Mercury Rising (Tin Can Mysteries Book 1)

by Jerusha Jones

  I laughed. “We’ll call it a soft grand opening then. Maybe book some musicians for the following Saturday? How are the acoustics in here?”

  “Amazing,” Darren said softly. He must have seen the question in my look, because he continued sheepishly, “Guitar. I play in here sometimes after I’ve closed up the coffee shop.”

  No wonder Willow was infatuated with him.

  oOo

  I left Wicked Bean both elated and embarrassed. Thrilled to have a real job—the first one in a very long time that actually had meaning and would be helpful to others. But I’d clearly overwhelmed Darren, and it was beginning to dawn on me that Portlanders moved at a different pace than the D.C establishment. The people weren’t in any way less intelligent; they just seemed to have different priorities. I could definitely get down with that—if I could just relax.

  Per Roxy’s suggestion, and with the help of my map, I found City Hall. I also found, however, that just being in the building raised my hackles back to my typical high-alert status. Politics, even in the procedural and administrative senses, is never a source of serenity.

  But I forced myself to slip past the lethargic and obese armed security guard who was poorly disguised as an information desk attendant, climb the marble staircases, pop into offices, shake hands, smile, and spread my fresh business cards (printed in the wee hours of the morning) around. In a stroke of genius—I hoped—I’d added publicist to the list of services I was offering. I might also come to regret it, but the fabulous thing about being self-employed is that you can turn down work without having a boss yell at you for doing so.

  There seemed to be a mid-morning lull in officialness, and people were genuinely friendly. Jovial laughter wafted down the halls, and several young staff members—interns probably—rushed around carrying indented cardboard trays loaded with steaming cups from the coffee shop on the first floor. It felt more like a Friday than the type of Monday I was accustomed to.

  As I exited one of the offices, I collided with a broad belly. The man and I both said “Ooof.”

  “Whoa there, little…” his eyes, pale behind a pair of rimless eyeglasses, roamed upward, and he stopped himself from calling me a little lady. I knew it was on the tip of his tongue. He recovered quickly and stuck out his right hand, accompanied by a lecherous wink. “Commissioner Ross Perkins. It appears that I need to lose a little weight so both you and I can shimmy through the doorway at the same time.”

  There were so many things wrong with that statement, I couldn’t even begin to count them. On the other hand, would it be reasonable to expect anything less insinuatingly offensive from a politician? But I didn’t have time to indulge this particular peeve because I was terribly distracted by the man standing just behind the honorable Ross Perkins. Rude Ross kept babbling, but I tuned out the rest of his suggestive comments.

  It was the measuring-wheel-and-clipboard man from the beach at the wildlife refuge. My heart was hammering in my chest, but the man didn’t exhibit any signs that he recognized me. He did, however, also have his right hand extended. His lips moved, and I realized he was telling me his name too, trying to cut through the clutter of Ross’s verbosity.

  “Pardon?” Now I had two hands to shake. I awkwardly shifted my tote bag and went through the proper motions.

  “Frank Cox,” the man from the refuge repeated, “of Cox and Associates.”

  Ross laughed loudly. “This fellow owns half of the west side, got big developments out in Hillsboro, another one coming up off Cornelius Pass.”

  Mr. Cox had the decency to look humbly embarrassed. He probably practiced in front of a mirror. “It’s not quite as bad as all that,” he said with a smile, still holding my hand. “And you are?”

  “Looking for work.” I handed both men business cards, the quicker to make my getaway. I figured neither one would be willing to hire someone who sounded so desperate. Direct route to the circular file.

  I hustled down the hall and punched the button for the elevator.

  By the time I was safely sheltered in my old Volvo, I was feeling less flustered and regretted my burst of cynicism. I was beginning to wonder if I’d escaped D.C. too late, if I was irrevocably damaged by all the years I’d spent inside that grinding sphere of influence peddling. I’d been a bystander only, but the associated grime seemed to have penetrated too deeply to slough off in just a couple weeks. My entire outlook on life was skewed.

