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    The Stalking Terror
    The Stalking Terror
    The Stalking Terror
    Ebook217 pages2 hours

    The Stalking Terror

    By Virginia Coffman

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    THE PURRING TERROR... Amanda Bishop's aunt had vanished. She had last been seen in the company of a sinister man who was probably a murderer. But the trail was cold-and Amanda had no idea where to begin her desperate search... Then the web of mystery became more intricate—and more soul-chilling. Aunt Judith had left a will—perhaps the strangest and most inexplicable will of all time. There were many people who might profit from Aunt Judith's death...many shadowy figures lurking in the background. AND THERE WAS THE CAT. The cat that seemed, superficially, to be a cute, cuddly pet. But the cat that might have been the agent of many deaths, if not the actual killer itself. The cat that seemed to be everywhere Amanda turned, waiting for her, spying on her, purring gently even as it plotted her own death.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCandlewood Books
    Release dateJul 30, 2012
    ISBN9781933630670
    The Stalking Terror

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      Book preview

      The Stalking Terror - Virginia Coffman

      The Stalking Terror

      Written by Virginia Coffman

      Candlewood Books

      ****

      Published by Candlewood Books at Smashwords

      ISBN 978-1-933630-67-0

      Copyright © 2012 by Candlewood Books, a division of Harding House Publishing Service, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the publisher.

      Chapter One

      IT WAS ODD, and a bit unnerving, not to see Aunt Judith on the docks below, waving a handkerchief up at Amanda and trying to keep out of the way of the busy French dock workers. Amanda Bishop, who had traveled delightfully across the Atlantic unchaperoned, loudly bewailing her fate at having to ‘take on’ her spinster Aunt Judith once she reached France, was actually disappointed at not seeing the tall, slender blonde woman.

      Amanda didn’t like to admit the unfashionable truth to the young friends she had made on shipboard, but at this moment of her unease, she confided to herself that some of her best times had been spent in Aunt Judith’s company. Aunt Judith wasn’t the liveliest companion in the world. She had a bad heart, for one thing. But she was agreeable, knew all the good places in the world, especially the romantic ‘touristy’ things like sidewalk cafes and the best surfing coasts—though she no longer surfed and the marvelous ‘real’ Flamenco places in Andalusia that she wrote about.

      Do you see your old maid aunt yet? asked one of her midnight buffet buddies, crowding the rail beside her.

      Amanda stood on tiptoe, trying to make out every face on the docks far below the boat deck of ‘the longest ship in the world.’ She shrugged airily.

      Oh, she’ll be down there. Aunt Judith never fails. She has oceans of money. She knows all about travel, and being late is a crime to her.

      Nevertheless, one by one, each of Amanda’s friends deserted her in order to be the first to the ‘sacred soil’ of France, and very nearly the first into the Paris boat-trains. She waited a few more minutes, remembering Aunt Judith’s careful instructions to Marna and Father, especially Father, who still had some sort of Neanderthal idea that Amanda, at nearly twenty, was too young to travel without her parents. Amanda knew Aunt Judith’s letter by heart but got it out of her tote bag now and re-read it, as if somehow the instructions had been magically changed:

      "Tell my dear ‘Manda not to leave the ship until she sees me on the dock below. I will stand as near as I can, and she is not to leave the dock until I join her. We will then drive down the Normany Coast to the enchanting seaport town of Dunois-sur-Mer which ‘Manda will love.

      "I have been doing some sketches and oils at Dunois. We will spend a couple of nights there at the quaint little hotel I’ve located ... a delight which ‘Manda is sure to call ‘spooky.’…and then we will leave for Paris.

      "You must not worry about my meeting ‘Manda. Although I may dash up to Paris several times before ‘Manda’s visit, for art supplies or the theatre, I will most certainly greet the dear girl as her ship docks.

      "No matter how many passengers there may be, I’ll be sure to see my niece’s black mane, and those enormous busy brown eyes of hers. I’m sure she will be the ship’s most popular passenger, as she is most popular with

      Your loving,

      Judith"

      Amanda smiled at the letter and its writer with whom she had enjoyed the most memorable times in her life. She replaced the much-creased pages and stood on tiptoe again, peering over onto the docks far below. The crowd was thinning out, a sight that renewed all her first uneasiness. She thought:

      ....This is simply not like Aunt Judith….

      Things had cleared out so much now that she could see a lean, thin black cat dash madly among the dock workers, sprinting to find a bit of fruit thrown ashore by someone from the giant liner. The cat, too, reminded her of Aunt Judith, who adored cats, and she saved up this bit of news to tell Aunt Judith, that the first cat she had seen on French soil was getting his vitamins, a fact which was sure to amuse Aunt Judith.

      Meanwhile, Amanda found herself left entirely alone on the boat deck. She had a vague notion that if she didn’t move pretty soon, she would find herself sailing back across the Atlantic to New York. With an odd little sensation in her stomach like wings fluttering, she hurried along the deck and ducked into the first passage she came to. After almost ten minutes of nervous rushing along passages, each of which looked exactly like the one before, she reached her stateroom and looked at the polished top of the dresser. It was empty, as she had left it. So Aunt Judith hadn’t come aboard, nor left a message.

