The Damsel in This Dress Read Free Page B

to keep her fingers from trembling as she unscrewed the cap with one hand, but she managed it.
    For a moment she considered calling her best friend just to hear a reassuring voice, but after checking the time, Betsy realized Claire would still be at the hospital. And, after all, what was happening to her wasn’t exactly an emergency, so interrupting her doctor friend’s rounds would be a selfish thing to do.
    Splashing an ounce or two or three into a tumbler, she added Coke and a few ice cubes.
    “It’s probably not a good idea to drink too much of this stuff on an empty stomach,” she said to her companion, “but I’m too freaked out to stay totally sober.”
    Fortifying herself with a gulp from her glass, she went through the house to her desk once again and plopped into the vintage chair. Setting Piddle on the floor, she straightened and took another swallow of the fizzy drink.
    Who had written her the note? And for God’s sake, why ?
    Visions of some sicko with gnarled, hairy knuckles scratching out those horrible words made a chill creep up Betsy’s spine. She had to leave in four days for the conference. Would her house be okay while she was gone? Perhaps she could get Carla or Dave from work to keep an eye on the place for her over the long weekend?
    Did he know her routine? Would he follow her into Seattle? Maybe she should buy a gun.
    Right. Like she knew how to use a gun. She’d end up shooting herself or Piddle . . . hmm. Piddle. Naw. Her mother would never forgive her.
    After a few minutes Betsy realized her vision was getting a little hazy. A decidedly warm feeling infused her entire body. She felt relaxed. More than relaxed. She grinned to herself and twirled the chair around a couple of times, holding her drink in the air as though toasting some unseen visitor. Downing another large gulp, she giggled into the tumbler.
    This is cool, she thought ten minutes later as she held the empty glass in her hand. Nothing like getting shit-faced when you were being stalked and could be murdered at any moment.
    The trill of musical notes caught her attention. She glanced at the computer. Uh-oh. Another note from J. Soldier. Taking a steadying breath, Betsy absently wondered what the J stood for and why the old guy preferred to go by his middle name. She wasn’t sure she cared enough at the moment to find out.
     
Ms. Betsy:
     
Granted, yours is only one opinion, but because it is so divergent from the sentiments expressed by others, my curiosity is piqued and I thought I’d give it another try.
What is it about my books you don’t like, exactly? I’m an adult and a professional. I can handle criticism.
If you’d take a moment to enlighten me, I’d appreciate it.
Thanks,
JSMc
    So he couldn’t let it rest, huh? Betsy thought as her eyes tried to focus on the screen. So he can handle criticism, can he? Well, be careful what you wish for, Detective Mr. J. Something McKennitt. You just might get it.
    Her fingers lightly tickled the keyboard as she considered her reply.
    She sucked on her lower lip. Then she sucked on her upper lip, which was not nearly as easy to do. Finally, she giggled and blew her bangs out of her eyes, then got down to business.
    “Okay, Detective Mr. J. Soldier McKennitt Person,” she mumbled to the computer screen. “You want enlightenment? You got it.”
     
Detective JSMc, sir (I learned that from the police today):
     
Pfffft! That’s right. Pfffft! That’s my reply. Why don’t I like your books? Pfffft!
Not to put too fine a point on it, the writing is about as polished as my kitchen floor (which really isn’t very polished, thus the comparison, but you’d have to see my kitchen floor to understand what I mean). Your plots are about as believable as Santa Claus, which whom I used to believe in him but life is nothing if not occasionally disappointing. So sue me.
Your characters are bland. Bland, bland, bland. No life. The dead ones have more life than the live ones have who