A Christmas Scare

A memorable Christmas scare that left us trembling

We awoke on Christmas day to a quiet house. Our kids had dispersed this holiday and left us alone to celebrate with each other. After a strong cup of coffee and a light breakfast, we illuminated the tree, turned on Jingle Bells, and opened our gifts. The late morning sun shone in through the curtains, reminding us that although December, this might prove to be a nice day.

Later, our daughter, who now lived in Rhode Island, called to wish us a Merry Christmas. We spoke to her, her husband and her two kids. They gushed over the gifts we’d sent and told us how much they wished they could see us. Blankets of snow kept them snuggled inside by the fireplace, unable to venture out. They described a perfect white Christmas.

We, on the other hand, left our little house to visit friends. We spent the afternoon sipping eggnog near our friends’ fireplace and sharing stories of Christmases past. Although sunny outside, the temperature had dropped to the single digits. Like us, our friends were celebrating their holiday alone. Their children lived in Atlanta, but had decided not to make the yearly trek to their parent’s house with gifts, kids and casseroles.

At about 5pm we arrived back to a quiet, dark house, looking forward to an evening in front of the television, watching old movies. My husband loved the AMC channel, particularly old horror movies—Lon Chaney and Vincent Price.

I decided to take a shower before we settled in.

With soap in my hair and water running down my back, a ringing sound caught my attention—a sound very much like the doorbell, but I rejected that thought because we lived deep in the woods. Our driveway made a circuitous mile-long route from the street to our sidewalk. The neighbors resided long distances away, nowhere in view. No one would ring our doorbell on Christmas night. Impossible.

Ding, dong, ding, dong. The sound persisted. I called for my husband. No response. What in the world was going on? Ding, dong, ding, dong.

I rinsed the soap from my hair and turned off the shower. That’s when I realized my husband was also in the shower in his bathroom. I raced in that direction and said,

“Someone’s at the door.”

“What? No way. Not tonight.”

“Yes, the doorbell is ringing. Listen!”

I ran to my closet to throw on some clothes.

The doorbell continued its persistent ding, dong, ding, dong. Geez, wouldn't whomever was out there just give up and decide we were out of town?

Once dressed, I peered outside. By now the sky was dark. A car crept up the driveway with its lights turned off. My heart froze.

My husband showed up, wrapped with a towel around his waist and carrying his 12- gauge-double-barrel shotgun, clearly ready to blow someone’s head off.

“What are you doing?”

“Thieves often case houses during the holidays. That car is definitely up to something.”

“But, you might shoot your leg off or worse still murder someone.” Fear gripped me.

The car crept back down the driveway near the house, lights off. Two shadowy figures emerged from the backseat. They approached the house.

“Stay here,” my husband ordered.

“Be careful,” I said with a shaky voice.

“I’m only going to scare them.” He looked pretty frightening, his hair stood up on end with soap still clinging to each tress, barefoot and with his towel wrapped at a rakish angle. Water dripped off him on his way out.

I trailed behind him. The dark figures were walking up our sidewalk as if in slow motion. One kept turning back to the car, which had begun to creep back up the hill toward the street to a position to watch and wait.

My husband went out the side door. He lifted the gun with one hand and held the towel with the other. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”

The two figures halted as if slapped. The taller one removed the hood from the hoodie.

A voice came from the car, which had once again eased back close to the house, apparently to retrieve its passengers.

“Dad, it’s us.”

I gasped.

My husband called for them to stop. But he had lowered the gun barrel and seemed to be holding the towel closer to him.

“Dad, it's us, Mary, Pete and the girls. We wanted to surprise you.”

I threw open the door. Our daughter, son-in-law and two grand children emerged from the darkness.

They had flown in from Rhode Island as a surprise. A big Christmas surprise, they explained in shaky voices. Instead they’d nearly frightened the two of us to death.

My husband, who by now was clutching the towel for dear life, standing as he was nearly naked in front of his daughter and two grand daughters, shivered from the cold and said, “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot your heads off.”