      A noise at the stateroom door made her jump. Amanda glanced around nervously. Her first hope of seeing Aunt Judith collapsed at the sight of the little man in the steward’s uniform who was jingling two keys, and looked very much surprised to see her.

      M’amselle is not departing? The first boat-trains have already left for Paris.

      Yes. I know. I’m sorry. Anyway, I am being met. I’m not going on to Paris yet. She looked at the cabin which had seemed so delightfully her own for five days and now looked neat and impersonal, an antiseptic room in which she was an invader. She got out her landing card, hung her tote bag on one wrist and took up in her left hand the handle of the adored going away present from Mama and Father, a zippered makeup and overnight case. It was filled with her cosmetics, giant hair rollers, black wig, false eyelashes never worn, and her best pajama, robe and slipper set.

      She walked determinedly down the passage, pretending she knew exactly where she was going and what she was going to do. Behind her, there was the sharp finality of a lock turning. Amanda stopped for a second or two, feeling a little sick.

      "What am I going to do?" she thought, and then was ashamed of such cowardice. What she was going to do was obvious. First on the agenda—find her way to the gangplank. The eventual success of that maneuver gave her considerable confidence which lasted all the way down the gangplank. The uniformed Frenchman who took her landing card was so surprisingly nice, after all the nasty things she had heard, that Amanda fell in love with France on the spot. Aunt Judith had been right. She always was. Dear Aunty! Where was she, anyway?

      Stepping off the gangplank, Amanda stopped, then walked rapidly the full length of the dock. She had some notion of impressing the dock workers and French Line employees with her absolute confidence in meeting with Aunt Judith. But the rapid, almost skipping stride only brought her to the end of the dock sooner than she had expected. She hesitated before pivoting around on the small heels of her pumps, and suddenly saw, over the edge of the dock, the deep murky green waters.

      Something brushed against her leg so softly, with such a shadowy effect, that she thought it was only something her hypersensitive mood had conjured up. Then the low, haunting meow, and she understood. Thinking of Aunt Judith and doing what Aunty would have done, she leaned over and petted the lean black cat whose eyes looked up at her, enormous, questioning, golden.

      Hello, Kitty ... I’ll bet Aunt Judith would like you, even if you are awfully big and homely and hungry too. Have you seen her? Where is she? What’s happened?

      You spoke, M’amselle?

      She saw the interest, or only the curiosity, in the voice and manner of the Frenchman in the blue smock, who was moving the last luggage box from the edge of the dock.

      I wonder—Have you seen a thin, blonde lady who—

      But the man didn’t understand her. He shrugged, squared his shoulders to carry the box, and went off. The black cat, alarmed by Amanda’s quick turn around to watch the departing longshoreman, streaked off into the shadows of the passenger shed, and Amanda started back along the wharf, her steps firm again because this gave her something to do, and it was the way she had always built up courage in bad moments.

      She walked into the terminal, saw, in the distance, the Paris boat-train, and then, standing beside the tracks in a heap entirely alone, the only baggage remaining, her own two blue suitcases with their gay stripe of red adhesive which she had put on them. A stout porter came shuffling across the great terminal toward her.

      Depechez-vous, Mademoiselle. And then, in English, as he took up her suitcases, The train…it leaves.

      She shook her head.

      I am not leaving yet. Is there a place to wait? Someone is coming for me.

      Seeing her set down the makeup case and reach into her tote bag for her coin purse, the porter nodded, and motioned her to follow him. He brought her to what appeared to be a waiting room, reasonably comfortable, and momentarily deserted. As she gave the man what she suspected from his expression was too big a tip, she said, speaking very plainly,

      Could you leave a message with the French Line office?

      "Le Transat? Oui, Mademoiselle. And the message?"

      My name is Amanda Bishop. The message is for Miss Judith Bishop. I want her to know I am here waiting for her.

      When the porter had gone, Amanda got out her diary and started to write in it. She jotted down every step of the morning’s activities in this white manuscript book, a bon voyage present from her best friend in college, in order to refresh her memory for her letters home, after she and Aunt Judith arrived in Dunois-sur-Mer. It was a trick she had learned from her aunt whose letters were usually long and full of fascinating details. She was still describing the oddness in this total lack of word from Aunt Judith when a very tall, rugged young man in a tweedy, British-looking overcoat came striding into the waiting room and looked around. It wasn’t too much of a problem to see Amanda. She was still the only passenger waiting there. Staring at him as he glanced around, she tried to make up a story about him, a background that would take in his ruffled up, windblown ruddy hair, his scrubbed complexion, and his large mouth which was more ‘generous’ than ugly, and really made him look like a man in whom a girl could have some confidence. She had just decided that he might be some kind of sportsman, when he came striding directly across the room to her. He had very blue eyes and a kind of amusing scowl that suggested he was used to looking into the sun too much.

