Finn-agled

by Kristine Raymond

  Carrying on a conversation with my mother is sort of like riding the Tilt-O-Whirl at the carnival – you never know which direction you’re headed. If I don’t get this confab back on track, next she’ll be reminiscing about the dress I wore on my first day of kindergarten. “What does this walk down memory lane have to do with the dentist?”

  “Oh, well, Mindy is Dr. Greene’s receptionist now, and she was kind enough to shuffle the schedule around so your father could be seen first thing.”

  “That was nice of her. Listen, Mom, my food’s getting cold so I’m going to let you go. Give Dad my love and tell him I’ll stop in sometime tomorrow to visit.”

  “Why not come over for dinner? That way you can show me what you bought.”

  And there it is. The real reason for her invitation.

  “Sounds great. I’ll see you then. Love you, Mom.”

  “Love you too, dear.”

  Ending the call, I got down to business. Despite incorporating every trick in the book, that danged slip of paper eluded me time and again. Not thrilled with the prospect of dismantling the case, knowing an act of such barbarism would devalue the piece, I turned to the internet in hopes of finding a solution to my dilemma.

  An hour and forty-seven minutes, two games of Bump Block, and the remainder of my Chinese food later, I was no closer to finding a resolution than when I’d started. Snatching the box off the table, holding it high above my head, daring myself to smash it to smithereens – a miracle happened.

  A slip of paper slightly larger than an index card fell from between the seams and floated ever so gently to the floor. Almost dropping the case in my elation (wouldn’t that just be my luck?), I set it gingerly on the table and retrieved the note.

  Zubcd Yefemeby

  Xlw k Wrlm no

  Vpqre Upbpqee

  Huh? What kind of crazy language is this?

  I attempted to sound it out, tripping over my tongue because – let’s face it – it’s impossible to pronounce words that have no vowels. Thinking I’d stumbled onto either an ancient, and possibly forgotten, language, or a secret military code, I hopped back on the computer for some serious research. It wasn’t until the Gothic cathedral mantel clock perched on the shelf above a row of whiskey barrels chimed twelve that I realized I’d been staring at the screen for the better part of three hours. That would explain my grainy eyeballs.

  “Time to call it a night. Come on, Garfunkel. Let’s go home.”

  Shutting off the computer, I slipped the note into my pocket, leaving the writing case in my office for the time being. Who knew what other mysterious messages might be hidden inside? Turning off the light, plunging the room into darkness, I walked out front to collect my sleepy hound, dim lumens from the street lamp outside filtering in through the plate glass window, illuminating my way and casting shadows along the floor and walls. Headlights from a passing car briefly lit up the interior of the shop, glinting off the wind chimes that hung over the front door.

  If only I’d had the forethought to hang a set of chimes over the back door as well. Then, perhaps, they would’ve warned me about the person who jimmied the lock, crept up behind me, and wrapped his fingers around my neck, squeezing until everything went black.

  Chapter Four

  Waking up in the hospital is a surreal experience, especially given the fact I have no idea how I got here. The moment is made more distressing by the worry etched across my loved ones’ faces. Judging by their expressions, I’m either a hairsbreadth away from needing last rites, or they just learned that saturated fats are bad for your health. Either way, the outcome isn’t good.

  Seated beside the bed is Grandma Lena, counting her rosary while praying to a litany of saints. In times of great misfortune, she brings out the big guns. Have I mentioned we’re Catholic? Grandpa Andrzej is hovering behind her, his expression resembling Garfunkel’s after I’ve denied the pooch a third Fido Bar. Dad’s standing sentry at the foot of the bed looking miserable, though I’m not sure if it’s on my account or the fact that his face is blown up like a puffer fish. Poor guy. He should be home resting instead of hanging out here holding an ice pack to his jaw.

  Which brings me to Mom. When my mother gets nervous or upset, she fusses with everything, her fingers taking on a life of their own, and at this moment those digits were tucking in my blanket to the point of suffocation. Mine.

  “Ow, Mom, stop! I can’t breathe!” My shout barely registered above a whisper. Excuse me while I pause here for a second to take stock.