  The answer, temporarily, was solitude in the car. Map on my lap, I explored the city. I found the airport and drove over several of the scenic bridges that cross the Willamette River. I also spent a lot of money at a couple home improvement stores. I had to hope that my business cards turned up at least a few additional jobs.

  CHAPTER 7

  Sloane called for the update I’d promised her as I was standing in the marina parking lot behind the open trunk of the Volvo with my hands on my hips, surveying the armloads of stuff I needed to trek across floating walkways to my house.

  “Why’d I move here?” I whined into the phone.

  “To be close to me, goofball,” Sloane replied cheerfully.

  “I know that.” I grinned. “I mean here, as in floating house. I need Sherpas on permanent retainer.”

  “Can’t help you there,” Sloane said, “but I have a munchkin who’s dying to tell you about her day at school.”

  And I just about died from the cuteness of it all. Little Ginger, at six years old, still thought school was fun, mostly. I held the phone to my ear and walked down the gangplank to get one of the marina’s carts while Ginger chattered about crayons, recess, the alphabet song, and that stinky Joel Blum who wouldn’t leave her alone. Apparently, Mrs. Willcott, the teacher, had made them both sit in a time-out while everyone else got to tear newspapers into strips for some kind of craft project. It had been the ultimate form of torture for Ginger, and she was still sore about it. Her rambling tales certainly put my stressful day into perspective.

  Sloane was laughing when she returned to the phone. “Best therapy in the world, huh?”

  “Thank you,” I sighed. “I needed that.”

  “Let me know when the renovation projects get serious. I’ll be over in my grubbies.”

  “You’re on.”

  After I hung up, I realized I’d completely forgotten to tell Sloane about the dead man. But she was probably about to start preparing supper for her family. I decided the gruesome information could wait.

  The third time I passed the scratched and dinged kayak that was lying on the edge of the walkway at slip A-3, I decided I wanted to buy it. A crude, hand-lettered sign on cardboard that said “FOR SALE $50” was propped on the seat. The kayak was a muddy, olive-drab color and had clearly seen better days. But it looked like it would accommodate my long legs.

  The boat in slip A-3 had seen better days too. I don’t know much about boats, but I could tell that this one was a sailboat, even though she was missing her mast. Her name, in faded paint on the stern, was Ecclesiastes. She was big—to me anyway, maybe thirty feet—and made of wood and had been a thing of beauty in her youth. But now I was rather surprised she was still capable of floating. I’d assumed she was someone’s hobby project—a project that had been long neglected.

  Where was the owner? The kayak hadn’t been on the walkway when I’d left this morning, so I hoped he was around somewhere. I didn’t dare go aboard the sailboat without permission. I wouldn’t have wanted to take that risk, anyway.

  I knelt on the walkway and stretched out to knock on the hull of the sailboat. It sounded empty and hollow and dull—and ineffectual. I knocked again, harder.

  The door of the cabin swung open silently. A man—dirty, tanned, weathered, shaggy-haired, and scruffy—half emerged from the opening. His eyes were that bright blue that glitters in reflected sunlight. They were like marbles in his head. He didn’t say anything, just stared.

  “Uh, I’m interested in the kayak,” I stammered.

  He gave a slight nod. “Fift
y bucks.”

  I’d been thinking about how much I’d already spent that day. And about the fact that I had only one real gig lined up. And exactly zero income at the moment. I sat back on my knees, safely away from the water I’d been leaning over. “Forty?” I squeaked.

  And then I felt terrible. This man appeared to need the money worse than I did.

  His eyes narrowed. “I heard you cook.”

  My mouth hung open. Willow. Of course. I nodded.

  “You make brownies?” he asked.

  I nodded again.

  “Forty bucks,” he agreed. “And I’ll throw in the paddle and a life jacket if you bring me a big—and I mean big—pan of brownies in the next couple days.”

  I grinned at him. I’d been too dumb to even think that a paddle might not be included with the kayak. “Deal.”

  The sailboat swayed as he climbed the rest of the way out of the cabin and stepped off the edge of the boat onto the walkway. He was barefoot. “Eva.” He said my name simply and familiarly and stuck out his right hand. “Cal Barclay.”

