Down by the River by Robyn Carr Read Free Book Online

your time. You won’t be rushed by me. Why, I raised a child on my own, not a man in sight, if you’ll recall.” She looked rather wistfully at Jim. “However, had I one like…” Her voice trailed away.
    Jim, however, was focused on the rubble outside the sun room. He frowned. “June told me the police did some digging out there,” he said.
    “Some digging?” Myrna repeated. “They were looking for a body. The body of my late husband, Morton. That is, if he is late.” Then she smiled. “Don’t tell anyone I said so, but it wasn’t a completely ridiculous notion on the district attorney’s part. I’ve been writing such scenarios in my fiction for years, so they thought they were on to something. They don’t know how hard it is to be a writer, nor how difficult it is to be abandoned by your husband.”
    June’s expression registered surprise at theremark. She’d never before heard her aunt express that particular sentiment, but she should have known that, even though Myrna never showed it, it certainly must have hurt.
    “But that’s behind us now,” Myrna said.
    “I’d be happy to help you put the yard right again,” Jim said.
    “That’s very thoughtful, young man, but I plan to make the D.A. pay the freight on that. Though I don’t really blame them for the suspicion, one has to be accountable for one’s actions. And on that score, I’ve been seriously considering making a major change in my future themes.”
    “Really?” June asked. “No more knocking off philandering husbands?”
    “The whole idea has gotten a little stale, even if it has made me rich. I have Edward to thank for that, when it comes right down to it.”
    “Edward?”
    Myrna gave a veiled smile. “You aren’t the only woman in this family who’s had a secret man, although mine is considerably farther removed. Despite many attempts, we’ve never managed to meet in person.”
    June scooted to the edge of her chair. “Who is this, Auntie?”
    “A gentleman writer, an historian, to whom I’ve corresponded for nearly twenty years. I’ve written to a large number of writers over the years. It’s very common among our breed, since we work insolitude. But Edward has been quite constant. He began as a fan who was working on his very first book—an account of the Lewis and Clark expedition.”
    Myrna rose and, without bothering to explain herself, went to her office and retrieved a book. She handed it to June. The Promised Trail by Edward Mortimer. June flipped to the back of the dust jacket. “No photo,” she said.
    “Edward’s a tish older than me and very shy. He said he found himself faced with a choice between resurrecting his old army photo or demurring altogether.”
    June closed the book and smiled at her aunt. “How is it you’ve never mentioned this…Edward?”
    Myrna shrugged. “No particular reason. Or maybe there was. Maybe I didn’t want anyone to think me a silly old fool, because, as it happens, I’ve grown very fond of him over time.”
    “I think that’s lovely,” June said.
    “I ran the killer-wife idea by Edward and he went for it. Or maybe he ran it by me and I went for it, I can’t quite remember. He thought it was my best work, perhaps because I was so…so…furious when I wrote it. And it took off like a sky rocket. So he said, in his letter, ‘Don’t be silly, Myrna, do it again with a different twist. You’ve stumbled onto something your readers love.’ And, of course, I gave him advice as well. Writers tend to rely on each other for that kind of support.” She cleared her throat.“Edward is the only person I’ve ever confided in to that depth. I’m typically very private.”
    “Is there any chance you’ll meet him in person?”
    “I doubt it. Some years ago I drove all the way to Fresno where he was to appear at a library talk and book signing, and wouldn’t you know it, he was taken with an attack of gout and couldn’t get out of bed. I don’t mind travel a bit, but I