Carbon Dating

by Jerusha Jones

  She was still huffing from her trot across the long lengths of wooden walkways that serve as thoroughfares in the marina when I opened the door. We live at opposite ends and she has short legs, so she’d really been hoofing it.

  “Come in, come in,” I singsonged.

  “Good heavens,” she blurted.

  I didn’t even turn around to see what had her riled this time, but proceeded back to my spot on the couch where I’d shed my gorgeous boots with the wedge heels and had been massaging my calves. I groaned a little as I eased back down onto the cushions. Why did I always forget how much muscle tension a day spent in heels causes? And why had I worn them for the second time that week?

  Actually, I knew the answer to the second question, and I wasn’t going to say it out loud. But having on your stomping boots is just good practice if you know you’re going to irritate a handsome detective.

  And it wasn’t just my calves that were cramping in agony. I arched my back and stretched my arms over my head.

  “You went out dressed like that?” Bettina finally exclaimed.

  “Do you have a problem with it?” I growled. There was nothing wrong with my outfit, or rather with the parts of the ensemble that I still had on. The boots had been the first to go, but the jacket had followed, as well as the pretty scarf with the autumnal leaf-print pattern.

  “There’s nothing wrong with your outfit.” Bettina clapped her hands together and performed some sort of tippy-toe jig, much like a spastic marionette.

  Exactly. I glared at her.

  “I haven’t seen—I mean, you always need help—it’s just that…” Bettina frowned at my scowl. “Your fashion sense isn’t always up to par,” she finally announced, narrowing her eyes at me.

  So sayeth the orange-haired pixie in the brilliant turquoise tunic with gold lamé trim that came to her knees, throwing into relief the leopard print booties with big decorative buckles that capped the gold stretchy leggings she had on underneath.

  “Rarely up to par, to be honest,” she further clarified. “Or has your general wardrobe ineptitude been a ruse this whole time?”

  “Ugggh.” I flopped back against the pillows. “Acclimation. Things are different here, and I needed a cultural interpreter. You know that. This”—I flapped a hand down the length of my body—“is my second-best imitation New York City outfit. Or what passes for an imitation New York City outfit in this part of the country since I got rid of all my real New York City clothes. Believe it or not, I’ve actually been cosmopolitan a few times in my life, but they certainly aren’t the highlights of my long and illustrious career.” Sarcasm fairly oozed from my pores.

  “Darling.” Bettina shoved my legs aside and plopped down next to me. “Never you mind. I’m well aware that people around here love their plaid and corduroy. But I also suspected that you had this suavity in you.” She squeezed her hands together again in a gesture of beatific joy. “Big meeting?” she asked eagerly, her voice turning those two simple words into something momentous and full of implications.

  Did crashing a search warrant party count as big? “You could say that,” I replied warily.

  “With Vaughn?”

  How on earth did she know? I squeezed my eyes shut and kept my groan on the inside. “Partly.”

  “Did his eyeballs pop out of his head when he saw you?”

  I squinted a peek at her through my eyelashes. “Why would they?” Although now that she mentioned it, maybe that was an apt description for how he’d ogled me the other day, after the confrontation with Denise Puttnam, when I’d been wearing my first-best imitation New York City outfit.

  Bettina sighed loudly. “I know he’s not demonstrative. He’s just like his father that way. It’s a cross you’ll have to bear.” She patted my knee.

  I bit my tongue and resqueezed my eyelids. Rats. Rats. Rats. A big, loopy grin was trying to gain footing on my face, and I just didn’t quite have the muscle control to suppress it…because there were some things—some moments—when not demonstrative was the very last term I’d use to describe Vaughn Malloy. Particularly when he made those low growly sounds and nuzzled me.

  But his mother certainly didn’t need to know that.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked hopefully, probably because I’d been quiet for too long. She’s not a big fan of empty spaces in conversations, exactly unlike her son in that regard.

  Her question made my eyes fly open. Was she angling for a supper invitation? I had only a couple containers of leftovers in the fridge. My days had been too full to even dream about what delicious dish to cook next.