They began laughing, explaining how they had called us from the Boston airport this morning to wish us a merry Christmas. Laughing more. “We didn’t tell you we were about to board a plane and would see you in a few hours,” our son-in-law said. But, we didn’t find it funny. Living secluded in the woods and being surprised by a strange car creeping down our driveway like that. Nope, not funny at all.

Once everyone settled down with a warm drink, we relaxed and enjoyed the rest of that Christmas evening, grateful the day had not ended in a tragedy.

***

Joan C. Curtis recently released the e-Murderer, a psychological thriller. 

Spotlight on Joan C. Curtis

Today we're spending our time getting to know Lightning Quick Reads author, Joan C. Curtis. 

Four times business book author, Joan C. Curtis, released her first mystery/suspense title, The Clock Strikes Midnight.

Her first-place book awards include: Best mystery manuscript in the Malice Domestic Grants competition and best proposal for nonfiction in the Harriette Austin competition

Joan has been an avid reader for as long as she can remember.  She reads all kinds of books, including women’s fiction, mysteries, biography, and memoir.  Her passion as a reader lies closer to literary writing with a commercial bent. She writes books she would love to read.

“I write about characters who remind me of myself at times and my sister at times, but never fully so. My stories are told from a woman’s point of view. Characters drive my writing and my reading.”

Having grown up in the South with a mother from Westchester County New York, Joan has a unique take on blending the southern traditions with the eye of a northerner.  She spent most of her childhood in North Carolina and now resides in Georgia.

LQR: Welcome, Joan. Thanks for visiting with us today. Can you tell our readers a little about you?

Joan: I’m married with three step children and four step grandchildren. My career before writing consisted of public speaking. I was a leadership development specialist with an emphasis on communication. I led many workshops and retreats and wrote four business books around these topics. Personally, I love to read. I’m also an exercise junkie, a cat lover and a person who wishes she lived in Italy.

LQR: If you had to pick only one moment that spurred you to write professionally, what moment is the most inciting?

Joan: A number of years ago, I submitted a story to a national contest sponsored by Reader’s Digest and McCall’s Magazine. My story won second place, and the Reader’s Digest editor called me. A year later my story was published as an original piece for that publication. That experience led me to believe I could write professionally. It was the first time I was paid for something I wrote.

LQR: Does the majority of your work focus around or within a single theme? If so, what is it?

Joan: No, my work contains various theme. For the most part I write stories that include some component of mystery or suspense. But the theme of The Clock Strikes Midnight is very different from that of The e-Murderer.

LQR: Tell us about your newest release.

Joan: My newest release is The e-Murderer which will launch September, 1st. This is the first in a series starring Jenna Scali and her friends. The early manuscript of this book won first place in the Malice Domestic Grants Competition. Currently I’m working on the second book in the Jenna Scali series. I’m also working on another stand alone story that is too early in its creation to discuss.

print book available August 31st

LQR: What is one of your favorite authorial moments from your career so far?

Joan: One of the hardest things to do in this world of publishing is to get a fiction piece accepted. My nonfiction books were quickly picked up by Praeger Press. But, fiction is another story. When I received the letter of acceptance from MuseItUp Publishing for The Clock Strikes Midnight, I was stunned and elated. That had to be a favorite moment for me as an author. It meant someone believed in my work.

LQR: Share with us a five year goal for your writing career.

Joan: My five year goal is to see both Jenna Scali mysteries published and a third on the way. I’d also like to see The Clock Strikes Midnight made into a movie (ha, ha) and publish my current standalone book. My dream is to live in Italy for a period of time where I would write book 3 of the Jenna Scali mystery. Imagine her going there to find her ancestors and she stumbles on a murder…

LQR: Do you write what you read? Watch? What are your favorite television shows and movies?

