A Chance Encounter

By Jay Greenstein

Romantic Suspense

Delia Weintraub has done something foolish with a business card that a beautiful woman dropped in the snow. On a whim, she handed it to an intensely handsome man, as if it was her own. Now, the woman whose name is on the card lies dead at the bottom of a flight of stairs, and Delia just might be next. Her life has been turned upside down, and as if that were not enough, the man who may have killed the woman of the business card claims to have fallen in love with her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay Greenstein
• Release date: Aug 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311449030

Jay Greenstein

I'm a storyteller. My skills at writing are subject to opinion, my punctuation has been called interesting, at best—but I am a storyteller. I am, of course, many other things. In seven decades of living, there are great numbers of things that have attracted my attention. I am, for example, an electrician. I can also design, build, and install a range of things from stairs and railings to flooring, and tile backsplashes. I can even giftwrap a box from the inside, so to speak, by wallpapering the house. I'm an engineer, one who has designed computers and computer systems; one of which—during the bad old days of the cold war—flew in the plane designated as the American President's Airborne Command Post: The Doomsday Jet. I've spent seven years as the chief-engineer of a company that built bar-code readers. I spent thirteen of the most enjoyable years of my life as a scoutmaster, and three, nearly as good, as a cubmaster. I joined the Air Force to learn jet engine mechanics, but ended up working in broadcast and closed circuit television, serving in such unlikely locations as the War Room of the Strategic Air Command, and a television station on the island of Okinawa. I have been involved in sports car racing, scuba diving, sailing, and anything else that sounded like fun. I can fix most things that break, sew a fairly neat seam, and have raised three pretty nice kids, all of who are smarter and prettier than I am—more talented, too, thanks to the genes my wife kindly provided. Once, while camping with a group of cubs and their families, one of the dads announced, "You guys better make up crosses to keep the Purple Bishop away." When I asked for more information, the man shrugged and said, "I don't really know much about the story. It's some kind of a local thing that was mentioned on my last camping trip." Intrigued, I wondered if I could come up with something to go with his comment about the crosses; something to provide a gentle terror-of-the-night to entertain the boys. The result was a virtual forest of crosses outside the boys' tents. That was the event that switched on something within me that, now, more than twenty-five years later, I can't seem to switch off. Stories came and came… so easily it was sometimes frightening. Stories so frightening that one boy swore he watched my eyes begin to glow with a dim red light as I told them (it was the campfire reflecting from my ...

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Jay Greenstein

Jay Greenstein

All rights reserved

Published by Continuation Services at SmashWords

Copyright 2020

Other Titles by Jay Greenstein:

Science Fiction

As Falls an Angel

Samantha and the Bear

Foreign Embassy

Hero

Monkey Feet

An Accidental War

Starlight Dancing

Wizards

Trilogy of the Talos

(Sci-fi)

To Sing the Calu

Portal to Sygano

Ghost Girl

Sisterhood of the Ring

(Sci-fi)

Water Dance

Jennie’s Song

A Change of Heart

A Surfeit of Dreams

Kyesha

Abode Of The Gods

Living Vampire

An Abiding Evil

Ties of Blood

Blood Lust

Modern Western

Posse

Romantic Suspense

A Chance Encounter

Kiss of Death

Intrigue/Crime

Necessity

Betrayal

Hostage

Young Adult

My Father My Friend

Romance

Zoe

Breaking the Pattern

Short Story

A Touch of Strange

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this book are fictitious and created by the author for entertainment purposes. Any similarities between living and non-living persons are purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Excerpt: As Falls an Angel

° ° ° °

It was snowing again and Delia hated snow, especially when it flew before the wind, biting at her cheeks with staccato pinpricks. On this particular day Delia hated many things, but snow was at the very top of her list.

Head down she slogged through last night’s drop of powder, shoulders hunched against the chill and squinting against the snow till her lashes overlapped.

The traffic light was red. But that mattered little with no traffic to regulate so she started across the intersection. A single set of tire tracks, nearly filled by the gusting wind, marred the smooth white surface. No human tracks had compacted the snow to make walking easier.

The tire tracks led to a forest green Hummer, clean in a garage-kept way, which sat by the curb a block away. As she slogged across the street she muttered, Who but a fool would try to get to work in these conditions without such a vehicle? She sighed. Someone like me, who hasn’t the courage to say no to the boss.

She hesitated, halfway across, shivering. The gusting wind was playing games with the snow. Bare asphalt might contrast with stark whiteness in one spot, while in another snow swirled into a waist-high drift. Brushing aside strands of blackness the wind had teased from beneath her hood, she searched for a route through the drifts, one that wouldn’t overtop her boots and add another source of unhappiness to the morning, arguing with herself.

