Canterbury Tails: Duchess
When Lowell Seabury announced his intention to run for the highest office in the land, nearly everyone thought he was joking.
"You're a businessman, not a politician," Lianna, his wife, declared. "And let's face it. You aren't even a very good one. Your company would have gone bankrupt if your father hadn't bailed you out."
"It wasn't my fault the country was hit by a recession."
The attractive blonde, who looked twenty years younger than her husband despite there being only a three-year age difference, did not bother to argue. He was not a man to admit to his shortcomings.
"I don't know why you would even want to be president," she continued. "Suppose by some miracle you were to win. Would you want to spend the next four years in the White House?"
"No. I want to spend the next eight years there."
"If I were you, I wouldn't want my private life to be put under close scrutiny by the press."
"I don't know what you're talking about. What have I got to hide? I am a respectable businessman with a wife and two children."
And a list of affairs and one-night stands as long as my legs, his wife thought; but, again, she did not argue the point.
Lianna was not the only person to see the foolishness in Lowell's running for office. Sherman Rosecrans, his personal lawyer, also considered the idea ludicrous.
"You've got far too many skeletons in your closet," the attorney insisted. "I'm not just talking about the women. Hell, how many politicians don't have at least one or two indiscretions to their name? But your business dealings haven't exactly been on the up-and-up. And what about your taxes? I'd hate to have the IRS nosing around your returns."
"I'm not worried about it," Lowell insisted. "And I am running."
"It's your funeral," Sherman replied. "But don't say I didn't warn you."
The following week, the first televised campaign ads began appearing on network and cable stations. The candidate, hoping to give the appearance of a down-to-earth, common man, was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt and was shown walking down the cleaning supplies aisle of a Home Depot.
"Look at what the politicians have done to this country for the past two hundred and fifty years. America started out as a group of thirteen colonies banding together for a common cause. Our founders beat the most powerful empire in the world to form a new nation. But now, this government is rank with corruption. I say it's time to clean house!" he cried, picking up an old-fashioned string mop and shaking it for emphasis.
Thus, voters heard for the first time the political slogan that would become ubiquitous by Election Day in November. Soon posters, T-shirts, coffee cups, bumper stickers, baseball caps and campaign buttons all featured an image of the mop and proclaimed, "It's time to clean house."
Liberals scoffed and comedians and late-night TV hosts ridiculed Lowell Seabury.
"He'll never win," was the general consensus.
Yet despite numerous scandals being leaked to the press about the presidential candidate, he kept rising in the polls.
* * *
Lianna Seabury groaned as her husband drove the Ford F-150 across the border from New York into Connecticut.
"New Hampshire is a blue state, isn't it?" she asked with a frown.
"Yes, but it's not nearly as blue as Massachusetts," Lowell answered. "I think I've got a good chance of winning over a large number of the voters before the New Hampshire primary is held."
"Do you think you're going to fool the people in New England by dressing like Paul Bunyan and driving a pickup truck? They didn't fall for your 'man of the people' act on the West Coast."
"What are you talking about? My numbers went up there—not by much, but I did gain some supporters. Besides, not everyone in New England is a liberal."
"And I don't see why I have to dress as though I shop Kmart's blue light specials. I'm not the one who's running."
"The women who support me shop at Walmart. I don't want you showing up at my rallies wearing designer clothes and shoes."
Lianna turned up the volume on the radio and turned her face to the window. She hated car rides, and being in the passenger seat of a pickup truck was even worse.
Why did I have to marry a man with political ambitions? While we're stuck in stop-and-go traffic in the middle of February, she mused, our private plane is sitting in an airport hangar.
It was a foolish question. She knew exactly why she married Lowell Seabury. He was rich. Up until he began campaigning for office, the couple enjoyed a life that Robin Leach might have showcased on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.
"Once I'm in the White House, you can go back to wearing Chanel and Versace," he promised, "but for now, stick to Kohl's and Target."
To pass the time on the boring trek through the Constitution State, the former actress—whose only brush with fame was a three-line role on Law & Order—daydreamed about the gown she would wear to her husband's inaugural ball.