Joan: I write books I’d love to read. Do I write what I read? I’m not sure about that. I am sure I don’t write what I watch although my favorite TV shows are mysteries including all of Masterpiece Mystery. I also love Masterpiece Classic (including Downton Abbey). My favorite movies vary. I loved Kings Speech and ART. I also loved all the Girl with the Dragoon Tattoo movies (Swedish version) and books.

LQR: If you had one week away from any and all responsibility what would you want to spend your time doing?

Joan: Setting is critical. So, I’d be in a small village in Tuscany, Umbria or Puglia. I’d spend the morning sipping coffee at a local café and talking with the locals. I’d spend the early afternoon on a bench watching people, studying their habits, noting their gestures and recording those details The latter part of the day, I’d take off for a tour of the region. That evening, I’d spend time reading and sipping a hearty red wine.

Winner to be announced in October. Congrats & good luck Joan!

LQR: That sounds wonderful! Anything else you’d like to add?

Joan: It’s been great fun writing the short stories for Lighting Quick Reads. Being a mystery writer, I try to give the stories some kind of surprise. I’ve also enjoyed reading the other authors’s stories. Short story writing is very different than novel writing and has enabled me to stretch my writing skill.

LQR: That’s great to hear, Joan. Thank you. Where can readers find you online?

Joan: Readers can find me on my website http://www.joancurtis.com I’d love for them to sign up there. They’d get my bi-monthly newsletter as well as all the updates on upcoming releases. I’d also love to see them on my blog http://www.joancurtis.com/blog There I post lots of writing tips, author interviews, book reviews and much more. And of course, I’m on Twitter @joancurtis. I have a Facebook author’s page http://www.facebook.com/joancurtisauthor

The Dog Who Couldn't Wag His Tail

Dog days bring more than summer heat...

I awoke to a cold, dreary, rainy Sunday morning, one of those November days when you want to remain tucked in bed. To stave the chill, I grabbed a steaming cup of coffee and then glanced out my window. He stood in the icy rain, watching me. Whose dog is that? I turned away from the window, wanting nothing to do with another four-legged creature, and proceeded to eat my breakfast.

Hard as I fought it, my eyes kept drifting toward this most unwelcome hungry, wet intruder. The animal’s intense gaze struck me first, and then his lameness. He held his left leg up, clearly unable to walk on it. With a softened heart, I opened the backdoor, but the dog crept deeper into the woods, his tail, broken and hanging between his legs. Pitiful, absolutely pitiful.

By the time we returned from church, I had forgotten about the stray dog. Later I wandered outside where I found him, standing away from the house, watching me from his perch. He held his lame leg off the ground. His ears flattened against his head.

That evening I said to my husband, “Did you see that German-shepherd looking dog in the woods this morning?”

“Don’t even think about it. And anyway I believe he belongs to the neighbors around the corner.”

I sighed, relieved. But the memory of that dog, the yearning in his eyes haunted me.   

  

Days passed. The dog didn’t go away. After I fed my resident canines, he sneaked up to the house and devoured whatever food was left. At first I discouraged this behavior, but when I saw his ribs, I allowed him to scavenge. My heart ached for the miserable life this poor animal led. No way this dog belonged to our neighbors. He clearly belonged to no one.

During the first week, Wolf, as I now called him, hung out in our woods, watched us, and waited for our dogs to finish eating. By the next week, Wolf had his own personal food dish, purchased at Pet Smart with him in mind.

Wolf still refused to come near us. He continued to hang out in the woods while I inched his dish closer and closer to the house. The other dogs played with Wolf. He trusted the dog world, whereas he remained steadfastly fearful of the people world.

As weeks multiplied into months and warm summer days came upon us, Wolf fattened up. But, ticks covered his body. He stood on his lame leg, but his fur was matted and rough.

One night during dinner, Wolf sat on his broken tail at the edge of the woods. I said, “Don’t you think it must be the worst thing in the world for a dog not to be able to wag his tail. It’d be like not being able to laugh.”

“I doubt that dog has had too much to laugh about,” my husband said between bites.   

