Ocean of Deceit

Ocean of Deceit

by

Patricia Welliver

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2017 Patricia Welliver

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this book. The book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. This ebook is a work of fiction. The town of Oater's Creek does not exist. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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"For fools rush in

Where angels fear to tread."

Pope - Essay on Criticism

Chapter One

I have committed the unforgivable sin of taking another man's life. I am a murderer. Even so, I am confident that I will never face a judge or jury of my peers.

The victim was a stranger, known only to me by name. It was not a gruesome or bloody murder, yet the crime was carried out as an act of bitter revenge, and for the love of a beautiful woman.

The specific location chosen for the murder more or less guaranteed that the body would never be found. No body. No suspect. A simple equation. One might dare to call it the perfect murder. Of course, that was how we had planned it to be. The perfect murder.

But I'm getting a little ahead of myself. To hear the whole incredible tale, I must take you back several weeks to a hot sunny day in early June. My name is David Townsend, and this is my story.

Chapter Two

As was my usual custom at about this same time every weekday morning, I left the jeep parked in the shade of the acacia tree, and slowly strolled along the narrow timbered sidewalk. Bothersome gusts of wind during the night had stirred up the bordering area of crushed gravel, leaving the sidewalk's uneven surface coated in a fine sprinkling of sandy particles.

Although it was not yet eight o'clock, the outside temperature was already playing footsy with the ninety degree mark. Considering the early hour, and the unseasonable heat for this time of year, it was not surprising that I was the only pedestrian in the tiny plaza. But I loved the heat, or the dry heat, as Arizona residents are inclined to describe their sweltering summer temperatures.

I was headed for the Brazilian Bean Bistro, a fancy name for the neat little cafe hidden away in one corner of the plaza. On the way, I passed Daisy Walton's one of a kind novelty store, and appropriately named Desert Treasures. Behind a myriad of glass showcases filled with eye-catching knickknacks, I glimpsed Daisy, glasses perched on the end of her nose, engrossed in the morning newspaper. Daisy didn't see me, but an ugly looking china jackrabbit stared back at me through the window. I had to wonder who would purchase such a hideous looking thing.

It never ceases to amaze me the crazy objects visitors seemed compelled to buy; objects that wouldn't normally get a second glance back home. I'm pretty sure that the vast majority of the items are acquired on a spur of the moment whim. Who among us can honestly say they have never once in their life purchased a completely useless vacation memento? On the other hand, this is indeed fortunate for Daisy, whose livelihood depends on the split second temptation of her merchandise.

As I continued on my way, I pondered the ultimate fate of all those woven baskets, beaded necklaces and grotesque carvings sold at Desert Treasures, and all other similar stores. There's no doubt that quite a few of the purchases would eventually end up on a dust laden shelf in some storage room or basement, and all but forgotten until the next spring cleaning ritual. Worse yet, they could become part of a Christmas package to some dear old aunt, who would never complain no matter how hideous or worthless the gift might be. Of course, if all else fails, there is always the ever popular Saturday morning yard sale, undeniably one of America's favorite ways of disposing of any unwanted item. The much loved yard sale can generate a veritable hodgepodge of treasures and relics, as well as a wide ranging assortment of other people's junk.

I stepped up quickly to the elevated boardwalk that followed the contour of the horseshoe shaped plaza. The weather-worn timbered walkway does a lot to enhance the Old West theme of this unique section of Oater's Creek. In preference to the somewhat dreary Seventh Street address, the area is more often referred to by the locals as Pioneer Plaza. The name makes a lot more sense to me, and I understand there are plans in the works to officially change it to the more popular term.

Although the historic authenticity of Pioneer Plaza cannot be denied, it always reminds me of a badly constructed backdrop for some B-rated western motion picture. Looking much like a prop from an MGM movie lot, an old water trough leans out of kilter against the raised walkway. Aside from it being a genuine piece of history, and a posted threat of a one hundred dollar fine, the wooden trough unfortunately is also used as a convenient garbage receptacle by thoughtless visitors and, if the truth be known, probably a few of the local residents too.

According to the town's somewhat ambiguous chronicles, it seems that at one time or other, everyone from Wyatt Earp to Billy the Kid have reportedly hitched their trusted steed to the railing next to the trough. Although it's a well known fact that both of these legendary characters once honored Arizona with their presence, there is no real evidence that either man actually set foot in Oater's Creek. As expected, this controversial topic often leads to a plethora of good humored banter among the old timers here in town, with each insisting most adamantly that their version is the correct version. No matter which story is told, it is by and large the overall consensus that the inclusion of someone like Wyatt Earp typically makes for a more interesting narrative. Most of the visitors to Oater's Creek, but especially the kids, seem to enjoy listening to tales, true or otherwise, of the bygone years of lawlessness, and a stimulating improvisation here and there is considered nothing more than harmless indulgence by the present day storyteller.

