Secret window into his soul

“Mister Rainey, thought I asked you not to come into town any more.” The Sheriff said casually, leaning against the checkout counter next to him.
“Gotta get my mail.” Mort answered, smiling innocently. The Sheriff nodded.
“Just don’t stay ‘round too long. You know those suspicions I’ve got. I don’t want to have to put you away for something minor before I can prove the big one.”
“Right. And how’s that going for you, by the way? Have Amy and old what’s his name showed up yet? I’m telling you, they probably changed their names and eloped since I took so long in signing them stupid papers.”
“Heard it before, Mort. Not interested in those lies.”
“Sure.” Mort said, setting down a pack of corn forks, some butter, a few cans of chili, and corn bread mix. He smiled at the cashier, who refused to meet his eyes.
He rolled them angrily.
“For the love of God, man! Would you stop spreading rumors that I kill everyone who pisses me off? If that was true you’d have been gone a while ago.” The cashier was staring down at the counter top, trying to calm her shaking hands. Mort rolled his eyes again and sighed, reaching over her for the receipt.
“Thank you for shopping at Johnson’s supply, have a nice day.” He said mockingly, collecting his items and his change and walking out of the store. He tossed the groceries on his front passenger seat and pealed out of there like a bat out of hell.
“Quite a temper he’s got. I’m surprised he hasn’t killed anyone else.”
The girl at the far end of the counter chuckled to herself and sipped her root beer.
The Sheriff wheeled around to face her.
“And what do you suppose is so funny about this?” He asked. She shrugged.
“You’re senile, old man.” She said, smirking and pushing her sunglasses further up her nose.
“What’s that?” He asked, turning red in anger.
“You’re senile. If you think he killed someone, why not get a search warrant for his house and property?”
“Because he’s got money. What makes you think he’d bury the bodies in his own ground?”
“Well, begging your pardon sir, I’m new here. You probably do things differently here than they would in New York City.”
He looked at her again. Her black hair had been spiral curled like Shirley temple’s, but she’d brushed the curls out, leaving the hair to wave around her face like some sort of fashion idol. Her lips were turned a bright red by lipstick, and she had a lot of black eyeliner and mascara on under those dark tinted glasses. She wore her lips twisted into a smirk. Overall, she couldn’t be over nineteen.
“What’s your name, little lady?”
“I’m Cassandra Tilbit.” She said, offering her hand. He shook it. She had a good firm grip, obviously she was used to shrugging off intimidation. He shivered. It felt unnatural for a girl to be so sure of herself. It wasn’t how he was raised at all.
“Pleasure meeting you, Sheriff, but I’m headed out now. Have to return a book to the library.” She rose gracefully, and for the first time the sheriff realized how tall she was. Had to be a good 5’ 6”. She had long legs, made to look longer by the short black and red plaid skirt she had on and the high heeled sandals. Her black tank top was nondescript. She gathered her things into a faded red backpack and waved cheerily to him before leaving. He scowled. It was just what they needed. Another troublemaker in town.

She crossed the street and reached for the door of the little five room house turned library, when something in the window made her pause. It was a faded piece of printer paper, with the words, ‘House maid needed, will pay well. $12 per hour to start. Contact Mort Rainey at…’ The phone number had been scratched out with a sharpie. Obviously it wasn’t just the sheriff who didn’t like the author. She shrugged and went inside to return the book.

“Did you like it, Cass?” Her mother asked, accepting the book and checking it off a list next to the door.
“It was pretty good. I saw its author today.” She answered, flopping down in the receptionist’s chair.
“Oh?” Her mom replied, searching a shelf near the entrance hall.
“Yeah. The sheriff kept accusing him of killing some people, but Mr. Rainey just told him to stop being stupid.”
“What did you think?” the older woman stopped her search for a moment, her fingertips resting against the books she’d checked last.
“I think the sheriff’s batty.” Cassandra said bluntly. Her mother laughed.
“He was sheriff before I was born.” She agreed, “and even back then he was nuts.”
“Why’d you move?” Cassandra asked, hoping to finally win the ‘Let’s leave the hick town’ argument.
“Well, I got pregnant, and without being married, well, small towns do talk.”
“Right.” Cassandra yawned and stood, then opened the front door.
“Mind if I try and get a job mom?” she asked, peeling the aged tape off the window.
“Not at all. It’s good you’re starting to set down roots here.”
“Sure mom.” She said, holding the paper up to the faint light filtering through the clouds. The number was readable from this angle. She wrote it down and went upstairs to the librarian’s living quarters, a three bedroom apartment, basically. She lay down on her bed and pulled the grey old fashioned telephone towards her.
“Hi. Mr. Rainey? My name’s Cassandra Tilbit. I was calling to see if you were still looking for a house maid?”