  My head is throbbing like a virgin’s loins; lost within the pages of her first steamy romance novel. In addition, a layer of hot lava garnished with shards of broken glass is coating my throat, and with every exhalation, I fear igniting the bed sheets on fire. Got it.

  Now, where was I? Oh, yeah; imminent asphyxiation.

  I brushed feebly at Mom’s hands, prompting her to fidget with my IV line instead.

  “Do you want me to call the nurse?” she asked, increasing the flow of whatever solution is in the bag.

  “No,” I rasped, my curiosity at how I ended up in this state overriding my alarm. “What happened? How’d I get here?”

  Frowning, she squeezed between Grandma Lena and the bed and gingerly perched on the edge. “What do you remember?”

  I shook my head, realizing too late that bouncing it around like a bobble-head figurine wasn’t the smartest idea, but everything that happened after turning off the office light was a blank, and there was no sense straining my voice to say so. Mom picked up my hand, cradling it in hers the same way she had when I was eleven, and she was gearing up to deliver the facts of life. I feared the worst.

  “Well, honey, it appears you were robbed.”

  “Robbed!” Damn, it’s hard to sound indignant with compromised vocal cords. “What did they take? Wait – where’s Garfunkel?”

  “Garfunkel’s fine. In fact, he probably saved your life.”

  What’s this? My follicly-mutated canine companion woke up long enough to come to my rescue? Huh. Wasn’t expecting that. “Did he take down the culprit? Hold him at bay until the cops arrived?”

  “Uh, not exactly.” Mom leaned forward conspiratorially. “He howled.”

  “He wha’?”

  “Howled. Stood over your lifeless body and bellowed for dear life. The racket is what caught Spencer’s attention.”

  Lifeless body. And I’m accused of being the dramatic one. Wait a minute…did she say…

  “Spencer? Back up a sec. You lost me. He wasn’t even there – he’s in Massachusetts.”

  “He was on his way home and noticed your car still parked in front of the shop. Thinking that odd, he decided to check on you. The front door was locked, but with the commotion Garfunkel was making, he knew something was wrong, so he went around back to the alley and found the door standing wide open. He rushed in and saw you lying unconscious on the floor. That’s when he called for an ambulance and the police. And us, of course. He saved your life.”

  “I thought Garfunkel did that.”

  “Well, Garfunkel sounded the alarm. Spencer’s the one who came to your aid.”

  Watching my mother gush over my secret crush is strangely disconcerting. Even more so when said infatuation stepped into view. “Where did you come from?”

  “Finley, don’t be rude!” my mother admonished as if Spencer had arrived for tea instead of a visit to my deathbed, before turning to him and apologizing. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where her manners are.”

  Hello! Nearly strangled to death, here. I think a little grumpiness on my part is reasonable and, let’s be honest, to be expected. Sheesh! Still, no sense incurring my mother’s wrath, especially since I’m hoping she’ll invite me to recuperate at her house for a few days. Attempting a smile which I suspect came off more like a grimace, I rasped sincerely, “Sorry, Spencer. Thank you for being here and for saving my life.”

  “My pleasure,” he replied casually, though his eyes held deep concern f
or my well-being. “Guess I should’ve taken you to dinner after all.”

  “That all depends on how you did at the crap tables,” I croaked, my attempt at a joke falling flat as I erupted into a coughing fit.

  My entourage sprang into action. Grandma Lena thrust a cup of water into my hand spilling half of it down the front of my hospital gown, Dad and Grandpa Andrzej retreated a half dozen steps in case I began emitting bodily fluids, and Mom sprinted into the hallway with the intent of flagging down the nearest doctor, nurse, or custodian to come to my aid.

  Spencer, alternatively, sat down next to me and patted gently between my shoulder blades, the soft vibrations doing nothing to ease my lung paroxysms though I appreciated the effort – and the skin on skin contact, as the edges of my gown didn’t quite meet all the way in the back. Dang, his hands are soft. I wonder which moisturizer he uses?