  I would never need to worry about introducing myself with Willow running around ahead of me.

  I shook Cal’s hand. Up close, he looked much younger and more physically fit. Early fifties, maybe, even though I couldn’t see any gray in his light brown hair. Lean but also wiry strong. Still dirty, though, and very much in need of a haircut.

  “Do you live aboard? I didn’t see you at Bettina’s party.”

  “Not usually invited to those shindigs,” Cal said. No resentment, just a statement. His front teeth overlapped a little. Not badly enough to need braces. Kind of cute, actually.

  He stepped back onto his boat, rummaged in a locker, and pulled out a life jacket and paddle. “I’ll help haul the kayak down to your place.”

  And a gentleman, to boot. “Okay.” I smiled at him. For all the grime, he didn’t smell bad.

  We settled the kayak on the rear deck. I’d be able to launch into the river straight off the deck. I was back to thinking that living in a floating house was a fabulous idea, even if it did require lots of hiking and packing.

  I handed him two twenties from my wallet, and he stuffed the bills in his pocket with another slight nod. A man of few words.

  Except he must have spotted the pressure washer I’d unloaded into a tangled heap on the deck and said, “Need help?”

  Considering the condition of his boat, I wasn’t sure I should admit that home repair was a little beyond my own skill set as well. So I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “I like cheesecake too. And moussaka. Pork escalope. Not picky.”

  I tipped my head to study him more closely, but he turned on his heel and padded softly along the walkway. Was he was offering to work for food—in addition to the brownies? Was he that poverty-stricken? He wanted good food, though, not just basic sustenance. Not picky, huh? I felt a grin spreading across my face.

  I’d left the marina cart at his slip, full of my stuff, so I had to follow him back. Cal had disappeared into his boat by the time I got there, and I carried on with carrying on—lug, lug, lug, tromp, tromp, tromp, back and forth.

  Except on my fifth—and final—return trip, Vaughn was standing at the edge of slip A-3. There’s no sneaking up on people at the marina. Footsteps reverberate on the walkways. The large number of empty slips and the low profiles of many of the boats that are stored year-round also provide lots of viewing gaps. First you hear people coming, then you see them, in short order.

  Vaughn and Cal stood shoulder to shoulder, surveying the horizon like two casual statues, but their lips were moving. Vaughn spoke, Cal answered—back and forth in short, few-worded bursts. It appeared to be a comfortable conversation.

  Both sets of eyes locked on me as I approached, so I gave them a sunny smile.

  “Feeling better today, Ms. Fairchild?” Vaughn asked.

  “Please call me Eva. Everyone else does.”

  Cal smirked a little behind the tan.

  When I passed by, they fell in behind me. Two men abreast striding behind the girl with the cart.

  The marina carts are a cross between wheelbarrows and wagons. They feel a little ridiculous, especially since I have to semi-stoop to reach the handle which means the front end of the cart rides up on my heels if I’m not careful when I’m pulling it. The whole procedure is ungainly and probably presents a rather unattractive rear view.

  I channeled my inner supermodel (not!) and sallied forth, the cart bouncing and thumping across each wood plank. I sounded like an advancing army. But when I stowed the cart in the specially designated area at the base of the gangplank, Vaughn and Cal clanged up the gangplank without slowing.

  They were up to something. Obviously. I doubted there was ever a time when Vaughn wasn’t up to something, given his job. From what little I’d seen of Cal, on the other hand, I suspected he was most often not up to something. But together? Naturally, I was curious.

  I’d left my map in the car—which is generally where maps belong. But it was an excellent excuse. I trotted up the gangplank after them.

  When my head came level with the parking lot surface, I spotted them standing at the back of a white pickup truck with its tailgate down. The nose of a bright-orange kayak poked out of the end of the pickup’s bed.

  Fortunately, the pickup was parked right next to my Volvo.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Cal said as I stuck my key in the door lock.

  My Volvo is ancient and has the rusty hinges to prove it. The driver’s door screeches like a tomcat on the prowl every time I open it. I pretended not to notice and ducked my head inside.

