Porter Island Chapter Four (standard:adventure, 3273 words)
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Jun 02 2024	Views/Reads: 340/218	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Ace agent Betty McCloud, alias Amanda Thornton, comes out of retirement to face her biggest challenge yet, and she's not getting any younger.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


“Yes, of course, Ms McCloud, my comments are just between us.” The
housekeeper turned aside, “May I also say that you're much more 
attractive than I thought you'd be.” 

Betty gave a polite smile. “Why, thank you. I may have muscles, but I'm
a lot more besides. I assure you. 

*** Following Stapleton's pretentious inspection of her staff, Betty had
made herself scarce, deeming it better to lessen the likelihood of 
friction. After all, Stapleton had the housekeeper to see to her needs. 
However, Stapleton thought it necessary to parade around Porter Island 
the following morning, her full-length yellow silk dress swirling 
around her ankles and matching parasol held aloft. Betty, the dutiful 
companion, accompanied her, wearing a conservative black dress matching 
the color of her hair and eyes. 

Approaching noon, Betty got her first taste of what lay beyond the
seemingly relaxed Porter Island environment. 

The previous day's mist had given way to sunlight and high humidity as
the pair took to walking. Betty tapped out the combination to the side 
gate, and they took the shingle path, initially running parallel to the 
lane before swinging away through a narrow avenue lined with evergreen 
oaks. The sun, high in the sky, meant the oaks provided little shade. 

“I really don't know how you can venture forth without a parasol in this
insufferable heat,” Stapleton remarked as they trod the winding path. 

Betty looked across, shrugging without comment. Stapleton appeared to
have overlooked the fact that it had been her choice to wander into the 
“insufferable heat” in her desire to be seen out and about. Besides, 
Betty knew that with her stamina, a parasol was unnecessary. She could 
run the distance into town despite the heat. 

Ten minutes later, the path broadened to reveal an intersection with the
main street, lined with perhaps a dozen shops on either side. Stapleton 
stopped, aghast, gesticulating as the occasional vehicle passed by. 
“Good heavens,” she let out in exasperation, “is this it? They've sent 
us all the way out here for this? I mean ...” 

Betty let Stapleton ramble, knowing full well that first appearances
could be deceptive. True, the initial appearance did look placid, 
harmless—just a handful of retail outfits, a couple of bars, a few 
parked vehicles, and the odd one passing through, the kind of scene 
that might be found in any US small town, but she knew the mission 
wouldn't have been initiated without reason. And if Stapleton's idea of 
venturing into Porter Island's center served one thing, it was 
familiarization with their surroundings. 

Further along, the main street concluded at an intersection, revealing
the promenade and broad sweep of the sea as it wound its way around 
from Porter Island Bridge. 

Suddenly, down at the front, things didn't seem so tranquil anymore. A
sizeable marina lay across the road to their right, alongside a casino, 
its doors already open with considerable activity outside its revolving 
doors, while the police precinct was further over to their left. 

Crossing the road, a brief walk in that direction took them past the
precinct as a tall, well-built male came down the steps, raising his 
hat to them. “Hey, ladies, how yer doin'?” His gaze swept over 
Stapleton before coming to rest on Betty, where it traveled from head 
to toe and back again. “Say, you new to these parts? Sure reckon I'd 
have noticed if you weren't.” 

Betty met his gaze head-on before Stapleton beat her to answer, “I'm
Shonda Stapleton, and I've purchased The Hurst, the old colonial 
residence.” 

“Yes, I know where it is, ma'am.” The tall man's brown eyes narrowed.
“Just didn't know it was for sale, and I know most things around these 
parts. I'm Dale Shriver, anyhow, sheriff, and I welcome you to our 
town.” Shriver switched his inquiring gaze back to Betty. “And you are 
...” 

“She's my companion,” Stapleton jumped in again, her nose in the air,
and Betty's dark eyes flashed with indignation, something which didn't 
escape Shriver, she was sure. 

“And your companion has a name?” Shriver asked, leaning forward. 

“Amanda Thornton,” Betty got in, using her designated name for the
mission, as Stapleton opened her mouth to speak again. 

“And how long have you been Ms Stapleton's companion, may I ask?” 

The way Shriver put the question alerted Betty. It might have been the
sheriff's inquisitive nature, but nonetheless, she felt he was trying 
to scratch beneath the surface. But of course, it was Stapleton who 
dived right in again. “For several years, Sheriff Skiver, why do you 
ask?” 

“Shriver, ma'am,” the sheriff corrected, not looking in the least amused
at Stapleton's mispronunciation. 

“Just natural curiosity.” The sheriff shrugged. “And it's my job to
acquaint myself with the island's new arrivals.” 

Stapleton sniffed haughtily. “Yes, well, you'll have more of an
opportunity on Saturday next. You'll be aware of the house party at The 
Hurst. Invitations have been extended to the entire police department 
here.” 