  Before I could explore that thought further, Mom reentered the room hauling a disgruntled nurse outfitted in mint green scrubs with her. In less time than it took to nuke a burrito, the RN ran a quick check of my vitals, made a notation in my chart, and promised the doctor would be in to see me shortly before breezing back out. Guess it’s just as well my coughing fit subsided on its own.

  “Look, everyone, I appreciate you all being here, but I’m fine. Dad, you should be at home resting – you look like you’re about to keel over, and your dentist appointment is in a couple of hours. Grandma and Grandpa, there’s no need for you to stay either, but would you mind checking in on Garfunkel before you go home? He must be confused.” Or sleeping, knowing my pooch. “By the way, where is he?”

  “I asked Wendi to look after him,” Spencer spoke up. “The sirens woke her, and she came by the shop to see what was going on. She was more than happy to take him back to her apartment with her.”

  “Thank you for that.” I smiled, communicating my appreciation. “In that case, you should all go straight home. You, too, Mom. I know it’s past your bedtime.”

  It was past mine, too, and I was starting to feel it, but as my family filed out (amidst numerous objections from my mother), another couple filed in, and I knew I wasn’t going to get any sleep anytime soon.

  Zara O’Hara – yes, that’s her real name; tease her about it and she’s liable to pull out her gun and shoot you – is a detective with the Port New Police Department and my best friend since the second grade when an incident involving identical lunch boxes and a mistakenly eaten snack cake bonded us for life. The youngest of seven children and only daughter of a Jamaican mother and Irish father, she worked her way up the law enforcement ladder rather quickly thanks to a combination of intelligence, a take-no-bullshit attitude, and sharp-looking wardrobe, though her current hairstyle of Fulani braids has been raising eyebrows amongst her peers. At least she opted to forego the beads.

  The polar opposite of his conservatively-dressed partner, Duley Beaudry has a penchant for Hawaiian shirts and blue jeans which lend themselves to the first impression most people form of the sloe-eyed, meaty-built, Louisiana native as dim-witted and fool-hardy, an image he gleefully nurtures to his advantage. Picture, if you will, a perp’s shock and astonishment when this six-foot-four, two hundred and thirty-seven pound hulk takes the stand and unleashes Harvard-educated testimony in a rumbling, twangy baritone (think James Earl Jones with a Southern drawl) against him or her when for the entire investigative process he’d barely spoken a word. Better than anything cable has to offer, let me tell you. At the moment, though, this gentle giant looks ready to rip someone’s head off.

  “What’s up with him?” I asked Zara, tracking Duley’s progress back and forth as he paced the small confines of the room like a caged animal.

  “Are you kidding me?” My BFF plopped down on the bed with no concern for my injuries. “He’s been like this since we arrived at the scene. ‘Nobody hurts my Finn and lives to tell about it!’ That’s a direct quote.”

  “Awe, Duley, come here.” I held out my hand to the big lug. “It’s sweet you’re this worked up, but I’d hate to see you end up in the slammer with all those scumbags you’ve put away. Might be best if you tone down the lethal threats for the time being, bud.”

  Clutching mine in his bear paw of a hand, Duley scowled down at me. Had I not been familiar with his unique means of expression, my blood pressure might’ve spiked high enough to set off the alarm, but I knew he was harmless with those he regarded as family, and I’d been informed the first time we’d met that he considered me the sister he never had – a sentiment I cherish wholeheartedly though I shudder to think how it goes over with the two sisters he does have; both of whom are delightful, by the way. I curled my fingers around his and gave a squeeze, safe in the knowledge that, for the moment, no harm would come to me.

  “Uh, I’ll get out of your way,” Spencer spoke up, startling me because I thought he’d left when my family had. “Get some rest, Finn. I’ll drop by later to see you.”

  Feeling all warm and gushy inside (what kinds of meds do they have me on?), I grinned broadly despite the wave of nausea brought on by my rapid facial movement. “Thanks for–”

  “Actually, Dane, why don’t you stick around?” Zara interrupted, denying me the opportunity to fawn over my hero. “We want to talk to you too, and this saves us the trouble of having to track you down.”

  “Sure. Not a problem at all.” Spencer’s attempt to hide his grin at Zara’s hostile tone failed miserably. The last time they’d seen each other was when he’d given the valedictorian speech at our high school graduation, edging her out for the honor by a mere half point, and to the best of his knowledge, she’d held a grudge.