o0o

He ran his fingers nervously through his hair, waiting for Cassandra Tilbit to come up the hill. It had been almost half an hour since she’d called. Finally he saw the bike come up front, and he felt immediately guilty for being so impatient. She was dripping, as it had been raining on and off all day. She propped the bicycle gently against the tree out front, wrung out her hair, straightened her skirt, and looked up towards the house. He saw her sweep her eyes across the upper windows before she pushed her hair behind her ears and came to the front door. She knocked three times, then dropped her hand, waiting. He let her wait for a few seconds, so she wouldn’t know he’d been watching, then opened the door when she was about to knock again. She smiled and they chorused their hellos.
“Um, would you like to come in?” He asked, holding the stepping out of the way and holding open the door for her. He grimaced, shutting it behind her and hearing his own voice in his head, thick with a Tennessee corn farmer’s accent.
‘Course she wants to come in you idiot, she’s here to check out the house. She’s gonna find out your secrets. Just you watch. Don’t let that guard of yours fall for some pair of blue eyes.’
“I don’t know her eye color.” He muttered to himself under his breath, and was rewarded by his normal voice, accent-less in his mind.
‘offer her a drink. And maybe a towel.’
“You want a towel? You’re kind of soaked.” She turned from where she’d been staring at all the corn.
“Sure. Thanks.” She said, smiling. He returned her smile. “You know,” she said as he handed her the towel, “you’re not supposed to eat corn on the cob when you have braces.” The corners of her eyes wrinkled when she smiled, he noticed.
‘Scuse me. Green eyes.’ Mort ignored the voice of John Shooter and thanked goodness there were only three of them in there.
‘What d’you mean, in there?’ Shooter asked, gently touching Cassandra’s semi-wavy damp hair with gently fingers. ‘She sure is purdy, ain’t she Mr. Rainey?’
‘Don’t mess this up. She hasn’t done anything yet. And this place is a bloody mess.’ Mort the second said. Mort winced internally at his words of choice.
“So, what exactly does this job include?” Cassandra asked, setting the towel gently down on the table and looking up at Mort.
“Well, basically just, you know, vacuuming, dusting, that sort of thing. And don’t touch my desk.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. I can cook a little too if you want me to make lunch while I’m here.”
“Lunch?” He asked, confused. “Don’t you have school?”
“I’m home schooled. My mom does that at night.”
“Your mom. How old are you?” He began to wonder. She looked to be early twenties to him, but then, you’d have never guessed he was thirty seven.
“Seventeen.” He heard Shooter laugh, and out of the corner of his eye saw him slap his knee and whistle.
‘mighty dangerous havin’ her over in a small town like this. Folks’ll talk, and you’re sure to be taken in for that.’
‘not if he doesn’t touch her, right?’ Mort two said, shaking his head. ‘She can stay if you behave yourself.’
‘I’d like to see that!’ Shooter said, snorting with laughter again.
“Alright. When would you like to start?” He saw her relax into a small grin before wiping hair off her forehead.
“Well, I’m here now, so how about I clean up some of this mess. What’s with all the corn anyways?”
“I grow it in a garden out back, and it all ripened at once. There’s just so much, it’s getting out of hand. Doesn’t help I can only cook it two ways, either.”
“What two are those?” she asked, careful to ignore the fact that words from one of his novels sprang to mind.
“Creamed corn, and boiled corn on the cob.”
“Looks like the second is winning.” She remarked, eyeing the garbage can full of corn cobs.
“Not much of a fan of creamed corn. Never was.” He said.
“Well, I’ll look for some cookbooks when I go home tonight.”
“You have a lot of cookbooks?” he asked, looking hopeful.
“I live right above the library. Mom’s the librarian.” He seemed taken aback, then he blanched and managed to stammer out,
“Y-you read a lot then, yeah?”
“Yeah, and if you want to know, yes, I’ve read a couple of yours.”
“oh. What’d you think?”
“I think that you’ve got a great mind for plots and details, but you lack finesse in stringing them together. There are vague spots in your stories, and other times when the whole pace of the story is thrown off by over descriptiveness.”
‘Hooey, pilgrim, this one’s got you on a hook, don’t she? Not no one’s ever told you that your books is lackin’ afore, have they?’
“I see.”
“I hope you don’t mind. People tell me I’m very blunt about such things.”
“No, no that’s alright. I like your bluntness.”
“Okay. Well, in that case, go do… whatever it is you do, and let me get to cleaning.”
He climbed his stairs and sat in his loft with his headphones on his head, the speakers silent so he could hear the girl below.