Half an hour after they left Connecticut and were traveling through the predominately Democratic Massachusetts, Lowell heard a rattling noise coming from beneath the Ford's hood.
"I don't like the sound of that," he told his wife.
"Pull over and call AAA," she suggested.
"Oh, the press would just love that! I can see the headlines now: PRESIDENTIAL HOPEFUL CALLS FOR HELP or HE CAN'T FIX A CAR; HOW CAN HE FIX OUR COUNTRY?"
"What are you going to do then? Risk getting us killed in an accident?"
"No. I'm going to take the next exit and bring the car to a mechanic to find out what's wrong with it."
Three miles later, Lowell saw a sign for Canterbury.
"We'll stop here," he announced, and none too soon since the noise was getting louder.
"Good God! Would you look at this place!" Lianna exclaimed. "It's right out of a Norman Rockwell painting."
The first view of Canterbury was the town common. Much smaller than the one in Boston, its diminutive size only added to its quaintness. On the far end of the common was a white church with a tall steeple—so New England in appearance. Next to the church was the Canterbury Inn, and across from the inn was a store called The Canterbury Tails.
"Isn't that a gas station up ahead, just past the inn?" Lianna asked.
"It looks like it," her husband replied. "Let's hope it's not one of those places with self-serve pumps and a convenience store."
Thankfully, it was a full-service station with a certified technician on duty six days a week. When Lowell pulled the Ford into the garage's parking lot, mechanic Hector Evers and the three customers at the gas pumps turned their heads in the pickup's direction. When the driver got out of the vehicle, Hector immediately recognized him.
"I wonder if you could take a look at my vehicle," the candidate said.
"I'd be glad to, but I can tell from the noise what the problem is."
"Oh?"
"You threw a rod."
The false smile froze on the well-known customer's face. It was obvious to the mechanic that the man knew nothing about cars and engines.
"I could fix it for you, but it will take some time. And it'll cost you a pretty penny."
"Money I've got; time I haven't. I've got to get up to New Hampshire. Is there a car dealership around here?"
"Not in Canterbury. The nearest one is about fifteen miles from here."
"Is it safe to drive this truck that far?"
"I wouldn't. I have a loaner car you can use to drive to the dealership ...."
"That's great!"
"... but I already gave it to another customer. It's due back tomorrow morning, though. If you want to wait for it."
"Maybe you should just call for an Uber," Lianna advised.
Her husband envisioned possible headlines that could result from his current predicament. One stood out among the rest: BILLIONAIRE CANDIDATE BUYS NEW TRUCK RATHER THAN REPAIR DAMAGED ONE.
They'll think I'm an elitist.
"How long would it take you to repair the engine on this truck?" he asked.
"If you're keen on keeping this vehicle, I would suggest replacing the damaged engine with a rebuilt one from Ford. If you want to go that route, it would take me two to three days to pull the old one out and install the new one."
"Two or three days, hmm. That's not too bad."
"But I have to see how long it would take to have the remanufactured one delivered. Sometimes it takes Ford a few weeks to ...."
"Don't worry about that. I know people at Ford. I'll have an engine here by the end of the day tomorrow."
* * *
It was a short walk from the service station to the Canterbury Inn, but it was not a pleasant one. Lianna was averse to spending one night in the small Massachusetts town, much less two or three.
"You honestly expect me to stay in this bucolic hell hole until that truck is repaired?" she cried, shivering from the cold.
"Keep your voice down! Someone might hear you," Lowell cautioned.
"Who? There's no one around here."
"People inside their homes will. You have no idea how your voice carries when you yell."
His wife decided the silent treatment was better, and he secretly agreed.
As the couple crossed the parking lot to the inn's front door, the husband said, "Let's just hope they have a vacancy."
"Are you kidding?" Lianna laughed, breaking her self-imposed silence. "How many people do you think visit this godforsaken town?"
When the couple crossed the lobby, Agnes Stowell, like Hector Evers, recognized the candidate and his wife. However, she could not fathom what they were doing in Canterbury.