The Brazilian Bean Bistro is a modern day addition to Pioneer Plaza. With its phony Wild West facade, it somehow manages to blend in nicely with the surrounding background. In my humble opinion, although I'm by no means an expert, the little cafe serves up the best cup of coffee this side of the Rockies. It was established by one Milton Monroe, an entrepreneurial upstart, whose early years spent working on a coffee plantation in Brazil convinced him that every small town in the U.S. deserved its very own unique coffee shop. Upon entering the cozy interior, you will discover a treasure trove of coffee beans from around the world. Even the most discerning coffee connoisseur would have a hard time finding fault with the wide selection of palate pleasing creations.

From humble beginnings, the Brazilian Bean has grown into the town's most popular coffee venue, with a worthy mention in a couple of travel magazines. Most mornings you will find me seated in the window of the little cafe, and enjoying a cup of my favorite latte.

I eased back into a leisurely pace as I approached the cafe, so I could take a quick peep through the pebbled glass window. Would she be there again this morning? My heart did a double flip flop when I spotted her sitting in her usual seat.

I quickly entered the Brazilian Bean and was greeted by a wonderful aroma of freshly ground coffee. I headed straight for the counter, determined not to sneak a glance in her direction.

A pasty faced teenager with a startling punk hairdo shuffled towards me. I hadn't seen the lad before, and wondered what had become of the doe-eyed young filly who usually served up my morning coffee. Many a time her bubbly personality and cheerful smile had helped jump start my day. The embodiment of sullen resentfulness now standing before me would likely expire before cracking a smile.

What's your pleasure?

His brusque attitude definitely needed work on. No good morning. No cheerful greeting. This was not an encouraging start, and I sensed immediately that the two of us were going to butt heads before too long.

A Kahana Royale latte.

He grunted some sort of a response.

It vexed me to have to tell him what I wanted. After all, I had been coming here for the past eight years and, being a creature of habit, had never once deviated from my order of Kahana Royale with its distinct sweet flavor of macadamia nuts. Of course, unless he had the ability to read my mind, there was no way he could have known this, but I was pissed just the same.

My disdainful glance took in the youth's skintight frayed jeans, and the cutoff tee shirt that barely covered his bony rib cage. What was the owner, Mel Thomas, thinking when he hired this scruffy image of arrogance? I made a mental note to enlighten him of my displeasure. Not that it would do the slightest bit of good. Mel was not one to take advice in the spirit it was given.

In a fit of ill will I slapped down a hundred dollar bill, and was rewarded with an angry scowl. Probably in retaliation for having to make change for the hundred, the dumb jerk had intentionally filled the coffee cup to the brim, and by the time I reached the table in the window, a good amount of the frothy concoction had slopped over into the saucer. Too late, I realized there was no sugar bowl on the table. I glared back at the freak behind the counter, but he was too busy admiring his week's growth of beard in the chromium-plate of the coffee dispenser to notice my dilemma. Apparently, shaving was not yet part of his daily routine. Someone should tell him where he could buy a razor.

Please use some of my sugar.

Her voice had an immediate effect on me. My heart was pumping so wildly that I felt sure the movement could be seen beneath my shirt. The golden goddess, my secret name for this gorgeous creature, had actually spoken to me. I could hardly believe my good fortune.

On the way over to her table, my hand had mysteriously developed a slight tremor, and I prayed I wouldn't make a complete ass of myself by scattering sugar all over the table. Fortunately, the good luck gods were smiling down on me today, and the sugar made it safely from the bowl to the cup.

Thank you, I managed to say.

I was suddenly caught off guard by her penetrating blue eyes as they looked steadily into mine. For a second I found myself completely and utterly powerless under her beguiling spell.

Now that you're here, she whispered sweetly, why don't you join me?

Her request took me by surprise, and I tried not to look too stunned. I pulled out a chair and quickly sat down beside her before all of my remaining self assurance gave out. My left knee accidentally brushed against her leg, and when she smiled across at me, I felt the heat rise in my body.

Up close, she was even more beautiful. Flawless skin over a perfectly shaped face betrayed only the faintest hint of makeup. Her short curly hair, the color of corn, was arranged in a boyish carefree style. She was tall, about five seven or eight, with all the perfect statistics to complement a body tanned a golden bronze.

She extended her hand and introduced herself. I'm Angelina, but everyone calls me Angel.

Angel? Unless angels had taken to wearing skin tight leather skirts and low cut blouses, she was certainly not my idea of the typically portrayed angel. More like a teasing seductress, but I was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

I'm Michael. Michael Townsend. I held her soft hand in mine just for a second. Any longer might seem inappropriate. But everyone calls me Michael.