  But her warm brown eyes were earnest. “You haven’t been to Pip’s yet, have you? I’m just dying to have one—okay, maybe six—of their dirty wu doughnuts.”

  She wanted the juicy stuff—I knew it. I knew it. But did that stop me from agreeing to go eat doughnuts with her? Of course not.

  Because if Bettina wanted to bribe me, I might just be amenable to that. Anyhow, there wasn’t much I could tell her that she couldn’t find out other ways, except for all those tender details about Vaughn, of course.

  “Dirty wu?” I wrinkled my nose, pretending to resist.

  She tipped her head and arched a brow at me, making her dangly earrings jingle. She knew she had me hooked. “Coated with cinnamon-sugar, raw honey, warm Nutella, and sea salt. Consume at your own risk. They’re also known for their chai blends.”

  I rolled off the couch and headed for the closet in my unused bedroom. “Give me five.” Because if I was going out in Portland, I was going to look—and be comfortable—just like a Portlander, plaid or not.

  CHAPTER 17

  I’d read her wrong—so very wrong. Bettina wasn’t trying to extract gossip and hearsay out of me. She’d been contemplating a secret adventure, and it was on the verge of causing her gastrointestinal distress. Her solution? Scarfing doughnuts and baring her soul, in that order.

  I had to admit her choice of truth serum was deliriously mesmerizing, borderline hallucinogenic. Because nothing of consequence was revealed until we were swiping our fingers through the honey drizzles remaining on the otherwise empty plate and sipping our chai.

  I’d consumed three pear butter with apple cider glaze doughnuts and three of the infamous dirty wu variety. To be fair, they were small doughnuts. I did, after all, have the effects of both excessive glucose and excessive insulin on my mind. Plus Emmylou chai. Bliss. Bliss. Bliss.

  Bettina knew exactly what she was doing. She waited until I had a nice sugar and spice haze about my brain, then launched a data dump in the form of glossy brochures which she pulled from a sequined satchel that probably weighed as much as she did, even including the round of doughnuts now in her belly.

  Confidante. I groaned internally. I emit an aura or something. It’s the bane of my existence. People volunteer personal information to me on a regular basis. Close friends, complete strangers, the check-out clerk at the grocery store, the UPS delivery guy, little kids who are waiting for the school bus on drizzly mornings when I go out power walking, and pretty much everyone else along that wide spectrum of acquaintanceship. And usually, they bestow information I don’t necessarily want to have in my head, running rampant over my own thoughts like an invasive species.

  “So what do you think?” Bettina asked, her pert gaze fixed adroitly on my face.

  So adroitly that I was afraid to let even a little tick of annoyance show. “Are you asking for my professional opinion? Because you know all kinds of tricks can be done with Photoshop,” I replied, running my fingertips over the gaudy pictures of retired and supremely suntanned couples enjoying mai tais while leaning against the cruise ship’s railing and dusky girls in grass hula skirts. Presumably, one would meet girls just like those pictured if one were to shell out a few grand for the privilege of embarking on one of the company’s luxury liners. I could see how the idea might hold potent appeal for a vitamin-D-starved Pacific Northwesterner.

  “No. For me. As a vacation.” Bett
ina formed the words carefully, still eyeing me with a sort of studiousness I couldn’t quite decipher. “I’ve heard they’re man magnets.”

  I spluttered. And had to wipe chai off my chin. “The hula girls or the cruises?”

  “The cruises.” But her eyes narrowed a bit. Maybe she hadn’t thought about the girl angle before. “For lonely single men of a certain age. It’s a safe environment, lots of group activities. A good way to meet a potential mate.”

  Mmhmm. So said some conniving travel agent, I thought. “Do you need this?” I asked instead.

  She inhaled and squared her shoulders, looking for all the world like a strutty little jewel-toned peacock on the wood bench opposite me. “Yes. You’re nice and all, a good friend. Maybe even a future daughter-in-law.” Ahh, she just couldn’t leave that subject alone. “I have lots of friends, actually,” she continued. “But none of you keep me warm at night. And the prospects around here are absolutely dismal. I need to go where the action is. Did you know that’s how Gloria and Luque met—on a cruise?”