You stand as much chance of finding that as winning the million-dollar lottery, Delia-girl. There was, of course, no clear path so she settled on the next best thing and angled toward the better side of the street, though the difference between the two sides wasn’t significant. True, the snow wasn’t as deep, but only because the wind blew more fiercely, there.

Pulling her scarf a bit tighter she moved through white silence, leaving tracks the wind would quickly erase. One block to go.

Nearly to the next intersection, she hesitated, the weather forgotten. The door to the bookstore was open and a woman was leaving, an oddity, given the early hour and the weather.

A member of the sales staff? Not that she could recall, and she certainly wouldn’t forget being waited on by someone so remarkable. This woman strode into the embrace of winter with a smile of anticipation—meeting a lover, not a combatant. And she was beautiful, her face blessed with a purity of line found so rarely it could be used to define the term beauty. Dressed perfectly for the weather, she could easily grace the cover of any winter sport magazine. From her daintily booted feet to the tip of her expensive ski-cap she exuded a style and sophistication that said she never felt the slightest trace of self-doubt.

If only.... But that was a wasted wish. Yes, she had the body structure to wear such clothing, thanks to the past year’s changes. But the woman had a way of moving and holding herself that Delia could never duplicate without seeming to be play-acting—a little girl dressed in mommy’s clothing.

With a sigh of resignation, she resumed her journey. But something small fluttered downward from the books the woman held in her left hand. In the moment in which she hesitated before calling out, the woman reached the passenger door of the Hummer and slipped in.

She called but went unheard, as the car pulled into the street, headed north. Again, she hesitated. Had something really dropped from the woman’s hand? If so, was it worth the effort of checking? Good sense said no, but curiosity said yes, so she headed across the street, being a fool, she was certain.

The business card she lifted from the snow carried the name, Gail Morton, manager of acquisitions for a company named Nester Simon LLC, its ink now smeared in one corner—hardly worth the trip across the street.

Brushing at her hair, freed to play with the wind when she bent to take the card, and about to toss it away, she hesitated. It seemed wrong to discard it, but going to the effort of returning a lost business card, especially one that had been damaged, made little sense. Still, the good-citizen within insisted she shouldn’t litter. In the end, stuck holding the card in gloved fingers, she hurried toward her own building, snow dribbling over her boot-tops to seek out the bare skin just above her ankle.

But discomfort was forgotten within a few paces, because there was another fool abroad this morning, and this one snatched up her attention. Not especially impressive in stature, she guessed him to be a few inches taller than her own five-feet-nine, his build was average—at least as far as could be told, swathed as he was in winter clothing. But it wasn’t his build that set her heart racing. It was his face. He was gorgeous, positively gorgeous.

What made him so attractive wasn’t easy to define, but there was an all-over rightness to his face that brought her to an involuntary halt, halfway through a step, leaving her precariously balanced. She tried to cover that by stepping to the side to allow him to pass. But, were he to ask, she’d follow him anywhere, for no more than the privilege of looking at him, now and then. And he was smiling at her—the secret smile of those who share the uncommon, as he said, Only crazies like us are out today, I guess.

At a loss for words, she pulled her scarf clear of her mouth, wishing her hair wasn’t blowing demonically around her face, saying, I...I guess.

Say something, you idiot, something intelligent. Do something to keep the man here. Trip him or something! But her tongue appeared to be stuck to the roof of her mouth and her body was frozen in place.

He was about to pass out of her view and out of her life when, out of desperation, she did something unplanned. This man was royalty, and he deserved to be with royalty, so without thought, she gave him a gift of beauty, in recognition of his own. She extended the hand with the business card in it, saying, Here, take this.

The man frowned in surprise, hesitating for a moment before saying, Thank you, as he took the card. And then he was past and heading toward the train station—or at least she assumed he was headed there.

Call me, she shouted, My number’s on the card. He gave no indication of having heard, so she sighed.

So much for that. She watched him stride away. He, it seemed, didn’t give a damn about the depth of the snow. Somehow that diminished her. He also didn’t give a damn about her—at least not enough to stop and talk.

She shook her head. He wouldn’t call, so giving him the card was stupid. Yes, it had the woman’s name and number. And yes, he deserved someone beautiful. But he thought the card was hers, and found her so uninteresting he hadn’t even stopped to acknowledge her ploy.

Well, who would? You’re bundled up till only your face is visible, and that’s not your best feature. And to make matters worse she’d applied not a trace of makeup this morning.

