Cat on a Black Moon

By Lorraine Martin Bennett

Television anchorwoman Garner Olsen becomes the target of brilliant and deranged ex-flower child Darla Dare when Garner’s husband, a federal prosecutor, prepares to take Darla’s lover to trial for drug trafficking. When Garner’s life is upended by stalking, kidnapping and murder, she vows to track down the woman responsible. She succeeds, but with shattering results.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685621933

Lorraine Martin Bennett

Lorraine Martin Bennett is a print, web and broadcast journalist who grew up in Murphy, North Carolina, USA, graduated with her high school journalism medal and received a full scholarship to the University of North Carolina where she completed her degree in journalism. Her career began on the Atlanta Journal, writing features, covering news, and meeting her husband, whose job took them to the west coast. She was hired by the Los Angeles Times and became the newspaper’s first woman to head a domestic bureau. The Bennetts returned to Atlanta where she joined fledgling CNN as a news writer. She became copy editor, producer and editorial manager before ending her career at CNN International where she was senior copy editor of a morning show airing in Hong Kong. She retired to the western North Carolina mountains where she writes poetry, essays, short stories and occasionally works at a local weekly newspaper.

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About the Author

Lorraine Martin Bennett is a print, web and broadcast journalist who grew up in Murphy, North Carolina, USA, graduated with her high school journalism medal and received a full scholarship to the University of North Carolina where she completed her degree in journalism.

Her career began on the Atlanta Journal, writing features, covering news, and meeting her husband, whose job took them to the west coast. She was hired by the Los Angeles Times and became the newspaper’s first woman to head a domestic bureau.

The Bennetts returned to Atlanta where she joined fledgling CNN as a news writer. She became copy editor, producer and editorial manager before ending her career at CNN International where she was senior copy editor of a morning show airing in Hong Kong. She retired to the western North Carolina mountains where she writes poetry, essays, short stories and occasionally works at a local weekly newspaper.

Dedication

This novel is dedicated to the memory of my late husband, Thomas Joel Bennett, a great encourager of my work who believed in me and always had my back.

Copyright Information ©

Lorraine Martin Bennett 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Martin Bennett, Lorraine

Cat on a Black Moon

ISBN 9781685621919 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781685621926 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781685621933 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023900883

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

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Acknowledgment

I would like to thank my sister, Marilee Powell, and her English teacher’s eagle eye as proofreader and critic; Sandra Johnson and class members at the John C. Campbell Folk School in Brasstown, N.C. for critiquing early drafts of this work and helping me decide the direction this novel would take; fellow book club members in Hayesville, N.C., who read and encouraged early draft efforts; Attorney Joseph Chilton and counselor/therapist Mary Ricketson, who provided significant legal and psychological advice in the development of my characters; Linda Hagberg, for telling me about Tate City; George Weinstein, the Atlanta Writers Conference and two agents who provided helpful feedback; friend and coworker the late Terry Kay for his valuable input; and my beautiful nieces Jessica Powell Armstrong and Susan Bennett Wolf, for reading early drafts and their constant encouragement.

Chapter 1

Garner’s Story

Silent Feet

The voice. Sometimes it thunders in my head, sometimes whispers, always badgers. I will never be free of it. If I had just ignored it, none of this would have happened.

I have something fantastic for you. You like cats, don’t you?

It was girlish and flirty. It floated over my shoulder along with the aroma of rose-scented perfume. I was standing just inside the entrance to the Atlanta Antique Auction, in a cavernous arena inside the Georgia World Congress Center.

When I turned, she was in front of a long counter overloaded with jewelry-large stones, long strings of pearls, ridiculous earrings and enough bangles to make Cleopatra swoon. She was tall and thin, not more than twenty or twenty-one years old, I guessed, but that awful black hat and too much makeup camouflaged whatever natural beauty she might have. And mauve lipstick definitely does nothing for olive skin. I notice makeup on other women. It’s one of the first things I see. I’m in the television business and we wear a lot of it. The men do, too.