"Good afternoon," Lowell said, with the vote-for-me smile on his face again. "My wife and I would like a room for a few days if you have one available."
"Certainly, Mr. Seabury."
While Agnes went through the check-in process with her husband, Lianna perused the menu for the inn's dining room. Nothing on it appealed to her.
"Are there any fine-dining restaurants in this town?" she inquired.
"I'm afraid not. But the food here at the inn is very good."
The former actress rolled her eyes. Her husband saw her expression and nudged her in the ribs with his elbow.
"Smile!" he whispered.
It was a command, not a suggestion. Not one to bite that hand that fed her, she forced the corners of her mouth to go up.
"We'll have to eat there, darling," she said, with far more acting ability than she had exhibited on Law & Order.
Lowell, who had brought along their rolling luggage from the service station, began unpacking his things once he unlocked the door. His wife, aghast at the "homey" décor of the room, was loath to do the same.
"This place is enough to give somebody nightmares!" she exclaimed, looking at the Queen Anne furniture and the homemade quilt on the four-poster. "I'll bet George Washington slept here. Quite possibly right in this very bed."
"Come on, it's not that bad. Who knows? Maybe someday there will be a sign in the lobby: PRESIDENT LOWELL SEABURY SLEPT HERE."
"Did you see the menu for their dining room?" his wife asked with mock horror. "It looks like they have the same chef as the Cracker Barrel. I bet most of their guests are prime targets for heart attacks."
"You better get used to that homestyle food. I don't know how many French restaurants you'll find in New Hampshire. And don't embarrass me by ordering just a side salad or a cup of soup. Americans like to eat; and until the election is over, we will live like the majority of the population does."
After forcing herself to eat a meat-and-potatoes meal that left her feeling bloated, Lianna sought some form of exercise. The inn, unlike most of the hotels she normally stayed in, had neither an exercise room nor a swimming pool.
"I don't suppose there's a gym nearby," she asked the woman behind the desk.
"I'm afraid not," Agnes replied. "But there are plenty of nice places to take a walk."
"Thank you," the guest said and tugged on her husband's arm.
"Where are taking me?" Lowell asked.
"We're going for a walk."
"Where?"
"Anywhere. I just need some exercise."
The couple donned their heavy winter coats, left the inn and headed toward the common. Lianna wanted to walk at a brisk pace, but her husband preferred a leisurely stroll.
"Maybe I should let you wait here for me, and I'll jog around the park."
"Stick to walking. Average Americans don't jog."
"Look, I've gone along with the cheap clothes, the pickup truck and all the rest, but I won't allow myself to get out of shape just so you can pander to the populace."
"All right. Let's not argue," he said, giving in on the issue.
The candidate sat, shivering, on a park bench while his wife ran around the circumference of the common. When she returned, having worked up a sweat despite the near-freezing temperature, he suggested they call it a night.
"Sure. I can use a shower."
As they neared the inn, they passed by The Canterbury Tails.
"It's a bookstore," Lianna said, surprised by the spelling of the name. "I want to go inside."
"What? Since when do you like to read?"
"Since I'm going to be stuck in this no man's land for the next several days."
The small bell above the door jingled as they entered. The young woman behind the counter picked her head up, and a frown briefly appeared on her face as she recognized the two customers.
"Good evening," Lowell said, immediately projecting an affable façade that was quickly becoming second nature to him.
"Hello," the young woman sporting short black hair with blue streaks replied. "Can I help you?"
"My wife wants to find something to read."
"Feel free to browse. If you need assistance, just ask. My name is Jerusha."
As Lianna made her way through the maze of rooms, all filled with new, used and rare books, her husband eyed the woman behind the counter. Despite her rather bizarre hair and attire, she was quite pretty. Not exactly his type, but ....
"I'll be in town a couple of days," he said. "Maybe you and I can get together for lunch and talk about books."
Before the shopkeeper could reply, a cat jumped up onto the counter and rubbed against her open laptop.
"Nice cat," Lowell said, although he did not care for animals; however, many voters loved their pets like family, so he made a point of petting the cat's head. "What kind is it?"
