Eleanor walked down the short hall in the fifth floor condo that she shared with her husband Jackson. As she did every morning, she paused in the hall way to look at the pictures. The one that caught her eye that morning was the picture from their wedding.
The black and white image had been taken of the two of them on a cliff in Hawaii. Eleanor vividly remembered the lengthy conversations between their two families. Jackson had grown up in Texas, where most of his family still resided. Eleanor’s family was scattered around the country, but she had spent her formative years in a small town in Georgia. When it came time for Jackson and Eleanor to make a decision as to where to have their nuptials, Jackson had the perfect solution. Where was the one place the two of them had always wanted to go? Hawaii. And with that simple and fair statement, the decision was made.
The memories brought a smile to Eleanor’s face. The two of them looked so happy and so in love while locked in each other’s embrace. They were a young couple with the entire world ahead of them, and endless possibilities in their future. Life was just beginning for them, and already it was perfect.
The picture had been taken only two short years before, but already so much had changed. Jackson had a great job with the local police department in Arkansas. He loved his job, and he was good at it. His even and fair disposition and his ability to remain calm made him the perfect police officer. And his job kept them financially comfortable enough that Eleanor could pick and choose her free-lance writing jobs. And it gave her enough time to work on her real passion—writing a novel.
All of that had changed six weeks ago. Jackson and his partner had responded to a convenience store robbery. Jackson had entered the store alone while his partner called for back up. At th time he had not been aware that the young man attempting to rob the store had been armed. He had shot Jackson in the arm, the bullet entering into the muscles of his upper arm, and exiting through the back.
Thankfully Jackson had not been seriously injured. His arm would be in a sling for a few months, then he would have some rehabilitation before he was cleared to return to work. Without his steady paycheck, Eleanor needed to pick up the slack and keep the bill paid. Eleanor was taking every single writing job she could get just to make ends meet. Including every boring piece that came her way. Eleanor was writing pieces that she couldn’t care less about. But they needed the money.
Eleanor turned slightly, and noticed her reflection in the hall mirror. The previous night she had tossed her hair sloppily into a ponytail. But after a restless night’s sleep, her hair was standing up in several different directions. Her hair was flat on one side, and her pony-tail was sagging awkwardly. She looked about the same as she felt.
Eleanor made a half-hearted attempt to smooth her hair down, but gave up in the end. She turned away from the mirror, and continued down the hall.
She followed the smell of food and freshly brewed coffee to the kitchen. Jackson was sitting at the small table, with breakfast in front of him and a newspaper to one side.
“Good morning, sunshine.” Jackson grinned. “How did you sleep?”
“Awful. Is there coffee?” Eleanor asked, already knowing the answer. She crossed the small kitchen in a few short strides and reached down a mug. She filled it with steaming hot coffee from the pot and inhaled the familiar scent like a drug.
“What time did you finally come to bed?” Jackson asked.
Eleanor took a sip from her coffee, feeling the hot liquid scald it’s way down. It warmed her chest immediately and somehow just the smell of it made her feel more awake. “Sometime after two.” She sighed. “I was trying to finish that piece for the Metro. You know the court case on the drunk driver who accidentally killed his cousin?”
Jackson nodded, turning toward her and resting his wounded arm on the table. His arm was in a sling, with his injured arm resting against his mid-section. With his free hand, he scratched absently at the beard he had decided to grow recently. He claimed it was something to do, and it bothered Eleanor less than she thought it would. “The drunk driver with three times the legal limit who thought if he drank a red-bull it would sober him up?”
Eleanor nodded. “I hate writing those events. They’re garbage pieces. They’re not the hard-hitting journalism that I thought I was getting myself into when I earned my degree.” Eleanor plopped down across from Jackson at the kitchen table.
Jackson reached across the table with his good hand. He took Eleanor’s hand in his and gave it a re-assuring squeeze. “I know, Ellie. One day you’ll get there, I know it. You’re a good writer. This is just experience for you… and I know you’re picking up my slack right now, but it’s just until my arm heals and I can get back to the beat.” He smiled crookedly at her.
Eleanor sighed, “Jacks, this isn’t your fault. You had no idea that the kid robbing that convenience store had a weapon when you went in. You did the right thing by not discharging your weapon.”
Jackson’s smile turned weary. “Lets not talk about this Ellie. How about some pancakes. I made them a little while ago. They should still be warm.” He nudged the plate toward her across the table.