You want something in black. Onyx. That voice again, presumptuous. It was a small, tinny sound and I didn’t like it. Not the voice, not what she was saying, either. People make assumptions about me all the time. I never can get used to it. Doesn’t matter I’m a public figure and they think they are entitled to the intimate details of my life simply because I appear in their living room every evening. Just because they invite me to their home doesn’t mean I will welcome them into my personal space.

Dark brown hair tumbled over her shoulders as she reached long arms under the jewelry counter and selected the object that would unravel my life. I wouldn’t have called it a cat exactly, but it certainly was feline. Maybe a stalking panther, or tiger with a too-long body.

Diamonds glowed from its eyes, throat and midsection. In a crouch, tail extended, mouth agape, it seemed to be stalking faraway prey. Its slender, silver body stretched across the top of a black moon-shaped stone more than an inch wide. Sinister and stunning, it was crawling right to left. I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

An astonishing piece of jewelry. Might be worn as brooch or pin, or perhaps dangled from a thick necklace. She unfolded green tissue paper and handed it to me for closer inspection.

It’s heavy, I said, taking it in my hand. The weighty silver made the object top-heavy.

It felt almost alive in my hand, like a presence awakening from a long sleep.

I knew I should not buy it. With my contract at the station still in negotiations, I didn’t need to be making spontaneous purchases. Uncertainty seemed to be punctuating my life since the quarrel with my husband, Daniel, who had slammed the front door and abruptly left. Our first real set-to, and it had yanked to the forefront some issues we probably should have resolved already. A separation was unthinkable, yet I had to face the possibility. After all, my marriage was a new seedling, not yet rooted and growing in firm soil.

But imaging worst-case scenarios is one of my defense mechanisms. Picture the worst, hope for the best. Furthermore, I am extremely impulsive. I can’t help it. That go-for-it zeal is a blessing and a curse when you make as much money as I do. Two years ago, I was promoted to top female television anchorwoman at my station. Now I’m number one in the city with ratings to prove it and my name, Garner Olsen, is familiar in most households.

It’s $5,000 but you can have it for $4,500, said the woman in the mauve lipstick, smirking, returning my thoughts to the brooch. It’s a wonderful antique, from the Riley estate.

The name meant nothing to me.

I’ll take a check, she pressed, but my decision was already made. I reached into my purse while the pin disappeared into a soft fabric pouch embroidered in threads of blue, tan and gold reminiscent of Egyptian symbols. I gave her a credit card and she dropped the purchase into a small paper sack.

Enjoy it, she smirked again. A cold breeze stirred inside the hall where the auction was entering its third and final day. When I stepped outside into a crisp late October afternoon, the bracing air forced tears to my eyes. A sudden gust, sharp and unexpected, reminded me how winter, unpredictable at this time of year, might be earlier than usual. It would be my fifth in Atlanta. Would it be my first without Daniel, or was I overreacting as usual? Tears surfaced in abundance now and began to trickle down my face as I started a search for sunglasses always hiding at the bottom of my purse. I don’t like being recognized with mascara streaks down my cheeks. After the millions of tears I have shed during the past five years, first for Jeff and now for Daniel, it’s a surprise I have any left.

Jeff’s memory had trailed me like a ghost from Savannah to Atlanta, shadowing my sleep, disrupting my days, lingering in the howling, grieving space between reality and dreams until I thought my mind might leave me. Only Lucy, and Daniel’s unexpected entrance into my life, kept me rooted in the present. I had thought of Daniel as my lifesaver, until two weeks ago.

Now his angry words came rushing back. And Lucy’s anxious voice, sobbing from the bedroom, Mommy, why is he so mad? How can you tell a brooding, soulful seven-year-old you are trying to make your new marriage work, you still miss her father, you realize your new husband and your child really don’t know each other very well? How could she possibly understand what I didn’t completely understand myself?

