Punchline

By Lynette DeVries

Amelia Landry is a natural at writing scenes for her screenplay characters, but lately it seems her own life is unraveling in real time. She can barely afford the rent on her L.A. apartment, her boyfriend has become a permanent
fixture on the couch, and her work in progress is stuck in editing limbo. The latest blow—the death of her grandmother—calls her back to her midwest home, where an heirloom typewriter hints at a secret life.

Amelia returns to California, where she feels doomed to play a bit role in a second-rate script—but then she meets Sebastian, a quirky but sweet actor whose emotions are all over the map. He's the kind of character Amelia has always dreamed of writing, but she isn't sure how he fits into her life.

Meanwhile, she can't stop wondering if there's more to her grandmother's story than meets the eye. Will emerging clues lead Amelia to a dead end . . . or will they inspire her to write the future she's always wanted?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynette DeVries
• Release date: Mar 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224988778

Lynette DeVries

Lynette DeVries spent countless childhood hours at her manual typewriter creating choose-your-own-adventure stories and mysteries inspired by the Nancy Drew series.After college, she began writing scripts for various shows on Americana Television Network, and later she wrote episodes of the nationally syndicated Could It Be a Miracle, hosted by Robert Culp. She also wrote for print news and magazines, radio and advertising, but her first love is fiction. Her published novels include The Geminae Duology (Book One: Synchronicity and Book Two: Salvation), OtherLife, The Scars That Remain, Bygones, Grift, and her newest release, Punchline.

Book preview

1

Ruth lifted her fingers from the typewriter keys, listening.

She’d already scrambled from the carpeted closet floor twice to peer out the bedroom window, her heart galloping inside her chest. Both proved to be false alarms: the school bus rumbling to a stop on the corner, a neighbor pulling into a driveway.

It was autumn—not quite warm enough to slide the window all the way open—but Ruth kept it cracked a couple of inches, just enough to let the street noise in. She couldn’t be too careful.

This time, she found the mail truck idling at the curb. She pressed her forehead to the window glass, tracked the mailman as he made his way up the front walk toward her house. He was new to their route—to the profession, based on his peppy stride—but Ruth wouldn’t make the mistake of meeting him at the front door again.

Yesterday, she’d been outside cleaning the windows with Ajax when he’d pulled up. She’d met him on the doorstep to intercept the mail—a handful of supermarket advertisements, nothing that could cause trouble if it fell into the wrong hands. Her haphazard bun and pale-yellow apron made her look more matronly than newlywed, but the mailman had let his eyes linger on her mouth too long and tried to strike up a conversation.

From upstairs, Ruth heard a telltale metallic squeal—the hatch on the mailbox outside the front door opening and closing. She shut the bedroom window and locked it, then hurried to the closet. She stooped to yank the page from the grips of the typewriter roller, then lifted the machine into its case and secured the latch. She hefted it, grunting, onto the top shelf of the closet, then arranged the hat boxes around it, a wall of camouflage George wouldn’t likely disturb.

A little over a year ago, she’d pulled over at a summer yard sale, a detour driven by an impulse to add to her Corningware collection. The cookware was picked over, but a baby blue Smith Corona typewriter displayed inside an open carrying case drew her attention. The machine was sleek and solid, the painted finish on one corner scratched, the ribbon sagging and dried out. The price, a measly two dollars, couldn’t be beat.

In high school, she’d taken Typing 101 with a gray-haired woman who preached the virtues of mastering sixty error-free words per minute. Ruth had no aspirations for a secretarial career, but there was something about typing—the staccato rhythm punctuated by the ding at the end of each line—that soothed her nerves.

When she got home, Ruth stashed her garage sale find on a high closet shelf, ashamed of her frivolous purchase. As an adolescent, she’d devoured the Nancy Drew mysteries, had even fantasized about being an author, creating entire worlds with a cup of tea and a crackling fire for company. She wasn’t a kid anymore; she was a married homemaker with real responsibilities.

She’d forgotten about the typewriter until the night Vivian Hall lured her away from her whirring cake mixer. The TV comedienne’s invitation was directed at the audience in the studio and beyond, but Ruth couldn’t help but feel singled out. She’d rushed into the living room to stand in front of the television, her pulse quickening. Vivian Hall Tonight routinely kept her company while she made dinner, but this impromptu call to action was unusual. Long after the show cut to an Electrolux commercial and her cake batter was over-mixed and gummy, Ruth stayed there, her mind racing. She’d seen Vivian’s conspiratorial wink, had heard the innuendo in her voice: all submissions are welcome, but typewritten entries may be given special consideration.

Ruth hurried downstairs, put her eye to the peephole, and watched the mailman slide into his truck, whistling a nameless tune. She waited for his truck to pull away, then went outside to dip her hand into the wall-mounted mailbox. She coaxed a stack of envelopes out, then swept the metal interior with her fingers to be sure she hadn’t missed anything.

Back inside, she stood in the entryway and leafed through the stack, her fingers trembling, until she found the envelope postmarked September 15, 1964 from Palm Springs, California. Seeing her home address—Ruth Everson, 3828 Rainwood Drive, Oak Lawn, Illinois, 60453—gave her the same thrill it had the first time she’d received one.