I immediately regretted the inane repartee, but she appeared not to have noticed. The truth is I dislike being called Mike, or Mickey, or any other adulterated form of my given name. It's probably a throwback to my childhood days, and a mother who insisted I answer only to Michael, and nothing else. Fortunately, she was never around to hear the nickname I was given by the other boys at school. Pride prevents me from sharing the nickname here. Everyone at school had a nickname, respectful or otherwise. Even the bullies had nicknames, but unless you wanted to go home sporting a black eye or bloodied nose, it was wise to keep your mouth shut.

I'm glad we've finally met, she smiled, exposing a row of dazzling white teeth. They seemed almost too perfect to be real.

I've been coming here every morning for about two weeks now, she went on to explain, so I think it's about time we introduced ourselves.

Has it been that long? I pretended to be surprised, yet knowing full well it was exactly twelve days since I had first laid eyes on this golden goddess.

She gave me another heart stopping smile. Yes, it's been that long.

Her casual gaze slowly traveled over my five foot ten slightly overweight body, and I had the uneasy suspicion that I was being analytically evaluated from head to toe. I was glad I had chosen to wear one of my better shirts and a decent pair of slacks, but beneath her unabashed scrutiny, I felt as naked as a newborn babe. Thank goodness she couldn't see my knees. Perhaps I should explain that I have been cursed with a pair of unattractive bony knees, so you'll rarely see me wearing shorts except around the house. It appeared I passed her inspection for she gave me another warm smile.

I took a quick sip of coffee, and found myself pleasantly surprised. In spite of my initial criticism of the dude behind the counter, I had to grudgingly admit he made a decent cup of Kahana Royale. I looked up to find him watching me as if waiting for my approval. Maybe tomorrow I would play the nice guy and give him the exact change for the coffee. After all, it was probably unwise to make an enemy of the barista who now appeared to be the new dispenser of my caffeine stimulant.

Do you work around here? She leaned over towards me, and I inhaled the intoxicating fragrance of her perfume. She was so close I wanted to reach up and touch her hair, to run my fingers through those soft, blond curls, and to feel that beautiful body pressed against mine.

Michael?

The sound of my name jerked me abruptly back to reality. I noticed that Angel was looking at me in a odd sort of way. Was it possible she could read my mind. I cringed at the thought.

I'm sorry. What did you say? I was embarrassed by my wandering thoughts, and in particular the sexual direction they had taken. This definitely was a first for me. I was acting like a kid with raging hormones.

I was just wondering if you worked around here.

An innocent question, yet I needed to take a deep breath before answering. Yes, yes I do. As a matter of fact, I informed her, my office is just around the corner on Fourth Street.

Fourth Street? A small frown appeared on her beautiful face, causing the tiniest dimple between her eyebrows. Isn't that where the old saloon is?

Ah, yes, I grinned, the infamous building on Fourth Street. One of our town's claim to fame.

Oh? She looked puzzled. And why's that?

Well, according to records, the building boasts quite a notorious past.

Really?

Uh-uh.

Angel leaned forward in her chair, and I caught another whiff of her perfume. Whatever she was wearing, it seemed to be having a weird effect on me.

So, she looked at me enquiringly, are you going to tell me about the old saloon?

It just so happened that I had recently finished reading an exposé of Old West bordellos, and other establishments that provided similar services. Much to my surprise, I discovered that the building in Oater's Creek, known back then as the Palace of Pleasure, had been given quite a respectable mention in the book. Additional research had produced further intriguing reading.

I've just finished reading a book on the history of the place, I informed her. If you like, I'll bring it in tomorrow for you to read.

Oh, I would much rather you tell me about it. Besides, I'm not really into books or reading.

I doubt if I can remember all of it, I began, but she waved aside my protest.

I'm sure you'll do just fine. She pulled her chair closer to the table, and waited for me to begin.

Well, okay then. Being a quiet sort of guy, I was not very happy with the role I had just been handed. As I recall, I began hesitantly, the original building was a bordello, and was known back in those days as the Palace of Pleasure.

Mmm. The Palace of Pleasure. She gave me an unabashed grin. Tell me more about this house of ill repute.

I knew she was teasing, but she appeared to be genuinely interested, and so I obliged by probing deep into my memory bank.

Well, let's see. According to the plaque outside the building, the bordello was finished around 1890. It was built for a woman who went by the name of Madame Paulette. No one seems to know her full name, or where she came from, but rumor had it that she was the mistress of a wealthy French aristocrat.

Ah, so maybe that's where she got the money to build the bordello? From her French lover.

That's very possible, I agreed, but wherever the money came from, she certainly seemed to have plenty of it. Apparently she spared no expense on the plush furnishings. Most of the furniture and fittings were imported from Europe. You can imagine the stir that would have caused in a little town like Oater's Creek.

I doubt you'd find any of it listed in the Sears catalog, Angel chuckled.

Definitely not, I