"A Russian Blue."
"It doesn't look blue," he laughed. "Shouldn't it be called a Russian Gray?"
The cat gave a plaintiff meow as though offended by his lame attempt at a joke and swatted at his hand with its paw.
"What's its name?"
"Her name is Duchess," Jerusha Bromwell said, stone-faced.
Lowell got the distinct impression that the cat-loving bookstore proprietor would like nothing better than to reach across the counter and claw him with her blue-enameled nails.
"As I said before, feel free to look around. I'm sure there's something here that will interest you."
"There's no need to look any further. I already found something that interests me," he replied, issuing an invitation with his eyes.
At that moment, the cat hissed, bared her claws and swiped at him again.
"Not very friendly, is she?"
"It depends on the person."
"I think I'll go see what my wife is up to," he announced, wanting to put distance between himself and the animal. "Let me know about that lunch date. I'm staying across the street at the inn."
The moment he turned his back on Jerusha, his smile faded. He quickly joined his wife who was browsing through a pile of paperbacks placed haphazardly on what looked like an old dining room table.
"This place is more like an indoor flea market than a bookstore," Lianna complained. "There's no organization whatsoever. Cookbooks and biographies are mixed in with novels and outdated almanacs."
"Really?" he responded, looking guardedly at several more cats lounging on stacks of books. "I'd say it's more like a pet store or animal shelter."
Lianna turned and saw the frown on her husband's face. She had seen that look before: whenever a woman failed to respond to his charms.
"The girl is not interested in getting to know you better, I take it," she laughed.
"What do you expect from a Democrat?"
"How do you know what party she belongs to?"
"Come on, no Republican would have black and blue hair!"
Lowell made his way past more cats and waited outside while his wife purchased her books. As he stood in front of the door, Duchess's green eyes peered at him through the display window.
* * *
When they returned to their room at the Canterbury Inn, Lianna raced her husband to the bathroom. While she was showering, he checked the messages on his phone and called his campaign manager.
"Next," she announced when she stepped out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, wearing just a bath towel. "This place may lack the usual amenities, but at least the plumbing works."
Half an hour later, Lowell emerged to find his wife in bed. She was already on the third chapter of a James Patterson novel.
"What's this?" Lowell asked when he saw a plastic shopping bag on the dresser.
"A little present for you."
He opened the bag and removed a hardcover book.
"The True Story of an American Dynasty," he read aloud.
"It's a book about the history of the Seaburys. I saw it in the bookstore and couldn't resist buying it."
His eyes went to the nineteenth-century photograph on the cover.
"I've seen this picture before," he declared, sitting on a wing chair beside the blazing fireplace. "My father kept it on the desk in his study."
Never having been much of a reader, Lowell opened the book to the photographs displayed in the center. He did not need to read the captions; he knew each member of his family on sight. The first picture was that of his great-grandfather, Custis Seabury, a poor immigrant who began the family business and built an empire from scratch. Next came his grandfather and father, both astute businessmen who greatly increased the family's wealth. His own photo then stared back at him.
I was a handsome devil when I was younger, he thought immodestly.
On the opposite page was his younger brother, admittedly much better looking but less ambitious. Ashton Seabury, not yet forty, was happy enough to fly around the world, enjoying all the luxuries his substantial trust fund could afford him. Lowell turned the page. Next came the Seabury women, beginning with his great-grandmother, Victorine. There were fewer men than women because the Seabury men often married more than once. His father had five wives and his grandfather had three. Only Lowell, whose eye had been on the White House since his days at college, was never divorced.
After admiring Lianna's photograph, taken just days after they were married, he turned another page. More women. But these were not wives, aunts, cousins, sisters or nieces. These were women who did not share a name or blood relation with the family.
I know her, he thought with astonishment, looking down at the stunning woman in a photo that dated back to 1914. She was rumored to be my great-grandfather's mistress—one of them, anyway.