More months passed. At a safe distance, Wolf watched us pet and play with the other dogs. With his eyes fixed on us, he never moved from his perch. Each night we gave the other dogs Milkbone treats. Not being able to stand seeing the glow of Wolf’s eyes, alone in the dark, I approached him with a treat, but he moved away, tail between his legs, ears flat. I tossed the tasty morsel in his direction. He stopped, sniffed the bone, and gobbled it down.

In the spring my cousins came to visit. Being animal lovers, they talked and played with our dogs. My cousin, Frank, cajoled Wolf to come to him. But Wolf kept his distance and merely watched the strangers. Before Frank left, he said, “That dog will be the most lovable of your dogs one day.”  I laughed, completely rejecting Frank’s prediction. What did he know?  He hadn’t been dealing with Wolf for over a year. I had resigned myself to Wolf’s self-imposed distance. At least now he had food every day.

After the seasons changed again from summer to winter and back to summer, I no longer tossed the Milkbone treat to Wolf. He took the bone from my hand held at arm’s length. By now Wolf ate with the other dogs and didn’t creep into the woods whenever the door to the house opened. But he still watched us warily and never let us approach him.

On a hot, humid day in August while I held the Milkbone treat toward Wolf, his tongue touched my hand. Oh, my God! He licked me. Surely he didn’t mean it. The next day Wolf did it again. Bubbling with excitement, I flew in the house to report what Wolf had done.

The following day while Wolf ate, I approached him, stopped, and stood. My heart thundered, my hand trembled. I reached out and, for the first time in over two years, stroked the top of Wolf’s head. He lowered his body, but he didn’t jerk away. His fur felt course, not smooth like the other dogs. His huge brown eyes studied me with a mixture of resignation and fear, but his broken tail lifted slightly.

That warm summer I began petting Wolf regularly. When he lowered his head, as if he thought I might strike him, I raised his chin. The fear in his eyes transformed to trust and love with each stroke. But best of all, he lifted his broken tail as high as he could, and he began wagging it. For the first time since that cold November day, Wolf wagged his tail and lifted his ears. Tears of joy filled my eyes.

Today, Wolf has no ticks. He’s a well-fed, neutered animal with a shiny black coat. Unfortunately his former life left wounds. His limp comes and goes apparently from an old injury. But that doesn’t stop him from running to greet us every night with his broken tail held as high as he can raise it and wagging with such force that his entire backend wiggles. Indeed, he has become the most affectionate canine in our pack.

The dog days of August for some mean days that are so full of heat and humidity the dogs go crazy, howling from the burning temperatures. In Georgia we say, It’s too hot to work. For me, however, dog days in August mean something totally different.

It was during those "dog days" that Wolf finally lifted his head and wagged his tail.

MuseItUp publishing will release the print version of The Clock Strikes Midnight this month, August 2015.

Call of the Wild

A reluctant camper...

“C’mon, Jenna. It’s just for a bloody weekend.”

Trying to dissuade Quentin from doing anything was like trying to change myself into a frog. “Why won’t Alan go with you?”

He harrumphed. “Alan doesn’t like to get his feet wet. He’s fussier than your big ol’ white cat.”

           

“Churchill goes out in the rain—well, not that he likes it, but he does.” I took a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll go, but what do I need to take?”

           

“Bravo!” He nearly danced out my door. “Pack your sleeping bag and a bottle of insect repellant. I’ll fetch the rest.”

“Insect repellant,” I grumbled to myself as I moved back inside the house. What in the world had I gotten myself into? Being Quentin’s BFF had its drawbacks.

Saturday morning rolled around before I had a chance to back out. Quentin pulled up to my driveway and hopped out of his car like a boy on an adventure.

“This is going to be such a lark,” he said as he settled his long, lanky body in my small Honda for the ride to Cumberland Island. “I’ve been reading about this place forever. It’s absolutely natural. A beach with no hotels and tacky restaurants. Can you imagine it? Pristine. Like the beaches in

Photo of Cumberland Island

Cornwall.”