But why tell him to call, knowing he wouldn’t? No mystery there. He and the woman belonged together. Easy to fantasize that he did call, and that they met and fell in love. A nice daydream. Perhaps one to spend the day embellishing—placing herself in the starring role.

° ° ° °

Chapter 2

Is that you, honey?

Of course it’s me, Mom. Who else has a key? Delia closed the door and hung her coat in the foyer closet.

Well, it could be an ax murderer, you know, Fern Weintraub called from the living room. So, tell me about your day. Did anyone else make it into the office?

She stomped snow from her boots before leaning against the wall to peel them from her feet, saying, No one else was stupid enough to even try, Mom.

She tossed the boots into the corner of the foyer, then went into the living room to hug her mother, before going into the den to turn on the computer.

So...if no one else came in, what did you have to do?

She settled into the chair to wait for the mail program to open. Not much other than answer the phones, Mom. Responding to the necessity of getting to the office, she added, The only reason I even tried was that Jack called this morning and asked me to be there for the phones.

For the phones? That’s crazy, who would even want to call on a day like today?

The old laptop was slow to boot, so she headed into the kitchen, where her mother had gone, thinking over how to respond in meaningful terms. Mom’s world was her neighborhood, her family, and a few long-time friends. The idea that a firm in a small city might do business all over the globe was one Mom couldn’t truly accept, so she said, They expected an important call from out of town and someone had to be there to take it.

In weather like this? They couldn’t have the answering machine take the message, or tell them to call back tomorrow? The people calling didn’t want to talk to you, anyway, so what did you do, aside from taking phone messages, just like the machine would?

I.... Narrow though mom’s worldview might be, she was right. Why did she agree to brave weather the owners of the company weren’t willing to face? To that, she had no answer—at least none she’d admit to.

Since no reasonable response came to mind, she changed the subject.

The trip was worth it, anyway because I’m in love.

Oh?

She rocked a hand in ambivalence. Well, I am, but it’s not exactly mutual. She went on to describe the incident outside the bookstore.

So, through the day I’ve wondered if there was something brilliant I could’ve said to capture him for myself. There probably was, but I have not the faintest idea of what it could be.

You gave the man someone else’s phone number? She frowned as she searched the utensil drawer for something.

Well....

I don’t understand. Why would you do that? She removed the ladle that had been her quarry, and closed the drawer. The man might call her.

And?

And you don’t know who he is. He could be the ax murderer we were talking about a minute ago, you know.

"Mom, the world is not nearly as dangerous as you seem to think. Every third man you pass on the street is not a rapist or a maniac. Honest." She put the tomato juice bottle back in the fridge and took a sip from her glass before deciding to stir in a bit of cream to cut the tomato tartness.

Uh-huh. Her mother said, not calling her a fool, but meaning it nonetheless.

Rather than arguing, she finished her juice, put the glass in the sink, and said, I’m going to check my e-mail. When’s dinner?

° ° °

Dee?

Mmm? She looked up from her latest attempt to write a romance novel, concentration broken.

What did you say the woman’s name was...the one who dropped the business card this morning?

Umm... Gail Horton, I think, why?

Never mind. I thought you said, Morton. There’s a story about a Gail Morton on the news.

Frowning, she headed into the living room, where her mother was ensconced on the couch, in front of the TV.

"Her name is Gail Morton, she said, taking a pretzel from her mother’s bowl. What did they say about her?"

But you said her name was Gail Horton. I distinctly—

Mom! I did say Horton, but that was because I forgot until you mentioned it. What did they say?

Oh.... Well, according to the TV someone named Gail Morton died a little while ago. Her landlady found her at the bottom of the steps leading to her apartment with her neck broken.

I.... Could it be the same woman? What did she look like? Pretty?

They didn’t show a picture.

Damn. Well, did she fall, or what?

Mom shrugged. She fell, they say, but she had a man visiting her, just before it happened, and no one knows who he is. They can’t find him, so....

Oh my God. The pretzel fell from her hand. The woman was dead?

But then the impossibility of the death being connected to the business card brought her back to reality. It couldn’t be the same woman. Even assuming the man called the number on the card, as soon as he mentioned talking to her outside the bookstore she’d have told him that someone else had given him her number. And that would’ve been that. There’d been no address on the card.

But suppose he’d talked her into a meeting?

As she picked up the pretzel she laughed at the absurdity of it. A handsome man calls the number on a business card, is invited to visit the lady who owns it—in her apartment—and when he gets there he pushes her down the steps and kills her? Nonsense. Still....

But Mom gave no time to speculate on that, and in smug tones said, I told you it was wrong to give the woman’s card to a stranger.

