or intent were not aggressive, but they startled Ceil nonetheless. She looked into his eyes, full of wonder and fear of what he was about to say. “I had planned tonight to ask you to marry me.”
Ceil’s body became motionless as her hands shook. There had always been a fear in the back of her mind that Peter would ask this question. While she loved the bond they shared, he never made any true attempts to woo her romantically. His gestures were passionless, reeking instead of presumption that his feelings were reciprocated.
“I suppose it’s senseless to put it off now. Cecilia Clayton, will you marry me?”
Ceil looked away from him, saying nothing. She didn’t even open her mouth to try to speak.
Peter smiled. “Why don’t you think about it? Sleep on it.”
Looking at him, Ceil nodded. Then quickly, but not to give the appearance of wanting to get away, she said goodnight and rushed into her house.
