Free Three Sisters by James D. Doss Page B

skip quickly past what happened between then and now . Watch the big hand on the granddaddy clock spin full circle—151 times.
    Six days and seven hours later, long after she had gone to bed, Cassandra was not even slightly drowsy. When the hopeful sleeper would attempt to shut her eyes, they would pop open again. She tried reclining on her right side. Her left. Also flat on her back. After considering such time-honored remedies as sleeping pills, a glass of warm milk, a hot soak in the tub, counting stupid sheep jumping a rail fence, reading the history of Plano, Texas, or last month’s article in PSYCHICAL REVIEW about how death by violence affects the personalities of recently disembodied spirits—Aha—“Recently Disembodied Spirits!” This reminded her of that odd encounter at the airport with the talkative old lady from somewhere or other whose daughter had been dined upon by a herd of famished swine. The wide-awake lady switched on the light, found Florence Valentine’s black canvas bag between the tall, ticktocking timepiece and the deceased elephant’s foot, took it back to her bedroom, and began to examine the contents.
    This was not the solution for insomnia.
    Indeed, on this night, Cassandra would not get a wink of sleep. Not one.
    A long, hot soak in the tub— that would have been the very cure for what ailed her.

    Oh. Another thing. On the following morning, when Cassandra Spencer stepped onto her front porch to pick up the weekly newspaper, she noticed a letter-size manila envelope in the mailbox. No stamp, no address, no return address. Only a printed READ THIS on both sides. She opened it with a long, pointy fingernail, removed a single sheet of paper. The message was also printed:
    I KNOW IT’S NONE OF MY BUSINESS BUT I THOUGHT YOU OUGHT TO KNOW THAT YOUR SISTER CHEATED YOU. SHE WAS HOLDING TWO HALF-TOOTHPICKS IN HER HAND.
    Mandy the waitress was across the street in the Corner Bar, watching the darker of the Spencer sisters through a dusty window. She was unable to see the expression on the psychic’s face as Cassandra learned The Truth. No matter—merely knowing that her note had been received was enough. In fact, Mandy was so excited that she—No. It is too indelicate to mention.
    But one might go so far as to observe that the wielder of the poisoned pen had, while waiting for the climactic moment, polished off three beers. Without visiting the ladies’ room.

Nine
The Honeymoon
    This was their final night in Costa Rica, at the small but well-appointed beach cottage on the Golfo de Nicoya. How sweet it was, here on the flower-scented veranda. A light mist of rain drip-dripping off the thatched roof, tap-tapping onto shiny pebbles and pearly fragments of seashells. Hardly a stone’s throw away, a gentle surf whispered of lost histories, ancient mysteries. A short walk inland, beyond yon cluster of coconut palms, within the lantern-lighted hotel ballroom, a rhythmic steel-drumming, a vibrant guitar thrumming, a woman’s throaty voice calling for her lost lover.
    Barefooted Beatrice Spencer-Turner, seated on a wicker couch beside her husband, was pleasantly cool in the cotton dress Andrew had purchased from a street vendor in Puntarenas. An embroidered vine twisted and twined around her hip; blue and red roses blossomed from the stubby little stems. As she dipped a silver spoon into a crystal bowl of pineapple-mango-coconut ice cream, allowed the ambrosia to melt on her tongue, the bride filled her eyes with a sunset of blue and gold wisps, murmured to her mate, “The moment is absolutely perfect.”
    The man nodded his agreement, raised a frothy glass, and responded in authentic beer-commercial fashion: “It doesn’t get any better than this.”
    The bride indulged in another spoonful of the exotic dessert. “This stuff is simply scrumptious.”
    “It’s also about a hundred calories per bite.”
    The slender woman cast her man a look. “Are you afraid I’ll get fat?”
    “Uh…no.