Betty bit her lip to stop the derision she felt inside from revealing
itself. Most certainly, the entire police department was not invited, 
though undoubtedly, Shriver was. She had been shown the invitation list 
by Mike Anthony during induction, but it was typical of Stapleton to 
promote her own self-importance.  “Now, we must be on our way. Good day 
to you, sir.” Stapleton lofted her head in the air. “Come along, 
Thornton,” she instructed, her long legs taking her across the road 
from the police precinct, where a narrow sidewalk appeared to connect 
to the main street. Increasing her pace to stay abreast, Betty noticed 
Stapleton's intentions. The alleyway resembled the neck of a bottle 
before opening up somewhat further along. But it was those first 
fifteen or so yards that gave Betty cause for concern. The rear 
doorways, void of sunlight, provided groups of loiterers with ample 
opportunity to crouch with their crack or spirits, many of whom cast 
hostile eyes at their approach. 

“You sure you want to take this route, Ms. Stapleton?” Betty asked,
voice raised in apparent concern for her make-believe employer. 
“Naturally,” Stapleton answered brashly. “I'll not let a few stinking 
down and outs inhibit my path.” 

Betty sighed internally. Her mission here was to tame an unruly town by
using her muscles if it came to it, but Stapleton's intentions were 
obvious: to make things as awkward for her as possible. 

“Yer hear what that fancy bitch just called us?” 

“Stinkin' down and outs? Yeah." A tall, wiry youth grinned at his mate,
his look turning to a scowl as he stared at Stapleton with yellow, 
tobacco-stained teeth. He rose to his full height. “Guess she needs 
teaching some manners.” 

“Both of them come to that,” his pal cut in. Their four mates gathered
in an arc behind them as the pair advanced on the women. 

Betty took a deep breath, steeled herself, and cut in front of
Stapleton. “Now, fellas,” she said, her voice clear and composed, “quit 
with the obstruction 'less you want moving out of our path.” 

“Will yer listen to that? Calm as yer like.” The wiry youth guffawed and
turned to his colleagues and then swung back – into Betty's fist, which 
pummelled into his ribcage, bending him double. Swooping low, Betty 
forced her forearm under his crotch, and with her biceps swelling the 
wide sleeves of her dress, she raised him into the air above her head, 
her arms stretching back and then forward as she propelled him into his 
mates, the force of her throw leaving a tangled mess of bodies and 
limbs on the floor. Betty ran her dark-eyed gaze over the mass on the 
floor, straightened up, and glanced at Stapleton. “When you're ready, 
Ma'am.” 

“We need to report this,” Stapleton objected, lofting her head airily
from behind Betty's protective stance. 

Betty hooked her hand around Stapleton's forearm, guiding her away from
the horizontal rabble. “Unhand me, woman,” came the shrill complaint. 

“Keep your voice down,” Betty whispered, her sheer power rendering
resistance futile. And then, when they were out of range, “The 
authorities will learn soon enough.” “But – but if you leave it to 
them, they'll make it seem like you started on them.” 

Betty smiled and glanced back at the heap of bodies on the concrete. 

“Well, it'll give us an indication of how things work around here, and
I'm guessing not very well.” 

Stapleton sniffed. “Guess I should thank you for stepping in there,
though I could have handled it myself.” 

“Just doing what comes naturally.” Betty batted the first half of
Stapleton's statement away but masked her annoyance at the latter. 
While it was a rare acknowledgment of sorts, Stapleton's insistence in 
plowing into an alley festering with street crime would have led her 
into deeper trouble. Stapleton carried none of Betty's massive power, 
and she knew Stapleton's self-defense awareness was rusty. Betty knew 
if push came to shove when it came to physical prowess, she was on her 
own. Which was how she liked it. 

*** 

Betty stared out her bedroom window at the former colonial estate's lush
green lawn. Tom McNichol, the caretaker, was sweeping the crescent, and 
noticing she'd caught his eye, she waved, about to turn away when she 
spotted the black sedan pulling up outside the front entrance. Peering 
through the lace curtains, she saw the tall figure of Sheriff Shriver 
emerge from the driver's seat and sighed. If this was confrontation 
time, it hadn't been long in coming. 

Betty crossed to the door and held it ajar. Downstairs, the housekeeper
answered his ring. “Sheriff ...” 

“Yes, Sheriff Shriver, ma'am. Is the lady of the house available?” 

“I'm here, Sheriff Skiver,” came the over-polished voice from the
hallway. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?” 

“Shriver, ma'am,” Betty heard the sheriff say with emphasis. “I believe
you were involved in a skirmish shortly after we met. I'm merely 
checking that all is okay.” 

Merely checking. Betty smiled at that. He was hardly just checking. “I
wonder if we might chat in the parlor?” 

Here it comes, Betty thought. The inquisition. She slipped out of her
room, descended the staircase, and paused on the bottom stair, finger 
to her lips as housekeeper Jacobs emerged from one of the ground-floor 
rooms. 