There were ten pages in all, with multiple pictures on each page. All of the women in those photos were young and pretty. More than a century's worth of beauties, all of whom shared a bed with one of the Seabury men. Even several of Lowell's more famous conquests were there. Not all of them, mind you, because if they were to include all his short-lived affairs, one-night stands and quickies, those photographs would take up an entire volume themselves.
What the hell is in this book? he wondered and began to read.
Long after Lianna put down her Alex Cross mystery, turned out the bedside light and went to sleep, he remained in the wing chair, reading. The hour hand on the clock traveled from eleven to twelve to one as he made his way through chapters on his great-grandfather. By 3:00 a.m., he finished reading those about his grandfather. When the sun rose, he had just completed the last page devoted to his father; and despite his burning eyes and dull headache, he began reading his own life story.
Lianna woke at half past seven, surprised to see her husband with his nose in a book.
"You're up early," she said sleepily.
"I never went to bed," he replied, not taking his eyes off the page he was reading.
"No? I slept like a log. This bed may be hideously outdated, but it's comfortable."
"It's this book. I couldn't put it down."
"That good, huh?"
"It's ... scandalous! It's filled with the kind of crap one reads in the tabloids. The author makes my family sound like a bunch of crooked, lecherous old men."
Which they are, Lianna thought, trying to suppress a smile.
"Then why are you reading it? Just throw it away if it upsets you."
"It's like a bad traffic accident. You don't want to see it, but you can't look away."
"I don't suppose this place offers room service. I'm going to get dressed and go down and get a cup of coffee. Do you want to come?"
"No. But could you bring a cup back for me? Wait. Make it two. Better yet, see if they can give you an entire pot."
Lowell made it through the morning with the help of a large quantity of caffeine. He continued reading, stopping only for brief trips to the bathroom to shave, get dressed and relieve his bladder.
"Are you ever going to put that book down?" Lianna protested.
"I'm almost finished. I have less than fifty pages left."
"I'm going for a walk. When I get back, I'm going down to the dining room for a salad. Hopefully, you can tear yourself away long enough to join me."
Her husband made a noncommittal murmur that sounded like no known word in the English language. He was too engrossed in the description of an amorous encounter he had with a flight attendant during a layover in Chicago to pay attention to his wife.
Who was the writer's source for all this? he wondered. It couldn't be the girl—if he had ever known her name, he quickly forgot it—she would know about the two of us but not about all the others.
When Lianna returned from her walk, he was on the last page.
"Well? Are you going to eat lunch with me or do you want all those potential voters downstairs to think we're not getting along?"
"One second," he answered, standing up but continuing to read.
Finally, he closed the cover on the book and tossed it on the bed. After a light lunch and a long nap, Lowell picked up the book again. There was a blurb on the jacket about the author, Dorothy Aldworth. It said only that she was a former newspaper journalist who lived with her husband and two cats in Alexandria, Virginia.
That's close to Washington. She must have been hired by the Democrats, he surmised. They obviously hope to discredit me.
The question of why the book was written seemed rather obvious. What perplexed him was how Dorothy Aldworth could have known such intimate details of his and his family's lives?
And what should I do if I'm ever questioned about it? Should I deny what's written in it or just pivot and ignore the subject?
Bringing a libel suit against the author and publisher was out of the question. He did not want proof of these allegations brought to light in a court of law. For despite the author's obvious intent to slander him before the election, what was written about him and his forebears was undeniably true.
* * *
With nothing better to do in Canterbury, Lianna read her book all afternoon. Shortly before dinner, she finished the final chapter.
"Before we eat, I want to walk across the street to that bookstore and get something else to read," she announced. "Want to come with me?"
Lowell, who had been at his computer for the past hour, declined. His search to learn more about the author of The True Story of an American Dynasty was yielding no more information than what appeared on the book jacket. The more brick walls he hit in his research, the more determined he was to get in touch with the author.
I have to know who her sources were!
Lianna returned half an hour later with two more novels: one by Harlan Coben and the other by Gillian Flynn. It would be good to have an extra book on hand since she anticipated New Hampshire would be as boring as Canterbury.