Lucy had a tantrum. I sent her to her room but I’m certain she overheard most of our angry exchange. Daniel had thrown up his hands in the characteristic theatrics he uses so effectively in the courtroom. The gesture seemed overwhelming in such a small space as our kitchen.

Maybe you could help her over this troublesome time. When you think this over, I’ll be back—eventually. His careless words and the slamming door reverberated through our house. He had lost his temper when the indomitable prosecutor couldn’t answer a question about Lucy’s homework. She had responded by stamping her feet, reminding him he wasn’t her real father, and storming off.

Their words continued to chatter through my mind as I drove to our Buckhead home. Daniel had returned only briefly, packed his bag and departed for a lengthy consultation in Washington. He and his staff were deep in preparations for the trial occupying so much of his time now. That was two days ago. We had not spoken then and barely spoken since, and only over the phone in words chilly and impersonal. Lucy was spending the night with a friend.

No Daniel, no Lucy, an empty house. I dumped my outrageous purchase into a dresser drawer, went to bed and tossed until early morning. Would Daniel come back? How would we reconcile? Could I guide Lucy through this adjustment? Could I juggle the demands of my job along with this domestic upset and still appear professional to my audience? Did I rush into marriage with Daniel too soon after Jeff was killed? Does Lucy have any real memory of her dashing father?

These questions and the black image of my ridiculous purchase churned in my head.

When I finally slept, shadowy images with four paws walked on silent feet across my dreams.

Chapter 2

Darlene’s Story

The Voice

Always it is in my head. It has been talking to me since I was six.

Now as I sit in this reeking cell, thinking about Carlo and cursing the bitch who put me here, I wait for the voice. I know it will come. It will tell me what to do.

I remember the first time it came to me. I was on the playground at school, with a group of girls and boys from my class. It was recess. We were playing Red Rover.

Red Rover. Red Rover. Send Darlene right over, they chanted as they held hands in along chain, daring me to break it. They were laughing at me. They knew I would fail.

I was little, smaller than most of them. They were right. No matter how fast I ran, how I lunged against their clasped hands, I could never break through the chain. We had played this game before and always I ended up dangling, feet in the air, swinging with all my weight on their hands. But they would not let go, and I would hang, embarrassed, sometimes in tears, because I knew and they knew I was not big enough, or strong enough.

As soon as the game began, they called to me first because they knew I would be a certain target for their ridicule. I hated the game. I hated even more the taunts of my classmates when I refused to play. They called, and called, and I heard the voice.

It was not exactly a whisper, not very loud either, yet it was there. I could not hear what it said, but I felt it in the back of my mind. My vision shifted from their mocking faces to the visage of my stepfather in the night. He was leaning over my bed, touching me where I did not want to be touched.

I could not stop him, but I wanted to. I wanted to kill him. Looking at the faces of my classmates, I wanted to kill them, too.

I went through the chain.

I remember their shocked expressions. Two boys, both bigger than I, had been waiting for me with hands locked in a rock-hard grip. Now they were staring at me. The larger of the two was wringing his hand.

I don’t remember going through the chain. I only remember the look on their faces. I have seen that look many times since. The voice comes to me. It directs me. I do what it tells me to do. I do not remember what happens next. But I remember the look on people’s faces after I have done it.

When I went through the chain while playing Red Rover, one of my classmates, a mousy girl I hardly knew, said I looked like somebody else when I started running. She said she was afraid of me.

After that, my classmates didn’t bother me so much.

So now I wait. I wait for the voice. It will come. She will come.

Chapter 3

Garner

White Claws

It’s eight minutes to air and the familiar knot in my stomach has arrived, even after all this time, along with the fear of opening my mouth and being unable to utter a single syllable.

A jangling telephone interrupted my frantic computer search for the name of a police officer who had rescued three hostages from a gunman in an abandoned building on the southside of town. Clossong? Clostein? I cradled the receiver against my left shoulder while I continued the computer search.