Eleanor smiled. “Is that why there is pancake batter on the floor?”
Jackson smiled crookedly again. “You saw that, huh? I’m still getting used to using kitchen utensils with my left hand. That flipper is a little tricky.” He admitted.
Eleanor couldn’t help but laugh softly. She helped herself to two pancakes and placed them on the plate in front of her. Jackson held out the bottle of syrup.
“Did you at least get your article finished?” Jackson asked, leaning back in his chair and lifting his coffee mug to his lips. He took a long sip and lowered the mug.
“Finished, proof-read and emailed to the Metro editor.” Eleanor sighed. “I guess I should go and check my email to see if the editor sent me back any notes. I have no idea how he got that job, but he is dangerously unqualified for it. He changes his mind every five minutes.”
Jackson nodded. “Well, hopefully it’s only temporary.” He stood and picked up his plate.
“Leave the dishes, Jacks. I’ll wash them. You made breakfast, the least I can do is the dishes.” Eleanor offered, taking another sip from her coffee. “Besides, you can’t really do dishes with one hand.”
Jackson turned and laughed. “Thanks. I knew there was a silver lining to getting shot.”
Eleanor shook her head disapprovingly but couldn’t help a smile.
Jackson poured himself another cup of coffee and leaned against the counter.
Eleanor reached for the newspaper, and while attempting to drag it closer to herself, she managed to drop a stack of mail on the floor. She cursed and bent to pick up the various envelopes and flyers.
“Oh, yeah. I forgot that the mail came.” Jackson mused.
Eleanor sighed. “It’s probably all bills.”
“Not all bills. There is something there with just your name on it.” Jackson mused, sipping his coffee.
“Really?” Eleanor asked, in disbelief. “I hope it’s a big fat check. Maybe we won some European lottery or a long lost wealthy relative died.”
Jackson shrugged. “It is strange. I mean, most of our bills are direct deposit or paperless. I’m not sure what it is. Could it be a letter from a publisher? Maybe an acceptance letter for your novel?”
Eleanor located the yellow manila envelope, turning it over in her hands. On the front, her name and address were neatly typed. She examined the back more carefully. There was a pretty, old-fashioned wax seal over the flap of the envelope. There was no return address on the envelope.
“No, I haven’t sent my novel to any publishers in at least eight months.” Eleanor reasoned. “Besides, publishers usually put their return address on the envelopes.”
Eleanor turned the envelope over in her hands. “It feels really light. Too light to be something from a publisher, I think.” She mused. “Maybe it’s hate mail? Maybe someone didn’t like my latest article? Those don’t usually come to the house though, they usually come through the newspaper, letters to the editor… that kind thing. If it is an angry letter from a reader, it makes me very uncomfortable to think that it came to the house.”
Jackson’s smile faded immediately. “Don’t open it, Ellie. I’ve still got connections at the department. They can check it to make sure that there’s nothing dangerous inside. They can trace it to find out who sent it and dust for fingerprints. They can send a uniformed officer to his house and warn him.”
“That’s a little extreme, don’t you think?” Eleanor asked. “The chances of it being anything dangerous are extremely slim. I think I should open it before we waste those police officer’s time and resources.”
Jackson studied her expression for a moment. “If that’s what you want to do…”
Eleanor smiled. “It’ll be fine, Jackson. A letter can’t hurt me.”
Jackson nodded.
She carefully slipped her fingers beneath the flap of the envelope. The seal broke easily, snapping with an audible sound. She carefully pried open the envelope and dumped the contents into her hand. Inside was a few sheets of paper, folded in thirds.
“What is it?” Jackson asked.
“Well, it’s certainly not a stick of dynamite or a switchblade.” Eleanor said teasingly.
“Funny.” Jackson mused. “What does it say?”
Eleanor set aside the envelope and turned the letter over in her hands. The sheets of paper were again stamped with the wax seal; the same wax seal that had been on the envelope. There was still no indication of who had sent the letter, nor was there a return address.
She slipped her fingers under the flap of paper and broke the second seal. She carefully unfolded the sheets of paper and smoothed them on the kitchen table.
“From the desk of L.M. Quinn.” Eleanor read from the top of the page. The stationary was clean and precise.
“L.M.. Quinn?” Jackson asked. “Do you know him?”