"Are you still at it?" she asked, seeing her husband in front of his laptop.
"Yes," he replied with frustration. "I've yet to find a way of contacting this woman. She doesn't have a website or a Facebook page."
"Try getting in touch with her publisher."
"I already phoned them and was told they don't give out personal information about their authors."
"Have Rosecrans do it then. I'm sure the fear of a lawsuit will loosen their tongues."
Following his wife's advice, he contacted his lawyer. It was already past normal business hours, so he called Sherman at home.
"I'll handle it," the high-priced attorney assured his client. "If the publisher won't give me the information you want, I'll put my investigator on it."
"Good. Call me as soon as you learn anything," the candidate said and ended the call.
"Let's go eat. I'm hungry," Lianna whined.
"Ah! A table with a view," Lowell laughed when his wife sat down in front of the bay window.
"It's not really much of a view. All you can see is The Canterbury Tails."
Her husband glanced at the bookstore across the street. The lights were still on. Jerusha Bromwell had yet to close the shop and go upstairs to her apartment for the evening.
"I wonder how she manages to stay in business," he mused aloud. "I don't imagine she gets many customers in this one-horse town."
"It's probably the only bookstore around for miles."
"Amazon and Barnes & Noble have put thousands of books at consumer's fingertips."
"Some people are old-fashioned," his wife contended. "They like to feel the books in their hands as they're browsing. I've even known a few who claim to like that somewhat musty smell of a bookshop."
"I doubt very much they'd like the smell of The Canterbury Tails. The place smelled like cats!"
As though she had overheard his comments (or read his mind), Duchess suddenly appeared in the display window. If Lowell did not know any better, he could have sworn the animal was staring right at him.
* * *
With the Ford rebuilt engine under the pickup truck's hood, the Seaburys finally arrived in New Hampshire. Campaign posters were tacked on telephone poles, taped on store windows and nailed on stakes driven into residents' snow-covered lawns.
"I don't see why these people hold their primary in March," Lianna whined, as she stepped out of the warm cab and a gust of frigid air hit her in the face. "The general election isn't until November. Why not hold the primary during the summer?"
Lowell did not bother to answer his wife. He had seen a group of people standing outside a Sam's Club and immediately went into his campaigning mode. After briefly speaking about jobs and the economy, he handed out pens and buttons, both bearing the political slogan "it's time to clean house." He would have handed out hundred-dollar bills if doing so would have guaranteed him votes.
As he was about to enter the store to seek out more potential voters (and attractive women he could meet up with later), his cell phone rang; it was his lawyer.
"Yeah, Sherman," he answered. "Did you find out about Dorothy Aldworth?"
"There is no Dorothy Aldworth," Rosecrans informed him.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"She doesn't exist. The name is a pseudonym."
"Who wrote the book then?"
"A woman named Betty Cordrey. The bio on the book jacket is pure fiction. She's not married, and she doesn't live in Alexandria. Whether or not she has cats, I couldn't say."
"I don't give a damn whether the cats are real or not! I want to get in touch with this writer. Where can I find her?"
"In New Jersey. I'll text you her address and phone number."
"Thanks."
During the weeks leading up to the primary, Lowell smiled, shook hands and made promises he had no intention of keeping should he be elected. He also managed to seduce two housewives, both loyal Republicans, who promised to support him come November. When the votes were counted, he was way ahead of the other Republican candidates.
"Now, we head to South Carolina, right?" Lianna asked. "Thank God the weather is warmer there."
"On the way, I want to stop and see someone in New Jersey."
"Who?"
"The woman who wrote The True Story of an American Dynasty."
After an eight-hour drive, mostly along Interstates 93 and 95, the Seaburys arrived in New Jersey.
"Why don't you drop me off at the hotel while you go talk to the author?" Lianna suggested. "Or better yet, take me to that mall we passed a few minutes ago."
As he rang the doorbell, he hoped the writer was at home. He had purposely not phoned ahead of his visit since he did not want to give her time to think up any plausible lies. Thankfully, the door opened only a few moments later. Betty Cordrey's face lost all color when she saw him.