Mom, she said, striving to keep exasperation out of her voice. We don’t even know if it’s the same woman, let alone if her death was anything but an accident. Why would—

Uh-huh. You can believe what you want to believe, Dee, but I certainly wouldn’t give someone else’s telephone number a stranger.

Arguing would be a waste of time, so she swallowed her frustration and reviewed the advantages of moving out. At twenty-three she should be living on her own. And despite the debacle that ended her romance with Tom, and set her running home to mommy, perhaps it was time to rejoin the human race. Her reaction to the man this morning certainly argued in its favor—as did mom’s suffocating presence in her life.

But that was for later. At the moment, best to focus on the television, given the possibility that they’d show a photograph of the woman and resolve the question as to whether it was her Gail Morton or some like-named unfortunate.

But they moved on to another subject, leaving her chewing her lip and wondering. By the expression, mom wore there was no doubt in her mind that the woman’s death was the result of the man having been given the card.

Lying in bed, her last thought before sleep overcame her, was that she should resolve the issue. The question was, how?

° ° ° °

Chapter 3

The roadway was plowed, but still, as she made her way from the bus stop to the cemetery entrance, walking was difficult—and it was spitting snow again.

Certainly, she wasn’t the cause of the mysterious Gail Morton’s death, even had the mystery man been involved. But still, the little imp who so often whispered guilt in her ear—in mom’s voice—insisted that she had to check. A wise thing to do? Probably not.

The obituary in the newspaper said that the funeral would be graveside, held at this cemetery some fifteen minutes from now. That was good, because locating the funeral party could well use most of that time.

Given the location and the weather, the casket almost certainly wouldn’t be open. And that created a problem, because Do you have a picture of Gail, so I can see if she’s the woman I once saw from across the street? seemed more than a little inappropriate for the situation. So, the trip was probably wasted. But perhaps after the funeral, in conversation, details of the woman’s appearance might emerge. And since she was already at the cemetery, it made sense to see it through.

Signs at the cemetery entrance pointed the way to the day’s burials. There were three, it appeared, and she followed the arrow that indicated the Morton gravesite.

One advantage of walking to the grave, though it took nearly ten minutes to traverse the distance through the rutted snow, was the opportunity to evaluate the situation at the gravesite from a distance, and perhaps make an intelligent decision as to who best to approach. The direct family would be too involved, and too grief-stricken to be disturbed, but perhaps there’d be a family resemblance?

From the size of the group gathered by the grave, it appeared that Gail had a large family. At least forty cars lined the plowed roadside. A glance behind showed several more in transit.

Best to wait for the completion of the ceremony before asking questions, though, so she took a place at the rear of the group, nodding a polite hello to those who acknowledged her arrival, probably assuming her to be a co-worker or friend.

Given the conditions, the service would be short—a blessing. Cold already nipped at her toes, and the wind that blew the words of the minister away before they reached her was searing her bare cheeks. Unfortunately, the blustery wind that dictated a closed coffin ceremony also prevented even a picture of the deceased woman from being on display.

As the service progressed, she moved to the side to better scan the mourners, huddled against the blowing snow. No genetic duplication of the woman she was investigating, there—at least nothing obvious. She sighed, about to turn her attention back to the immediate family, when movement caught her eye. A man stood beyond the grouping at the graveside, on one of the access roads. A workman, most likely, bundled in heavy clothing and stamping his feet for warmth as he waited for the funeral’s conclusion. In one single flash of recognition, however, she had the answer to her question. This Gail Morton was her Gail Morton. The man whose eyes now met her own was the man to whom she handed the card.

Shit.

Recognition also flooded into him. His expression turned to one of astonishment as his lips formed the word, You! Apparently, he thought he’d disposed of her when he murdered Gail Morton, though why he’d do such a thing was beyond comprehension.

After a moment of seeming indecision, the man began moving in her direction.

Cursing the impulse that had brought her there, she turned toward the cemetery entrance, only to arrest the motion. Running would be a mistake. Given the distance to the gate, and the weather’s keeping people away, if he caught her, there’d be no one close enough to help.

Yell for help? An option, yes, but suppose the man had a legitimate reason for being there? And perhaps it was a stupid reason for remaining silent, but interrupting the funeral would bring new unhappiness to the family.

Manners. I could be placing myself in jeopardy in the name of good manners. Stupid Delia-girl, very stupid.

The safest course was to hide among people, where his actions would be as constrained as hers. Easy enough to beg a ride, later, from one of the mourners.

Resigned to waiting, the thought came that there might be another way. True, she’d forgotten to charge her phone, leaving her with no way to summon the police, but given the number of