She slid a fingernail under the envelope flap and shook the contents out: twenty-five dollars in cash and a note written in red pen.

These are fantastic, doll! Hope to use all five of these zingers in the near future. Cheers, Viv.

Ruth reread the note, her pulse fluttering at her throat, her eyes pooling with tears of gratitude. Was she really on a first-name basis with Vivian Hall, the household name, the comedic legend?

A car door slammed outside, jarring Ruth from her thoughts. She tossed the other mail onto the hall table and took the stairs two at a time. She made a beeline for the bedroom closet, then stuffed the envelope into the deep pocket of an old housecoat, where she’d stashed the others over the past three months.

The front door opened, then closed so hard it shuddered in the frame. Ruth knew what that meant: George was drunk or angry, or both.

She slid the accordion closet doors together, then winced as the ball of her foot came down on something small and sharp.

Hellfire, she hissed, then bent to get a closer look at the culprit: a white plastic circle printed with the letter H. It made her think of a broken-off button, seemingly insignificant and easy to take for granted—until it was missing.

Ruth! George’s voice boomed from the bottom of the stairs.

Be right down, dear. She hoped he hadn’t heard the tremor in her voice.

There was no time to tuck the typewriter key into the case behind the hatbox wall, so she dropped it into her apron pocket. She breezed into the hall, a smile frozen on her face, her forehead shining with perspiration.

The chicken will be done soon, she sang out as she glided down the stairs, her hand whispering along the banister. He stepped aside, glowering, to let her pass. Let me fix you a drink, dear.

A drink was the last thing George needed—he reeked like a distillery—but Ruth hoped it would shift his attention to something other than her.

Make it a double, he grumbled. He shook his jacket off, attempted to hang it on a doorknob, then let it slide to the floor. Goddamned shitty day. Nothing but incompetence from start to finish.

Ruth scurried to retrieve the jacket, then opened the coat closet to hang it up. Why don’t you put your feet up until dinner’s on the table, dear?

George steadied himself on the door jamb and looked at her, his eyes narrowed, until Ruth dropped her gaze to her hands. She smoothed her apron, felt her fingers slide over the small bulge inside the front pocket.

Maybe I will. He stumbled toward the living room. Ruth heard him collapse into the recliner with a grunt, then mumble under his breath: Goddamned shitty day.

2

Amelia sat with her back against the wall outside Apartment 305, hugging her knees to her chest.

She’d texted Luke three times in the past hour, but he hadn’t responded. The notification beneath each message—delivered—ruled out a dead battery or powered-off phone. That left two options: Luke was either ignoring her texts or too preoccupied to check his phone. She wasn’t sure which option she liked less.

She listened to the voices behind the door and wondered what the best strategy was. Wait for a lull, then ring the doorbell and enter amid an awkward hush—or glide in during the next swelling of laughter and suffer the inevitable guess you had to be there looks?

She got to her feet, let her finger hover over the doorbell button, then jumped when the door swung open. Two guys spilled out into the hallway, bringing the stink of cigarettes with them.

One of the guys let loose with a loud belch, then pointed at Amelia. Ice run—you wanna drive?

Amelia took a step backward, her face flaming with heat. I’m good, thanks.

Yeah? Belching guy eyeballed her. Got any reviews to back up that claim?

Amelia blinked at him. Um . . .

He clattered down the stairs, his friend trailing behind. Their chuckles echoed off the concrete walls.

Amelia stood there, undecided. The two guys had left the apartment door wide open behind them. Now what?

A girl appeared in the doorway, her long red hair flung over her shoulder, her face flushed from alcohol or dancing. Can I help you?

No, thanks, Amelia blurted. I mean, I’m Amelia? She wasn’t sure why she’d phrased it as a question, but there was no taking it back.

The red-haired girl bobbed her head. Amelia. Cool.

Luke? Amelia cleared her throat. Luke invited me? Another question—Jesus.

Oh. The redhead sighed. Okay. She stepped aside to let Amelia pass. I’m going out for a smoke—think I need my jacket?

No, Amelia said, then shrugged. Maybe? She wasn’t about to tell this stranger she’d been lurking in the hall for forty-five minutes, that she’d been too nervous to notice the weather on her way in.

The redhead raised an eyebrow, then headed for the stairs, her boot heels clicking.

Amelia ventured inside the apartment, clutching her purse to her hip, her eyes skimming the faces in the room without lingering too long on anyone. She wove between bodies, careful to choose a route that would allow her to stay in motion until she found Luke. Where the hell was he?

Amelia slid her cell phone out of her back pocket and checked her text messages—still nothing—then felt her shoulder connect with the elbow of a blonde girl who seemed to be hearing music that no one else heard.

Party foul. The blonde grinned and stepped aside, hips swiveling. Amelia was still wondering if the foul was hers when Luke stumbled into her view.

Amelia! His eyes were wide, and his smile showed all his teeth. "I was starting to think you