"You obviously know who I am," the billionaire reprobate declared. "We have to talk."
He did not wait to be invited inside. Instead, he pushed past the startled woman and entered her home. The first thing he noticed as he crossed into the living room was the gray-colored cat sleeping on the sofa. It was a Russian Blue, identical to the one at The Canterbury Tails.
"W-what did you want to s-see me about?" Betty nervously stammered.
"I read your book about my family. I want to know where you got your information."
"I didn't actually write it. I did little more than edit the grammar."
"Why is your pen name on the cover then?"
"Because the actual author wanted to remain anonymous."
Lowell felt his anger rise.
"Dorothy Aldworth. Betty Cordrey. Someone wrote that damn book! Who was it?"
Betty did not reply. She simply stared at him with wide, frightened eyes.
"Answer me, damn it!" he shouted, grabbing her by the arms and shaking her.
"Your wife," the writer whimpered. "At least I think she wrote it. Her name was on the manuscript."
Lianna! Of course! She never wanted me to run for office. In fact, she did her best to talk me out of it.
Without a further word to the cowering woman, he stormed out of the house and into the pickup truck. Not only did he narrowly avoid a collision with another vehicle on his frantic drive back to the mall, but he also nearly ran over a pedestrian in the parking lot. When the Ford came to a screeching stop in front of Nordstrom, he jumped out of the cab, leaving the driver's door open and the engine running. There was no false smile on the presidential candidate's face as he barged through crowds of shoppers, craning his neck to search for his wife.
"Lianna!" he shouted, as he entered Macy's.
"Can I help you, sir?" one of the teenage salesgirls asked.
"Get the hell out of my way!" he barked. "I'm looking for my wife."
For forty minutes, he went into and out of stores, calling her name. Finally, he found her outside an upscale woman's clothing boutique, looking at a Hermès scarf displayed in the window.
"You bitch!" he screamed.
"Lowell? What's wrong?" she asked, concerned about his agitated state.
"You wrote that book!"
"What are you talking about? I never wrote anything."
"You wrote it and then gave it to me in the inn that night. Did you even buy it at the bookstore, or did you have a copy of it hidden in your suitcase?"
"Calm down," she cautioned. "People are looking at us."
"I don't give a damn! You betrayed me!"
It had never occurred to Lowell in his fit of rage that not even Lianna knew many of the details written in the book. Oh, she knew he was not a monogamous creature and that he could be downright sleazy at times, but that never bothered her. Having married him for his money and not for love, she had made it clear from the beginning that he was free to sleep with whomever he wanted just as long as he paid her credit card bills and supported her in luxury.
"You wanted to sabotage my career!"
"How many times must I tell you? I didn't write that book. I found it on a shelf in The Canterbury Tails."
"You lie!" he bellowed and lunged forward.
The force of his attack sent the petite, one-hundred-five-pound woman through the clothing store's window. Shards of broken glass cut her face and arms, and one jagged fragment sliced open the jugular vein in her neck. The former actress died of exsanguination before the mall security guard arrived to see what all the commotion was about.
* * *
Jerusha Bromwell slept late the following morning. On Sundays, The Canterbury Tails did not open until noon. She walked to the kitchen in her bathrobe and fed her seven cats. Then she poured herself a cup of coffee, took it into the living room and turned on her television to watch the breaking news coverage on CNN. Someone with a cell phone had filmed a handcuffed Lowell Seabury being led away by police after killing his wife in a New Jersey shopping mall.
Moments later, Duchess, having eaten her fill of Fancy Feast tuna, strutted out of the kitchen and jumped up onto Jerusha's lap.
"There go Seabury's presidential aspirations!" the young woman with the short-cropped, blue-streaked black hair announced with a smile. "I suppose Americans dodged a bullet there. If it hadn't been for this tragedy, that lecherous pig might very well have been elected."
The Russian blue rubbed up against Jerusha's chin and purred as though saying "you're welcome" to her owner's silent "thank you."
Salem doesn't normally like politicians, but he made an exception when President Obama was in office.