“The beaches in Cornwall are not populated because it’s cold and wet there.”

“They’re promising sunshine here, love.” He’d begun fiddling with his laptop.

“Yeah, it’ll be hot as hell without air conditioning.”

He glared at me. “Don’t be such a sod. You’re gonna love this.”

Yeah like I love freezing on a snowy mountain in ski boots that pinch my feet, another of Quentin’s bright ideas.

“Hey, listen to what the website says. ‘Cumberland Island, Where Nature and History Meet. St Mary’s is the gateway to Georgia's largest and southernmost barrier island.

He exhaled as if allowing his imagination to soak up the place.

“It sounds wonderful,” I acquiesced. I’d heard of this wilderness paradise ever since I’d moved to Georgia. What attracted me was not the wilderness so much as the horses that lived in the wild there. But, what had me a little nervous was what other kinds of wild critters might lurk in the underbrush.

We reached St. Mary’s, a small Georgia coastal town with clapboard houses and fishing boats, a perfect setting for an Agatha Christie mystery. My GPS took us to the dock where we were to meet the ferry to go over to Cumberland Island, the only way to get to that barrier wilderness surrounded by water.

Quentin placed his red Georgia Bulldog cap on his head and leapt from the car. “Hurry up, Jenna. We don’t want to miss the ferry.” He seized the two duffels and the sleeping bags from the backseat. I grabbed my purse full of sunscreen and perfume. Okay, I never wear perfume, but who knew when I’d be able to take a bath in this wasteland.

We joined a group people on the dock.

“They said the snakes are as large as trains over here,” a blond girl told her companion. She wore a low-cut tee and shorts that hugged her rather meaty thighs.

I tossed Quentin a look and mouthed, “Snakes?”

He shrugged.

Oh my God. Wonder what else he forgot to tell me!

“I’d be more fearful of the shooter,” the man, standing next to the girl responded through his snaggletooth. Apparently his parents didn’t believe in orthodontics.

Shooter? Did he say shooter or scooter? Geez.

The girl snuggled close to the snaggletoothed man. “You think he’s here?” Her voice shook.

“C’mon, Stace, he won’t be on the Island. He’s probably done escaped to Cuba by now.”

“Sorry to intrude, but did you say shooter?” I asked.

“Yep. Y’all must be just now getting here?”

“Right-o. Five minutes ago from Athens,” Quentin popped in.

Both stared at Quentin as if he’d dropped from the sky.

“Are you a gen-u-ine Brit?” the girl asked. She moved a bit closer to Quentin and looked him up and down. Apparently snaggletooth wasn’t as interesting.

“That I am, straight off the boat from Manchester. Tell us about this shooter, won’t you?”

The man wrapped his arm around the girl to protect her from Quentin who didn’t have the least interest in the fairer sex. “Some lowlife shot a girl and her kid coupla nights ago. Lest ways that’s what the people in these parts are saying. He up and ran and the po-lice are still looking for ‘im. I was just joshing little Stacy here ‘bout him a being on the Island.”

The ferry pulled up. The people unloading looked as if they’d endured an episode of The Survivor, dirty, droopy-eyed, not a smile among them. They peeled off in twos or threes, dragging their dirty bags behind them.

Quentin moved from foot to foot, clearly anxious to get onboard.

“My name’s Billy Joe,” snaggletooth said. He held out a big hand to Quentin who took it with a quick shake and then wiped it on his jeans. “Quentin Pearson and my friend, Jenna Scali.”

           

“Pleased to meet y’all,” Stacy said. “This y’all’s the first time to Cumberland too?”

“That it is.” Quentin said with a quick glance to make sure I was following along and had not escaped to parts unknown. He handed me one sleeping bag.

We’d made our way starboard, away from Billy Joe and Stacy who climbed to the top. The breeze nearly swiped Quentin’s hat off his head, but he grabbed it in the nick of time.