“Her.” Eleanor corrected without thinking. “Everyone does. L.M. Quinn is a best selling author; the best seller of all time. Every single book she’s ever written has sat on the top of every best seller’s list for weeks. She has written books in almost every genre and still lands on best seller lists. I mean, her books have won The Edgar Award, The Bram Stoker Award, The National Book Award, the Agatha Christie mystery award and even the Pulitzer Prize Award for Fiction. I’ve read everything she’s ever written.”
“Right. That’s why it sounds familiar.” Jackson mused. “I think I’ve read one of her mystery novels. The one with the lady private investigator who used to be a police officer?”
“That’s her. This… This has got to be a joke.”
Jackson crossed the kitchen and stood behind Eleanor, reading over her shoulder. “What else does it say?”
“Dear Mrs. Walsh. This letter is from best-selling, award winning author L.M. Quinn. As a journalist, you should be aware that Miss Quinn does not give interviews. Miss. Quinn has never spoken to the member of the press, has never appeared publicly and has never answered questions or comments on her work. That being said, Miss Quinn is also a fan of your work. Miss Quinn particularly enjoyed your series of articles on local authors.” Eleanor paused.
“This has to be a joke. I mean, this is some kind of a sick prank.” Eleanor protested.
“What else does it say?” Jackson prompted.
Eleanor shook her head, but continued reading where she left off. “Miss Quinn has decided that the time is right for her to grant her first and only press interview. Miss Quinn has specifically requested that you be the one to interview her for the article. You will be given the opportunity to decide the direction for the article, you will be given free reign to decide what questions to ask, and Miss Quinn will do her best to answer all of your questions. The article will be solely your property; you will be able to decide which paper, journal or magazine you sell the article to, at entirely your discretion. A photographer can be provided to take photographs, or if you have a photographer that you prefer to work with, please forward the contact information to the address at the end of this letter.”
Eleanor looked up at Jackson, who prompted her to keep reading.
“Unfortunately, the only stipulation is that Miss Quinn is unable to travel. Should you decide to accept this arrangement, plane tickets will be provided for you and your husband. Transportation will be provided to the location where Miss Quinn lives. Not only will your travel expenses be taken care of, you will be compensated well for your time. All accommodations will be taken care of and provided for you. Everything will be arranged at your convenience. Please respond to the email or mailing address listed to blow to contact Miss Quinn’s head of staff who will handle all of the arrangements.”
Eleanor dropped the paper to the table in a mixture of shock and disbelief.
“Holy shit.” Jackson breathed. “Do you think it’s real?”
Eleanor stared at the paper for a moment in silence. “It can’t be… can it? I mean, the address listed is in Oregon… no one knows where L.M. Quinn lives, I mean, there were rumors a while back that she had left the country and was in Mexico or Canada… but they were just rumors. The signature at the bottom looks like the one’s I’ve seen on e-bay. But then again, her signature is so rare that any one of them could be faked. No one really knows what her signature looks like…no one has ever seen her to watch her sign her name to anything….”
“But seriously, though.” Jackson said, “If it is real, if this isn’t a hoax, the amount of money that you could make from just writing one article… you wouldn’t have to take on all of these smaller freelance jobs for the local papers. You could sell the article for the highest bidder, and there would be a lot of interest for a high profile celebrity like her. Especially if it is her first and only interview with the media…”
“But why me? Why would she have picked me? There are a lot more high-profile writers than me that she could have chosen. And the part where she said she had been following my work? How is that even possible? Does she read papers from all over the country if she lives in Oregon? And why Oregon? I read a rumor that she was going to make nine million dollars just for writing her next novel, before sales. That’s just her advance from the publisher… why wouldn’t she move someplace warm? Why not buy her own country somewhere?”
Jackson shrugged. “Maybe she has family nearby or a special connection with the area?” Jackson shrugged with his good shoulder. “It’s worth checking out though, right? I mean, what ham will it do to contact them back?”
Eleanor drew in a deep breath. “I’ll think about it. But I’m sure its a hoax. It’s too good to be true. It’s too… convenient.” Eleanor shuddered.
“Alright. It’s your decision. But I’ll support you, whatever you decide, you know that.” Jackson laid his hand gently and reassuringly on Eleanor’s shoulder.
Eleanor nodded. “Thank you.”