  “You sure?” Vaughn asked.

  I tried to make removing the map from the door pocket last as long as possible, but it’s a one-second job, no matter how you parse it. I stood back up and slammed the door closed, fast and hard, because the hinge screech the other direction is even worse than a tomcat—think a hyena in heat. I prefer to keep the agony as short as possible.

  “Yep,” said Cal, the man of few words.

  Vaughn passed me on the way to the cab of the pickup. He climbed in and flashed the little, tilted, amused smile that kind of makes me crazy through the window. The engine roared to life, and he drove the truck through a wide arc toward the parking lot exit, the gravel crunching under the tires.

  The resulting dust cloud didn’t seem to bother Cal, but I clamped a hand over my nose. “Are you shopping for another kayak?” I asked.

  “Already have one. But the one Vaughn has isn’t for sale. It’s evidence.”

  I turned and stared at his profile.

  Cal answered as though I had voiced the question in my head. “Ian Thorpe”—he shifted, and his marble eyes bore into mine—“just turned into a murder investigation.”

  I gasped. “Did Vaughn tell you?”

  “Didn’t have to. Why else would he ask me to identify the man’s kayak?”

  oOo

  It didn’t quite add up to me. If Ian Thorpe had drowned, wouldn’t the police still want to identify his kayak once it was found, just to verify that it didn’t belong to some other unfortunate missing person they ought to be looking for?

  But Cal knew things. For one, he knew how to identify a kayak. They all pretty much looked the same to me, but in different colors. Half the kayaks I’d seen out on the river the day before had been bright orange. If Cal knew Ian Thorpe’s kayak, then it was pretty safe to assume he had also known Ian Thorpe himself.

  I’d gotten the impression Cal had only relayed his conclusion because I had a vested interest, as though I was owed the information because I’d found the body. But there was also a tacit message, an undercurrent, that the information was not to be shared. That it was Vaughn’s and he would be the one to have the say about when it was revealed publicly.

  Which I totally understood. My lips were sealed, even though Cal hadn’t explicitly asked for my confidentiality. I’d already witnessed the rapid transit of information within the marina�
�and outside of it, thanks to Willow. She couldn’t be the only one, either. Everyone is fully capable of saying all kinds of things.

  Regardless, Cal was getting his brownies as soon as humanly possible. I whacked a Lindt chocolate bar into pieces and stirred the extra-delicious bits into the eggs-oil-sugar-cocoa-flour mixture. Then I scooped the batter into a greased pan and popped it in the oven.

  I settled on a barstool to lick the bowl and tackle Darren’s promotional campaign. The kitchen peninsula was proving excellent for multitasking. By the time the brownies were perfectly crispy on the edges and gooey in the center, I had the first set of mock-ups prepared to send to Darren.

  When the brownie pan was cool enough to carry, I covered it with foil and made the delivery. Once again, I had to kneel, stretch off the edge of the boardwalk, and knock on the hull of his sailboat.

  Cal had the look of a man who’d found the fountain of youth when he peeled back the foil and inhaled. “Damn,” he muttered. “I think I’ll be able to stand having you for a neighbor.”

  I decided to put that comment to the test. “What’s tomorrow look like for you?”

  “Wide open.”

  “Because that pressure washer isn’t going to run itself. Could you show me how to use it?” The salesclerk at the equipment rental place had spent about two minutes pointing at various parts, and he’d spoken words that I’d recognized as English only about half of that time. I’d been planning on looking up the instructions online, but an in-person tutorial would be even better.

  “Yep.”

  oOo

  It turned out that pressure washing is kind of fun, even addicting in a weird sort of way. It probably helped that the exterior of my house was so dirty and flaky that a few blasts with the nozzle made immediate and impressive improvements.

  But my arms got tired. Wobbly, jiggly, like wet noodles. Cal offered to pick up where I left off, and he seemed to enjoy the process too. We settled on a full pan of lasagna as suitable remuneration—to be presented sometime in the next few days. I loved his negotiation style. If I worked it out right, I might be able to have Willow practice her cooking on Cal while I served as the instructor and quality control inspector.