Waiting and Watching

by

Darcy Darvill

TORRID BOOKS
www.torridbooks.com

Published by
TORRID BOOKS
www.torridbooks.com
An Imprint of Whiskey Creek Press LLC

Copyright © 2016 by
Darcy Darvill

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN 978-1-68146-133-5

Credits
Cover Artist: Kelly Martin
Editor: Merrylee Lanehart

Printed in the United States of America

To Our Readers

Our story takes place between 1964 and 1987. This is before the age of cell phones and widespread use of the internet. The police used radios to communicate and didn't have the use of computers in their cars. The newspaper and evening newscasts were the main source of information. The language, lifestyle and attitudes herein are indicative of those times.

We hope you'll enjoy this mystery and all the characters who play it out.

To our loving parents, Jan and Bill Allen.

Sunday—July 19, 1964

Steeping in the steam of the murky brown Ohio River is the city of Newport, Kentucky. It's a city that flourishes on the proceeds of gambling, prostitution and alcohol. Blue laws and bigotry cease to exist where blacks, whites, socialites, and river rats find common ground. Situated across the river from its moralistic neighbor of Cincinnati, Newport's allure beckons like a siren to all would-be transgressors to cross the bridge and enter the world of debauchery.

Dr. John Harriman—noted psychiatrist, author and lecturer—often drove his shiny new Cadillac over the bridge to partake in the pleasures of Newport. He pulled into the Bluegrass Motel and parked in the slot for number 201. It was a balmy day and the heat and dampness of the river enveloped him as he exited his car. He welcomed the familiar smells, which accosted his senses. He found the rank malodorous stench peculiarly tantalizing.

Casual and relaxed, he walked down the outside walkway on the second floor of the motel. A light tap and the door opened to reveal a blonde woman wearing a dark robe tied tightly at the waist.

“It's about time. I was beginning to think you'd changed your mind.” Her sultry voice hinted at sexual favors soon to come.

He pulled her to him and started to untie the belt on her robe. “I'd never pass up an opportunity to spend the afternoon with you.”

The woman pushed him away. “Leave the belt tied. Get undressed and into bed. I have a little surprise for you. I'll mix you a vodka tonic, light on the tonic, of course. It'll be ready as soon as you are.”

“You're the most creative woman I know, Beth darling. I'm looking forward to my little surprise.” He smiled to himself, as there was nothing at all little about this woman—big hair, big boobs, an ass that even his big hands couldn't hold, and she always had big ideas. He never knew what to expect from her, and that kept him coming back—again and again.

He got undressed and into bed. Beth crossed the room with his vodka tonic and as she handed it to him, she deliberately let her robe slip off her shoulders and slide to the floor. What he saw made his heart pound and he felt an erection begin immediately. She wore a black leather dominatrix costume. The leather, cut high up on the thigh, made her long shapely legs—encased in black fish net stockings—look even longer. Her ample breasts were bare and pushed to new heights by a black leather corset.

“Get down on the floor, on your hands and knees.” He obeyed immediately.

Beth reached into a bag and brought out a leather dog collar attached to a leash. She threw them at him. “Put them on.”

He was so hot he practically panted, fumbling in his haste to put on the collar.

Beth pulled a whip from her bag. “You'll do what I say and follow orders. Keep your head up and your back straight.”

He loved every demeaning act she insisted he perform. She rode him through sexual peaks and valleys until he thought he would burst. This was crazy and not his normal sexual stimuli, but caught up in the charade, he would analyze his reaction later. Now he would just enjoy all the intriguing tricks that Beth had in store for him.

An hour later he got up and began dressing. In doing so, he looked at himself in the mirror.

“What am I going to tell my wife? I have welts all over me.”

“I figure you'll come up with some ingenious lie. You are very creative that way. It surprised me that you enjoyed our little encounter so much. You were so quick to give up power to me.”

“It surprised me too, Beth. Strange, but I felt comforted and exhilarated at the same time. Fascinating. It just shows how satisfying and therapeutic the transfer of power can be.”

“Well, doctor, I'm sure you'll analyze it profoundly. After all, that is your job, isn't it?”

“You're such a bitch, Beth. When can I see you again?”

“I'll let you know. I need to be on my way now. I have to show a house at three up in your elite neck of the woods.” With that, she picked up her purse and left the motel.

Wednesday—October 7, 1964

Sue Lookey heard the shrill shriek of sirens and glanced up from her kitchen sink. Police surrounded the Harriman house, directly across the street in Tilden Park, Ohio. As the noise intensified, her adrenalin kicked in. Tightening her robe, she noticed her hands trembling with the ominous sense that something terrible had happened. Braced for the worst, she hurried outside to join the growing crowd as two ambulances pulled up to the curb.

Frantic neighbors emerged from their homes, their faces wearing a variety of expressions. Sue spotted Nola Perkins in her front yard, adjacent to the crime scene. Sue pushed through the gathering throng of gawkers and grabbed Nola's arm. Voice wobbly, she asked Nola if she knew what was going on. The ashen-faced woman gave a negative shake of her head and shrugged. They both stood there motionless, waiting to hear the news.