The island appeared over the horizon looking like something out of South Pacific. The sand almost white with nothing to mar the expansive shoreline. Not a soul in sight.

When the driver docked, he pointed us in the direction of the campgrounds. Most of the people onboard went that way. A few stayed on the boat, apparently going to the small inn somewhere on the other side.

Quentin tugged my arm. “Let’s get our feet wet before we head to the camp.”

I followed him. The sun penetrated my thick hair causing my scalp to tingle. Where was my hat? Probably tucked in the bag with the insect repellent. Pieces of driftwood littered the sand. But, unlike other beaches, there were no signs of civilization—like empty beer cans or even pieces of shells.

A figure moved way down the beach.

“Did you see that?”

Quentin had moved closer to the shore. “What, love?”

I headed in the direction of the shadow. “There, just beyond those dunes. I saw someone.”

Quentin followed. “Hold up!”

I reached the place where I’d seen the movement. Nothing. Birds chirped from the trees and several mosquitoes made a meal out of my bare arms and legs. I slapped them away.

“Did you see a wild horse?” Quentin asked. Hoof marks covered the sand. 

“I saw a man on a horse.” I followed the hoof marks toward the dunes.

Quentin panted behind me. “Probably a ranger, patrolling the area.”

“What ranger? I didn’t hear anything about rangers and anyway why would he disappear like that?” I continued to trace the horse’s path.

“Jen, we don’t want to get too far from the camp.” He pulled on the back of my shirt.

The beach was covered in low-lying trees, thick with green growth. A man on a horse could easily disappear among the underbrush.

“C’mon. We need to get ourselves settled at the site before all the good spots get taken,” Quentin said.

Reluctantly, I followed him back.

That night as I shivered around a ridiculous fire that barely kept a blaze, Billy Joe told Quentin all about his camping exploits. Bored, I wandered toward the latrines. Yes, latrines. Basically they were holes in the ground where we were expected to remove our panties and pee. Yuck. Maybe if I ate and drank nothing, I’d never have to use those facilities.

I walked back behind the trees that blocked off the camp and gazed at the moon on the water.

Someone grabbed me by the arm and knocked me down. “What—“ I yelped.

A deep voice said, “You saw me today, you nosey bitch…” Eyes glared from the darkness out of a hairy face. Had I been caught by Godzilla with an southern accent?

I caught sight of the gleam of a gun when the man grimaced, released my arm, and fell like a tree on my leg.

Billy Joe stood over him with a large club in his hand. “You okay?” he asked, helping me to my feet.

I brushed off my backside. “I think so. What or who was that?”

Billy Joe lifted the gun Godzilla had been holding and handcuffed him. “My guess he’s our shooter.”

“Our?”

He grinned, giving me a good look at his snaggletooth in the moonlight. “Stace and I are here undercover. We suspected this here fella was hiding on the island. So, we came a looking. Surenuf, you found him for us. Good job! Don’t know how you snuffed him out. My guess is he’d been deep in the bush on the island, really hard to snag.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly mean to. But, so glad I could help.”

Quentin came running in our direction. “What the devil…” he said, seeing the shackled man on the ground.

“Your girl helped us nab this fugitive. Good thing I was here otherwise he might’ve blown her head off, too.”

Quentin gasped and scowled at me. “My lord. I can’t take you anywhere without you getting into some muddle.”

Billy Joe moved toward the shore and peered out. “The ferry is on the way back to take our prisoner. Stace and I will be off with him. Good to meet y’all.”

The goon moaned when Billy Joe turned him over.

“I’m not gonna miss that ferry,” I told Quentin on my way back to the site to gather my stuff. “I’ve had enough of this camping thing. I’m heading home to my cats and my warm bed.”

We found a cool little B&B in the town for the night. I settled into a warm bubbly bath and sighed.

Now that’s my idea of camping.

***

This story debuts Jenna and Quentin who will appear in Joan C. Curtis' new mystery series, The e-Murderer, scheduled for release by MuseItUp Publishing in September 2015.