  I could only shake my head. “Well, I don’t see why not.” I sighed. I assumed she could afford it, and if she wanted to find a man, she would, whether on a cruise or not, and regardless of her assessment of the current dearth of eligible bachelors. Might as well enjoy the experience. But I didn’t look forward to picking up the pieces afterward. She had more savviness now that she’d been through the experience of almost being ripped off by a conman who’d plied the romantic trade via Facebook.

  “Really?” She was bouncing on her seat, sharing her enthusiasm with all the other people perched on the length of the bench.

  I shrugged reluctantly.

  “So how do you think Vaughn will feel about it?”

  And there was the real reason for her trepidation—and for buttering me up.

  I forced a smile around my clenched teeth. “You could just ask him.”

  In so many ways, I was becoming a relay transfer station. And I didn’t appreciate it. Passing on things I’d observed or reporting overheard conversations to Vaughn if they pertained to the case. I wanted to be a good citizen. But refereeing sensitive topics between mother and son? Good grief.

  In fact, nope. Just no. My head kept shaking. “Bring it up yourself,” I said. “You’re an adult.” So much for my fantastic public relations skills.

  Bettina’s face scrunched into suspicious lines. “The bomb thing sure has you on edge.” She sniffed. “You used to be fun.”

  It required willpower of epic proportions not to roll my eyes.

  “Vaughn’s grouchy too. He’s rubbing off on you, apparently.” The calculating look was back in her brown eyes. “I guess that’s not so bad,” she offered, “if that means you’re spending time together.” She waggled her brows suggestively.

  I refused to rise to the bait.

  “But you could be civil,” she continued, adding another expressive sniff. “Even Willow’s been touchy lately. There’s something in the air out at that farm, I swear.” She huffed.

  “What about Willow?” I asked, intrigued. I hadn’t seen the teenager about the marina—or in my kitchen—for several days, and that wasn’t normal.

  “Working her tail off. Something to do with pumpkins.” Bettina delicately stuck her tongue into her mug, trying to lick the last of the foam from inside. “She carries more responsibility than most adults I know,” she added after giving up on the acrobatic effort.

  Which was true. Willow’d had to grow up fast, out of necessity. Roxy’s worries were well-founded. But I thought the farm was one of the better environments where Willow could learn how to earn a wage—in spite of the bomb scare and the macabre gravesite. Nash and Denby were terrific examples and seemed to be looking out for her in a special way. I said as much to Bettina.

  Her soft harrumph revealed just how lonely she’d been lately, since it was entirely unlike her to hold a grudge this long. Bettina was normally a social butterfly with a frenzied clutch of commitments on her calendar. Willow and I were certainly the dregs of companionship, and even we hadn’t been available to her the way she would prefer. Here was a woman who needed grandchildren at her beck and call—not that I was volunteering to provide them or anything.

  I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “You’ll need to go shopping. Swimsuits, those lacy cover-up things, sandals, a big floppy hat.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Snorkeling gear, scuba lessons, and most definitely a helmet for kayaking.”

  I blinked at her. She’d been giving this lark more thought than I’d imagined. And would a sedate cruise line for the over-sixty crowd let their guests do the kind of kayaking that required a helmet? If so, more power to them. I broke into a grin.

  “So you’ll tell Vaughn?” she whispered.

  Backbone required. I pitched a scowl at her. “Chicken.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she grumbled. “But I need your support. If he spouts off to you about it, I want you to respond in glowing terms, okay?”

  We shook on it.

  oOo

  Yoga at dusk. It’s second only to yoga at dawn in my book. I was swaddled in several layers of stretchy clothing to ward off the damp chilliness and balanced precariously on my rooftop deck, enjoying the full-body stretch of a downward dog.