  In actuality, she’d held onto more than one. What he had no way of knowing was that as my best friend, Zara’d been witness to countless Friday nights of pillow sobbing and ice cream consuming at a time when she should’ve been going out on her own dates. But rather than blame me for holding her back socially, she’d directed her ire where she’d thought it due – at Spencer. Guess I need to catch her up on recent developments.

  Yeah, I know. I should’ve told her already, but I’ve been kind of busy, what with making an idiot out of myself in Darby’s parking lot last night and getting strangled tonight. Or is it Darby’s Monday night and getting strangled last night? Which day is it, anyway? I’m so confused. Anyway, I think she’ll understand, though the way her fingers are inching towards her cuffs, maybe I should tell her now before she hauls his ass in on some trumped-up charge.

  Before I got the chance, she lit into Spencer like a game show host during the lightning round. “What time did you get to the shop?”

  “Ten past twelv–”

  “Did you see anyone leaving as you arrived?”

  “No, I–”

  “How about in the vicinity? Anyone walking on the street or a car that was idling or parked at an odd angle?”

  “Nothing like that. I–”

  “What were you doing downtown at that hour?”

  “Are you going to let me answer this time or do you want to jump ahead to the next question?”

  Zara’s forehead puckered. The hostility she’d met him with earlier he was dishing back in spades, and I cringed at the inevitable showdown. Beside me, Duley tensed, unsure as to which combatant he was supposed to defend – his partner or the witness she was currently badgering – ultimately deciding to wait and see how the scene played out.

  Regaining a modicum of composure, Zara tilted her head ever so slightly in Spencer’s direction. “I’m listening.”

  “Thank you,” he replied. “I felt bad about canceling our dinner date–”

  “Whose dinner date?” So much for not interrupting. Then, as the answer to her own question dawned on her, Zara snapped her eyes towards me. “The two of you are dating?”

  “Not technically,” I shrugged, remembering too late that any movement was apt to exacerbate my headache. “Not even un-technically. I mean, sure, he asked me to go with him to his sister’s wedding, and we hun
g out at Darby’s last night–”

  “You WHAT?”

  “There was a group of us,” I clarified, cognizant of the fact that Duley had abandoned me and was attempting to cram his hulking frame as unobtrusively as possible into the corner. He’d been partners with Zara long enough to recognize the signs of an impending explosion and knew when to take cover. So did I, but I blame my current medical state for missing the cues as I waded deeper into the sea of explanations. “Jake and Claudia were there, and Randy and Gigi–”

  “Have you totally lost your mind?” Had I announced I spend every weekend shaking my tatas onstage at Herbie’s Hooters and Hoochies off Route 1, Zara would’ve been less surprised. “You couldn’t stand that group of phonies when we were in high school, but now, you’re best buds? Next, you’ll be telling me you and Monty Halloran go cruising up the coast on your day off.”

  “Ewww. As if!”

  Spinning on her Christian Louboutin flats – no knock-offs here; when it comes to shoes, Zara wears the real deal – she turned her back to me and shot daggers at Spencer, her stance suggestive of a palace guard who’s been constipated for a week. “Continue.”

  Whether due to the late (or rather, early) hour or his concern for my well-being, Spencer clearly was no longer amused by Zara and her interrogation tactics. Ignoring the detective completely, he stepped over to the bed and brushed his lips against my cheek. “Get some rest. I’ll stop by later to check on you.”

  “O-okay,” I stammered, silently cursing my flattened, yet frizzy, hair and lack of lip gloss. “Thank you again for saving me.”

  “Anytime,” he winked, pausing in front of Duley on his way out. “If it’s convenient, I’ll stop by the station this afternoon and give you my statement.”

  His emphasis on the word ‘you’ wasn’t lost on anyone in the room. Shooting a glance at his partner, Duley nodded and handed over his card, realizing there was no sense prolonging the antagonism currently pervading the room. “That’ll be fine. You might want to give me a call before you drop by, in case I’m out in the field.”