When she could stand it no longer, Sue pushed past Nola and ran up to the front door guarded by two burly cops. “Are the children hurt?” she asked, her voice a shrill scream. “There are two children who live here. Are they okay?”

One of the policemen gently but firmly restrained her while the other radioed their sergeant to verify the whereabouts of the children. At the cop's request, Sue returned to Nola's side where both women waited in fearful anticipation.

A truck pulled up right next to them with the local news affiliate's call letters emblazoned across the side. The expression on the familiar face of the anchorman filled them with fear. Straining to hear, they listened to him describe the grisly incident unraveling inside the house.

The anchorman nodded at the cameraman and said, “In this upscale neighborhood of Tilden Park, an exclusive suburb of Cincinnati where children play safely in their streets and backyards, an unthinkable murder or double suicide has occurred. Two people, dead as a result of gunshot wounds, were found inside the home of John and Claire Harriman. Although presumed to be the Harrimans, a formal identification of the bodies has not yet been made.”

The surreal scene unfolding before them stunned Sue. Her eyes filled with tears as she noticed the Halloween decorations that decked out the front porch steps and were staked around the yard. The haunting faces of the pumpkins and the billowy, unearthly ghosts blowing in the wind mimicked the horror unraveling inside the house.

As Nola started to faint she grabbed for Sue's shoulder. She had just looked over to see the coroner's truck pull into the driveway. Sue supported her friend to her porch, where she helped Nola into a chair, and then she ran into the house to get some water. Nola's son, Martin, sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. Sue told him his mother might need medical attention and asked him to help. He seemed dazed, but eventually got up and went out to assist. Nola, although pale and distraught, seemed somewhat recovered after sipping some water.

Sue stood next to Nola, staring at the activity. She felt herself tingling in a mild state of shock and wondered if she too might faint. With a curious horror, she watched the gurneys lifted into the coroner's truck. Her stomach retched and she leaned over Nola's porch fence to vomit. Her head spun as she regained her bearings and slowly walked home to call her husband, Earl.

Wednesday—September 3, 1986

Connie Harriman sat in the window seat of the airplane, working up the nerve to look out the window as the plane circled over northern Kentucky. The land below felt like a hostile enemy ready to devour her. As they flew through the cloud covering, she realized there was no going back. She looked down and remembered the last time she was here and her heart broke all over again. How could a place as innocent as an average mid-western city like Cincinnati seem so threatening?

As the pilot announced their approaching arrival at the Cincinnati International Airport, her stomach began to churn, but it wasn't airsickness. The combined feelings of anticipation and dread had her wanting to take the next plane home to Utah. For months she had been nervous about this trip and now she wasn't sure she could go through with it.

Connie had left her hometown of Cincinnati when she was sixteen. Her final memory was her parents' funeral. Numb from shock, she followed her Aunt Viv, whom she hardly knew, onto a plane that would take her to Utah and her new home.

Twenty-two years had passed since Connie's parents were brutally murdered in their home in Tilden Park, an affluent suburb of Cincinnati. Her adopted brother, Julio—eight years old at the time of the murders—went to live with a birth cousin in Miami. An orphan of Cuban refugees, Julio was only a year old when the Harrimans adopted him. She remembered the heart-wrenching task of saying goodbye to her beloved little brother. After the gruesome loss of their parents, she had no choice but to let him go to live in Miami. It was unbearable for Connie, who felt the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Both sister and brother tried to remain close in spite of their physical separation. They wrote to each other regularly throughout their growing years, but the common loss they shared was never mentioned. They rarely spoke over the phone back then since calling long distance was an extravagance saved for holidays and birthdays. Once they became self-supporting adults, they talked constantly and saw each other quite often.

Julio remained in Miami, where he attended law school, and upon graduation, began working as an Assistant District Attorney. Connie lived in Salt Lake City and was the General Manager of an event planning business.

When she left Cincinnati, she had resigned herself to the tragic turn her life had taken. In a matter of minutes, her perfect existence had ended. One morning, her biggest concern was what to wear to the Homecoming Dance. By mid-morning, two police officers and a social worker waited for her in the principal's office to tell her that both her mother and father were dead.

The police had asked questions about her parents and about her boyfriend, Andrew. Eventually, Connie and the social worker went to find Julio in his classroom to break the news to him. She'd had to watch her precious little brother's face when he heard the news.

Always a happy-go-lucky kid, Julio began sobbing without restraint after the news sank in. He grabbed his sister and begged her never to leave him, but being underage, she was helpless to keep the remnants of her family together. With no relative who wanted to take both children, Connie went to Utah and Julio to Miami.

Looking back, Julio's move to Miami was probably better for him. He had grown up in his native Cuban culture and had thrived there, maturing into an extremely handsome, highly educated bi-lingual and confident young man. It might not have been as stress-free for him if he'd grown up a minority in Tilden Park.

As the plane taxied to the gate, Connie became excited to see Julio in spite of her fears. She loved and missed him and knew that seeing him would give her the strength and comfort she needed. Her excitement diminished at the thought of facing reality and the ghosts of her past. She had spent the last twenty-two years repressing them. Under the guise of returning for her twentieth high school reunion, her real mission was to face her past. She hoped to do it by returning to the scene of the crime and discovering why some evil monster had savagely killed her parents.