  Not that I could really tell that it was dusk. I had to rely on the clock to let me know the exact timing since a thick layer of overcast clouds had been masking the sun all day. If anything, it was just graying outside, if that could be a term for the gradual loss of daylight in the Pacific Northwest.

  But the great blue heron that regularly perched for the night on a low-hanging branch just upstream from my floating house had already arrived. He was as busy preening his feathers into place as I was testing the full range of my tendons and ligaments. I was moaning only slightly as my taut muscles assumed the positions, concentrating on breathing in deeply through my nose and out through my mouth.

  But my mind was anything but clear. Mental mush, actually.

  What’s the going rate on empty syringes? There were a few categories of people to whom they might have some appeal. But I couldn’t imagine a scenario in which someone would intentionally remove them from a medical waste disposal box. Maybe their mysterious disappearance was just due to an overzealous janitor getting ahead on his job.

  I so wanted to call Vaughn and find out how the janitor had accounted for his actions, but refrained. The last thing he needed was me following around behind him checking on loose ends.

  “The calamity of good intentions,” I muttered to myself while the blood rushed to my head. I swung out of downward dog into cobra pose. But I could hardly complain about other people not minding their own business, because since when did I do that myself?

  The great blue heron let out an obnoxious squawk, stretched himself to his full, gangly height and released a huge splat into the water below. That bird had a constitution like clockwork. I was going to have to name him, for all I knew about his personal habits.

  The idea served as a diversion from the slow burn in my shoulders as I held a reverse tabletop pose. Fred? Butch? Jeb? Maybe he needed more syllables—a name more fitting to his awkwardly large size. Clouseau? Beaky? Stilts? Trigger? Nutsy?

  My phone rang, saving me from further juvenile ponderings and making my fanny hit the deck. I’d left the phone on the floor just inside the door to the loft, which I’d also left ajar, just in case. I scrabbled across the weathered wood on my hands and knees and grabbed the phone as it buzzed for a second time.

  Denby’s number lit up the screen.

  “Yeah?” I panted.

  “We may have a problem,” she whispered.

  Another one? I sank to my belly across the threshold and propped my elbow on the floor to pin the phone to my ear.

  “Willow,” Denby continued. “She’s reliable, right?”

  “Yes, of course.” My mouth was suddenly dry.

  “She ever disappear before? Shirk her responsibiliti
es?”

  “Not that I know of. Denby, tell me what’s going on,” I gritted through clenched teeth.

  “She’s missing. Along with one of our ATVs. There’s some damage in the pumpkin field—a few pumpkins gouged and smashed for no obvious reason, squirrelly tire tracks. Like she was messing around.”

  I was shaking my head before the words came out. “Not her.”

  Denby released a sigh. “That’s what we thought too. I’ve already called Vaughn. Nash is out on the other ATV, looking for her, but it’s getting dark…”

  My breath froze; my thoughts froze; my joints froze. My jaw was locked open, and everything I was seeing narrowed down to a single dark knot in the hardwood flooring.

  Denby’s voice sounded strangled, as if she was suffering from the same degree of petrified immobility. “Can you tell Roxy? I just—it shouldn’t—this isn’t the kind of news she should hear over the phone,” she whispered. She held a long pause, which I couldn’t bring myself to break, then added, “Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe she got distracted, waylaid.”

  But I knew in the deepest pit of my stomach that it wasn’t nothing.

  CHAPTER 18

  Not when it came to Willow.

  “How long since you saw her last?” I managed to croak.

  “A few hours ago. She checked in when she got here after school. She’s doing the same thing today as yesterday—but starting in on the second field—so she didn’t need special instructions.”

  “Which was?” I rasped.

  “Harvesting pumpkins, carting them to the storage shed during daylight hours, then hosing them off and loading them into crates once darkness falls.”

  “Carting them?” I repeated dumbly, trying desperately to get a picture in my mind.

  “With a trailer that hitches behind the ATV.”

  “Where’s the trailer now?”

  “It’s missing too.” Denby tried, unsuccessfully to clear her throat. “Please, please,” she pleaded hoarsely, “can you come after you tell Roxy?”