      I say, you wouldn’t be Miss Amanda Bishop, would you?

      Surprised, she blurted out anxiously, Yes, I would. I mean, I am.

      Good. Would you mind awfully if we had a little chat together? I mean, may I join you while I explain?

      She had to laugh. Of course, you can. Then, watching his every expression and beginning to suspect there was more to him than his big, ingenuous, rather ‘doggy’ approach, she added with a renewal of her earlier uneasiness, Is it about Aunt Judith? Is she all right?

      He reached behind him, slung a chair up over his head and dropped it before her with such ease she was still cringing in the expectation that it would drop on her head by the time he sat down on it. She saw now that his friendliness and his delightful smile did not quite obliterate a certain tense, watchfulness in his eyes.

      I’m sure your aunt must be perfectly safe. But—

      In spite of all Amanda’s efforts to be calm, well-travelled, and sophisticated in this first real emergency she had faced alone, she jumped up at his words, spilling her tote bag and its contents all over the floor.

      Safe! You mean something has happened? Where is she? Can you take me to her?

      The nice, friendly young man had doubled from his great height and begun to pick up her things, but he apologized hastily for having upset her.

      No, really, I’ve no idea. That is, so far as we know, your aunt is perfectly safe…in the sense you mean. He offered her a handful of jumbled contents of her bag and she dropped them in, any old way, still staring at him.

      What other way could she be unsafe if she wasn’t in some accident? Or—or—did someone...hurt her?

      Oh, I hardly think so. You see, we suspect it is a—er—romantic escapade, that she’s gone off for a little fling with a gentleman whom we know. Or know of.

      Aunt Judith! But that’s ridiculous! She wouldn’t ever dream of such a thing. Why—why she’s nearly thirty-six years old. She gave up that sort of thing long ago.

      The young man agreed to this with such gravity she felt sure he was secretly smiling at her.

      Naturally. Naturally. Although I confess…at twenty-nine I still find myself occasionally attracted by the sight of a member of the opposite sex. Not— he added with haste, —that I feel it quite proper…at my advanced age.

      She looked at him with a ‘we are not amused’ expression and brought him sharply to the matter at hand.

      You don’t think your friend could have kidnapped my aunt, do you? She has quite a bit of money.

      Believe me, he’s not my friend. A scrounging young beggar, with some sort of feline charm for women of a certain type.

      A gigolo!

      He laughed. Oh, all of that. However, if your aunt is anything as pretty as you are, it’s altogether possible his intentions may turn honorable.

      She’s much prettier. She’s blonde, you know, and rather delicate. Now, take me—No gigolo would ever get to first base with me. I’m strong as a horse!

      He rubbed his hand rather quickly over his mouth and then said in a suitable sober voice, I wouldn’t quite say you were strong as a horse. A small colt, perhaps. At any rate, I wonder if you would help us out. You see, we want to find this Deil Ferrar. That’s your aunt’s gigolo, and you want to find your aunt. So we thought to—more or less—retrace their steps. Beginning at Dunois-sur-M er.

      She was pulling herself together, rising and trying to pick up her makeup case before she thought to ask, "Who is we? Who are you, anyway?"

      Father would have a fit, she thought, if she went off with some strange man when she had been given strict orders not to leave the docks without Aunt Judith.

      The young man reached into a capacious inside pocket of his overcoat and brought out an authentic—looking card and a little black notebook with gold print on the cover. Both card and notebook announced the name of an ‘Assurance’ company with home offices in London and then, in modest, small letters, the name ‘James Kennet, agent.’

      Slightly disappointed, for he really did look more important, she said, "then you’re insurance agent?

      Jem Kennet; that’s me, he explained with a reassuring grin. My business is—you’d call it insurance.

      She gave him back the book but found the card had, somehow, more suggestiveness in that word ‘agent’ than she had first believed.

      It says here…’agent.’ I knew you didn’t really look like an insurance broker. Are you a detective?

      In a manner of speaking. You see, this Deil Ferrar is heavily ensured by certain relations in Belfast and they claim he has disappeared. On very shabby evidence, I may add. We’ve reason to suspect he’s a dodger and may collect on various insurances by tricks like this disappearance.

      I still don’t see what that has to do with Aunt Judith.

      He shrugged, waving his hands eloquently in front of her.

      But your aunt disappeared, so far as I can discover, at about the time this Ferrar dropped out of sight. I believe we will find them together. As she looked uneasily at his card before giving it back to him, he added in that open way she found hard to deny, Will you join forces with me to find them?

      She felt lost, and deep inside, very uncertain.

      I guess so. But I know you’re wrong about Aunt Judith. She wouldn’t waste her time on a silly old gigolo. Something must have happened to her. Otherwise, she would never have failed to keep her promise and be here when my ship docked. Where…where shall we start to look for her—for them?

      Jem Kennet picked up her makeup case and reached for her arm. He was so tall and so sure, she felt herself going along with him in spite of her reluctance.

      Where are we going?

      The investigator said pleasantly, "That depends on you,

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