Garner Olsen here.

Wear the pin. The cat pin. A girlish voice hissed in my ear. I had a sudden image of mauve lipstick and long dark hair.

Who is this? I demanded. How did you get this number?

Never mind. Wear the pin. Wear it on the air. We’ll be watching.

What pin?

You know which one. The voice was almost a whisper.

I don’t have it with me.

Too bad—for you. I heard the sound of a click, ending the connection.

It was now three minutes to air and I really didn’t have time to deal with some kook.

Strange callers were always worming their way into the station. The switchboard operator usually intercepted them, but by now he was gone for the day. We all carried cellphones but my station manager refused to give up landlines. Insurance, he called it.

My focus is generally pretty good, but when I thought about it later, it was clear the caller had unhinged me. I made two unforgiveable mistakes, both of them on-air. I mispronounced the name of the police officer. The assistant producer had assured me he was Clossong. I called him Clossing. And when I was to toss to the weatherman, I forgot Phil Sessions’ last name. We had worked together for four years.

"Not very with it tonight, were we, Dear? It was Larry Fromeyer, my long-on-patience executive producer, giving me his dour look. He calls me dear" when he is very upset with me.

He knows how much I hate it. I’ve broken him, finally, from referring to my blonde moments.

Sorry, Larry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.

Well, I hope some of what you’ve got on your mind includes this show before tomorrow night.

It will. Don’t worry, Larry. I’m sorry.

After the show’s postmortem recap, I headed for the door with weatherman Phil on my heels. He was chattering on about the hostage drama. Gentleman that he is, he didn’t mention my gaffe.

I’m taking Melinda and the kids to the lake Saturday. Why don’t you bring Lucy and come with us? The boys love her and a change of scenery wouldn’t do you any harm, either.

He was offering a sun-splashed interlude with good friends, blue water, relaxation. Could be just what I needed. Daniel wouldn’t be back in town for at least another week. I had made up my mind to accept the invitation before I reached the office door.

I think I might do just that, I turned to Phil, imagining Lucy’s delighted face when I told her she would be seeing Kevin and Keith, Phil’s eight-year-old harum-scarum twins. Can I bring some soft drinks or—

Phil was gazing open-mouthed beyond me to the station’s parking lot. Alarmed, I followed his eyes to my beloved black Alfa Romeo Spider roadster. All four tires, slashed. Red paint dripping across the little sports car’s trunk looked like fingers of blood. The smeared words were quite legible:

Next time do as we say.

Phil gasped, continuing to stare. Who would do such a thing? What does it mean?

But I knew. It had something to do with that cat pin.

We called the police, of course. Even accustomed to off-the-wall cranks and the occasional stalker obsessed with female anchors, the two officers agreed this prank was over-the-top. Nobody had seen anything or heard anything. The parking lot’s evening watchman had slipped across the street for a quick coffee.

They impounded my wheels. They promised to dust for fingerprints and scour for clues. Somehow, I knew they wouldn’t find a thing.

After Phil calmed me down, he put me in a taxi home. Maura, my housekeeper, had just tucked Lucy to bed. My daughter traded a wide yawn for a goodnight kiss. I smoothed her lavender coverlet, fluffed her pillows and she rolled over and fell immediately to sleep. The slight lemony scent of Lucy’s favorite shampoo drifted from her pillow. Maura had washed and dried her hair.

For a few quiet moments I reveled in the sight of my rambunctious child, so uncharacteristically quiet now as she slipped into dreamland. The tangle of brown curls she had inherited from her father spilled over the pillow. One arm sprawled carelessly across her forehead. The other clutched Toby, the life-like teddy bear Daniel had given her, the toy whose custody she shared with her imaginary friend Cora. I really didn’t know much about Cora, only that Lucy was mesmerized by her, sharing little-girl secrets when she thought no one else was around.

