Note: The piece is actually longer than what I could get pasted here. As I thought last time, “A Story of Emily Post” is going to run past Halloween. I will keep up with the schedule and post this story on Wednesdays. Like the story? Leave a comment. Don’t like the story? Leave a comment.
– III –
Emily read the letter again. In fact, she read it three more times.
This was a death threat. Someone was threatening to kill her. Her. But why? Emily Marcella Post was the unremarkable. She wasn’t just unremarkable, she was vanilla unremarkable. Some people had said she was beautiful with her heart shaped face, thick auburn hair, and blue green eyes, but when Emily looked in the mirror she just saw…Emily. She was neither pretty nor un-pretty; beautiful nor ugly: She was just Emily Post who got weird feelings and knew things without knowing how she knew them sometimes. OK, it was a lot – she knew things a lot, but that didn’t mean she was special. It just meant she was who she was.
What of the other woman the writer, “Death”, mentioned, Wilhelmina Chastain? Who was she and how could she possibly teach Emily anything. As far as she knew, gifts like hers couldn’t be taught. In fact, the world wasn’t at all sure it even existed. “Charlatans”, “freaks”, and “geeks” were most often associated with people who claimed to have psychic abilities. Emily had never claimed to have any abilities at all, except a knack for painting and drawing.
William and Paula Post, her parents, had even sent her to Connecticut and Yale to receive her B.A. in the arts and had even left her a sizeable inheritance so she could pursue that dream. Since their death and Sean’s subsequent problems, Emily just hadn’t been inspired to paint.
Emily dug into her pocket for her cell phone. She needed to call the police. It was surprising how calm and together she was acting. The Post children didn’t fall apart, it seemed, until after the situation was over, because once Emily had reported this to the police and gotten the other woman some help; she was going to go to the liquor store and get the biggest bottle of sweet blackberry wine she could find and she was going to drink it, too!
Now the question became did she call 911 or the non-emergency number for the police. Was she in any danger now? According to the note she wasn’t. Did she trust the note? No, not really, but that weird thing that happened to her sometimes (often) said “Death” would keep his word. He always had before.
Emily’s hands began shaking. There was no doubt in any cell of her being this person had done it before, and it was definitely a man. He was big, square shouldered, and she could almost see his face like a blurred photo.
How many times had he killed already? It didn’t matter: It was going to end now. This guy didn’t know he was messing with a Kentucky woman. Emily really didn’t feel all that brave, but she gave herself the pep-talk anyway.
A knock on the door sent Benny into a fit. Friskers ran ahead of Emily to the door. The cat’s black tail straight up in the air. He was looking for mischief. Grandma’s large wooden desk was in front of the picture window, which also happened to be next to the door, was his destination. Friskers jumped easily onto the desk and settled onto his haunches almost in one movement. He was looking through the storm door at the knocker with his head cocked slightly to the right and his tail was twitching ever so slightly.
Emily’s gaze went from the cat to the storm door and visitor. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a head of thick black hair. Emily stopped a couple of feet short of the door to scoop up Benny who was barking in full protection mode.
“Ms. Post, Emily Post, my name is Detective Clay Spells from the Lexington Police Department. You called earlier about a threat being made on your life?” The voice that emanated from the full lipped, square jawed face was deep, and yet soothing.
“Mm…may I see some identification?” Emily made certain to raise her voice so she could hear him. Without flinching Det. Clay Spells pulled an idea out of his inside jacket pocket and pressed it against the glass of the door at the top. There was no way that light storm door would have kept the man out of the house if he had wanted to be inside. Emily swallowed. The identification said he was exactly who he said he was, and the badge didn’t hurt either. Emily unlocked the storm door and Detective Clay Spells stepped into the living room.
- A Story of Emily Post, by Henrietta Asher Handy (kmgn.me)
- A Story of Emily Post – Part II (kmgn.me)
- Technical Difficulties (kmgn.me)
- For the record, I did not so much “chase down the robbers” as my son has been describing it. I followed them from a discreet distance in a subtle manner. Emily Post would have approved. I think. (hummingbirdhomemaker.com)