He kept leaning foreword, so he could keep an eye on her. When she’d emptied out the trashcan and filled it twice more, finally removing all the corn cobs from the kitchen, she began wiping down the surfaces that were currently covered with the greasy splotches from the butter and the corn juice. Then she pulled all the corn out of the sink, where he’d dumped it, and stacked it neatly on the counter next to the refrigerator. With cleared sinks, she finally got to do the dishes which had been slowly piling up for the past three weeks. That done, she looked outside. It had gone dark, and the rain was pouring down in torrents. She didn’t dare try going down the mountain on her bike in this.
She slowly climbed the stairs. Mort saw her coming and began writing furiously on a tablet, apparently oblivious to her approach.
She stopped at the top of the stairs, obviously afraid to cross any line she didn’t know about.
“Mr. Rainey?” She called quietly. He pretended not to have heard her over the music.
“Mr. Rainey?” she called a little louder. He still pretended not to hear her. She took a few faltering steps closer, then touched him gently on the shoulder.
He jerked away from her, then relaxed, playing surprised.
“Sorry.” She said, as he removed the headphones and pretended to turn off the CD player.
“What’s up?” He asked, smiling up at her from where he sat.
“I hate to ask, but would you mind giving me a ride home? There’s no way I’m gonna make it down in this, and my mom will freak if I’m not home soon.”
“Sure no problem.” He said, grabbing a jacket from the stand. He touched the brim of his Shooter hat, fingertips lingering on the felt, then decided against it.
“Thanks.” She said, smiling at him and running downstairs to collect her backpack.
He grabbed the keys and held the door open for her, then made her wait on the porch while he put her bike in the truck and pulled closer. She ran to the car and got in, grinning.
“What’s so funny?” He asked.
“Just, you’re all gentle-man like. The boys I know would have got in the car and waited while I got the bike in, just so they could appreciate my wet shirt all the way home.
‘That shirt don’t need to be wet, it’s tight enough as it is.’ Shooter said from the back seat. ‘What’s that look for? You sorry you didn’t think of that?’ He chuckled and sat back, running his fingers across the curled tips of her hair.
“Probably just the country manners my momma raised me with.” Mort told Cassandra, making his voice thick with an almost Texan accent.
She laughed.
“What?” he asked.
“The ‘about the author’ section in your books says you were raised in New York City. Want to try again?”
“oh. Um, nah, I’ll let you imagine what you want for that, then.” She stuck her tongue out at him. He laughed, for the first time in what felt like ages, and relaxed. They made small talk as they drove, him asking about her life, and trying to avoid answering questions about his own.
“So we moved here about a month ago, and it’s been really boring… until now.” She finished. He shot a quick look at her, but she was looking out her side window.
“What’s so exciting about cleaning my house?” he asked.
“Don’t get such a big head. I meant today. I made enemies with the Sheriff, explored up the hill, met a famous author, and gained a new objective as far as books go. Much more interesting than reading home and garden for the third time.” She said.
‘Smart mouth on her. Wonder what else it’d be good for…’ Shooter said, licking his lips appreciatively.
‘Free thinker, you should talk with her more, ask for her opinion on this new one you’re working on. She may make it better.’ Mort two said, adding his own two cents in.
‘He’d rather plumb other parts of her than her mind.’ Shooter said.
“Hush, you.” Mort muttered.
“What?” Cassandra asked, confused.
“Ah, just the engine. It’s making funny noises again.” He swore he felt the sweat on his brow suddenly.
“Oh. I’m sorry.” Sweat dissipated.
“So how much further d’you figure it is?” he asked, just as the truck really began making strange noises.
“Around this corner here and up two blocks…” She replied, as the engine died.
He turned the key, but the engine refused to turn back over.
“Well, hell.” He said.
“We can walk the rest of the way, and you can probably stay over until the rain lets up some. Mom makes really good apple cider.” Cassandra offered, not sure how her mother would react to the unexpected guest.
‘In her home? I’d go were I you.’ Shooter said, ghosting his hand across her soft cheek.
‘What else are you gonna do? Sit here and freeze over night?’ Asked mort two, trying to be practical.
“Alright, let’s go. But you’re taking my coat.” Mort said, reserving his scarf for himself.
She looked ready to protest, then opened the door into the freezing rain. “Yessir.” She said.
‘Good girl, though she needs a better name for you.’ Shooter said.
‘You prefer Master?’ Mort two asked sarcastically.
‘Master? I like the sound of that. Miss Cassandra in a maid’s uniform on her knees before you, saying, yes master… don’t tell me it don’t appeal.’
Neither Mort could say anything to that.

A/N:
Hello! I'm new to play in this section of the site, so for those who haven't dealt with my stuff before, let me warn you: It may get a little twisted. Updates will happen every two to three days, providing I get enough comments.
Yup, I think that covers it. Much love to my readers, and even more love to my reviewers, see you soon.
-SS