“So, Ms. Stapleton, what exactly happened, might I ask?” 

“I was set upon by a group of louts on a narrow sidewalk,” Stapleton
began indignantly. “But I soon put them to rights.” 

“You did?” The sheriff's voice rose a notch. 

“Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. I gave them a bout of verbal.”
Betty shook her head. She'd heard enough. The sheriff knew what had 
happened; she'd stake her bottom dollar on it. 

She swept into the room with an apologetic smile. “Excuse me, my
employer sometimes experiences difficulty in recalling events, Sheriff. 
I advised the group blocking our path to move. When they didn't, I 
punched the ringleader and then threw him into his friends to clear our 
path. That was all.” 

“That was all,” the sheriff repeated. He bit his lip. “You threw him.” 

“Yes.” Betty's dark eyes bore into the sheriff as she added
matter-of-factly, “I picked him up and launched him at them. But then 
you knew that, didn't you.” 

Sheriff Shriver nodded, his expression grim. “An officer witnessed the
incident from the top of the sidewalk, but by the time he got there, 
you'd moved on.” 

Convenient, Betty thought, and the sheriff's next question wasn't
unexpected. “So, Ms. Thornton, isn't it?” At Betty's affirmation, he 
continued, “You are Ms. Stapleton's companion, and yet you can pick up 
a grown man and throw him with such force he sends his friends to the 
floor in a heap.” 

“I'm also her protector, bodyguard if you will.” Betty crossed her arms,
covered in a loose-fitting black blouse, and gazed down on Shriver as 
he sat on the couch. “Is there something wrong with that?” 

“No.” Shriver shook his head. “But what concerns me is that two women
just turn up on this island out of the blue, one seemingly very wealthy 
and the other obviously physically very powerful, and I find myself 
asking why?” 

Stapleton glanced at Betty, and Betty dived in before the woman could
complicate things further. “We simply thought Porter Island seemed a 
nice place to live, Sheriff. We'd had good reports on it, and the 
colonial property, well, it caught our eye almost straight away during 
a previous visit. We hadn't expected to find quite the dubious 
community we just encountered. Isn't that right, madam?” Away from the 
sheriff's sight, Betty's eyes blazed with seldom matched intensity, 
compelling Stapleton to agree. 

“Absolutely,” Stapleton agreed, adopting her familiar haughty pose and
brushing a hand through her perfectly coiffed hair. 

“Okay.” Shriver got to his feet and reached for his hat. “In that case,
I'll take my leave. Just thought I'd clarify a few things. I'll see 
myself out. Shriver paused by the parlor door. “Might I suggest you 
stay clear of the seedier areas? No matter how fine a town's 
reputation, less desirable areas are sure to be encountered. I look 
forward to seeing you both at the house party.” 

Betty seethed. Stapleton's haughty antics risked jeopardizing the whole
operation. Due to her ill-advised sortie into the troublesome alley, 
Betty had been forced to display her explosive power far earlier than 
she'd reckoned. Shriver was immediately suspicious, and rightly so. 
Whether he was a decent lawman going about his job or himself part of 
the corrupt set-up on Porter Island was too early to say, but Stapleton 
needed to be brought to heel before she managed to expose the whole 
operation. 

Betty caught up with the woman in the hallway, effortlessly pulling her
aside. “You need to tone down your manner, particularly around public 
figures.” 

Stapleton's pasty-white complexion flushed red. “Remove your hands ...
you're getting more than a little handy at accosting me. 

“With good reason.” Betty's powerful left arm flexed as she tightened
her grip on Stapleton's forearm. “Now—Shriver is no fool, and because 
of your inclination to parade yourself to all and sundry, we have a 
situation already.” 

Stapleton raised her chin in the air. “What do you mean by ‘a
situation'?” 

Betty lifted her gaze and glared, her eyes burning into Stapleton. “Do I
really need to spell it out? Although he tried to cover his real 
purpose, Shriver's visit was hardly a welfare check. He's already 
sensed that all is not what it seems.” Betty sighed and relinquished 
her hold on Stapleton, placing her hands on her hips. “It could have 
been no coincidence that he all but collided with us outside the police 
precinct. Have you thought about that? It also seems hardly 
coincidental that an officer apparently saw me dealing with the 
incident you walked us into.” 

“I did not ...” 

Betty's dark eyes blazed. “Don't even go there and try to deny it.” She
gritted her teeth. “Now listen to me. The house party has been 
deliberately set up to enable us to identify the criminal element, who, 
you can be certain, will attend. We can't afford your overstated 
loftiness to expose our true reasons for being on Porter Island. It's 
bordering on it already. Just be your natural overbearing self, which, 
believe me, is quite enough.” 

Stapleton drew breath and expelled it forcefully at Betty. “Why, I've
never been so insulted.” 

“And cut the crap.” Betty turned toward the central staircase, long,
black, curly hair sweeping over her shoulder as she added, “It's why 
Mike Anthony chose you, after all, chump that he can be.


Tweet