Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

gypsy salesman, peddling generators and power washers, or he was selling salvation. From her experience, both types were usually from Kentucky or Tennessee and neither took no for an answer easily. She wished that Malcom was there. As the door opened he jumped slightly and she had to fight not to giggle.
    “Hello. May I help you?” she asked. She held on to the door and did not open it wide.
    “Hello. You must be Polly.”
    That statement stopped her in her tracks. Instinctively she pulled back a bit, placing one foot behind the partially open door just in case he tried to force his way in.
    “Who are you?” she asked without answering his question.
    “Oh, I’m sorry. My name is Alfred Whitson and I met your husband, Malcom, recently. He bought an antique ship’s lantern from me.”
    She remembered. Malcom had told her about him.
    “Oh. Please, won’t you come in?” she said as she opened the door and stepped back. “What brings you up here?”
    Alfred stepped in, and as he did she took a closer look at him. He was about Malcom’s size, and Mal had said he was a pretty good runner. When he looked at her, she was struck by the narrowness of his face and how black and tiny his eyes looked behind those very thick glasses. His voice was slightly deeper than Mal’s and had a bit of a nasal tone to it. “Your book. I read your book and I have some questions for you.”
    She was not expecting that. “My book?”
    “Yes.” He opened his case, reached in without looking, and moved his hand around. Suddenly he withdrew his hand, opened the case wider, and looked in. Surprise, agitation, she couldn’t tell which, but he suddenly looked up at her and said, “You know, The Captain’s Quilt .” He slowly withdrew his hand from the case and looked back at her.
    She must have been staring at him. “Oh, yes. My book. I’m sorry,” she said quite flustered.
    “I thought I had my copy with me,” he mumbled looking in the case for a second time. Then he suddenly looked up at her and said, “The story. How much of it is true?”
    “If nothing else, he’s direct,” she thought while trying to decide how to answer his question. “Well, it is a novel. Fiction. So I guess I’d have to say that the story is made up, although I did base it on some letters that we found here in the Inn when we bought the place.”
    “Yes. Yes. The letters. Malcom told me about them. Can I see them?”
    Again she was stopped by his directness. “I’m sorry, but we keep them locked away and they’re not here. I can show you one of them. We had it framed. It’s over here.” She turned and pointed at the wall behind her.
    He didn’t say anything but instead brushed past her to look at the frame. Polly closed the door and watched as he stood in front of the framed letter. She could see his lips moving as he read it. When he was done, he glanced over his shoulder at her, turned back to the letter, and read it again. This time he traced each line with his finger as he read it. Without moving she watched him, fascinated by his intensity.
    “In the book, you wrote about a quilt, one that told a story. Could I see it?”
    Again, she was surprised by his directness, but this time something about his expression bothered her. He was staring like a dog expecting supper. Not hostile, not threatening, just silently insistent.
    She decided to stretch the truth in her answer.
    “You mean the Captain’s Quilt. I’m sorry, but it doesn’t really exist. I made it up.”
    This wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t entirely true either. The idea behind the quilt was very real, but the description in the book was made up and the story behind that description was all fiction.
    His expression didn’t change.
    “I’m sorry.”
    “I’d like to see it,” he said again.
    “Really, I made it all up.”
    “That letter, it talked of a quilt. Your husband told me about the quilts you had found, and how different rooms are named after different quilts. I’d like to see the one you call the Captain’s quilt.”
    She took a deep breath, stalling for time. She could see that he was not going to be dissuaded. Malcom had said he was odd, but also that he was harmless. She decided show him the quilt. Maybe once he saw it, he would leave.
    “Come on.” She turned and headed up the stairs.
    Halfway up, she paused to make sure he was following. Her heart skipped a beat when she found him to be just inches behind her. “Oh!” she exhaled, “I