With a sigh, I closed her door softly and tiptoed across the hall where I opened the dresser drawer and took out my extravagant purchase. Pacing the floor, I wondered and fretted and kicked myself. As before, the diamond eyes glittered back at me, keeping their secrets.

I didn’t sleep at all that night. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw white claws in black paws.

Chapter 4

Darla

On the Streets: Becoming Darla

I had a dream last night. I was grateful for it. It took me away from this place, this dirty mattress, this window with bars and no view. Sometimes I am able to go someplace else when I am upset or unhappy or frightened. I believe this is a gift from the voice.

In my dream I am walking by myself down a dark sidewalk. It reminded me of my street life and brought so thoroughly into relief those early days that I remembered almost everything about them.

I ran away to the streets on my tenth birthday. When my stepfather had leaned across the table, grinning, I knew it was time.

I’ve got a birthday present for you, little girl, something special, he leered. I’ll give it to you tonight.

After I turned out the light in my bedroom and the house went half dark, I stuffed my pillowcase with a pair of jeans, two sweatshirts, a change of underwear and my toothbrush.

Listening for footsteps and hearing none, I climbed out the window.

My mother would not miss me. Since she had married him, she hadn’t minded when he pawed me, hugging me close in a smelly grip and declaring loudly, You’re growing, Darlene. You don’t look like such a baby anymore.

When he would talk to me this way, she would give me a funny look. Then she would disappear into the kitchen. I would hear the cabinet door under the sink open and close. Soon she would return, serene, with a glassy-eyed look that seemed to focus on no one in particular. I knew what was behind the cabinet door. Sometimes it was a pint of Johnnie Walker scotch. Or Jack Daniels bourbon. Or Smirnoff vodka she liked to mix with orange juice. Once she was holding a syringe in her hand. She quickly dropped it in her apron pocket when she saw me looking.

I hated them both. And so I left them alone in the small apartment on Atlanta’s seedy Edgewood Avenue. It was March and the night was cold. I wandered around the streets for a time until a car with four teenaged boys passed by me, slowed, and backed up.

I kept my head down and continued walking up the street. The car idled. It began to keep pace with my footsteps. I could hear the boys talking back and forth.

I think she’s kinda cute, for a kid.

She’s too young.

I dunno. She might be better than she looks.

The car stopped. A door opened. For the second time, I heard the voice. It told me to run. And I did.

The car followed me for about a block. When I turned down a dark alleyway, it paused. I heard the engine rev and the car speed away. At the end of the alley sat an old model Chevrolet, abandoned, unlocked, hubcaps missing, tires flat. I slipped into the back seat. It smelled ancient and oily. Springs pushed up through the upholstery but I didn’t care. I put my head on my stuffed pillowcase and went to sleep.

I don’t remember much about those first days and weeks, except that I was mostly cold, often hungry and very alone. Then I met Singulaire.

It was not his real name, of course. He said he chose it because he was a singular person and he liked the way it sounded. Nobody living on the streets actually used their real name, he told me. Most of them had dropped out or left families they hoped would not find them.

Singulaire was tall, skinny and had a gap-toothed grin. He wore ratty jeans and an old dirty denim jacket. His first words to me were, Hey, hey, hey, little girl. Whatcha doin’ out here all by your lonesome?

I had hardly met a kind face or heard an encouraging word for quite some time but I had a feeling I could like him. He bought me a doughnut and we talked about the Atlanta weather and living on the streets. He told me how it’s all happenin’ up on Twelfth Street and did I want to go? He said he had a pad we could share, and I could sleep there if I wanted to.

I didn’t know what was happenin’ – or what a pad was, but since I had nowhere else to go, I went with Singulaire.

We rode a city bus north on Peachtree Street. He paid. When we got off at Tenth and Peachtree, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was like a carnival. People were hanging out all over the street, sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, laughing and joking with each