Mercury Rising (Tin Can Mysteries Book 1)

by Jerusha Jones

  “How was who?” I asked.

  “Ian. When you found him.”

  I blinked in the sliver of bright sunshine streaking through the crack in the curtains. What kind of question was that? Predominantly dead would be the correct answer, but could I say that out loud? If she had to ask, then what kind of answer could she possibly be hoping for?

  I decided on, “Submerged. I couldn’t see him very well. Just enough to—well, I didn’t know who it was until later, and since I’d never met him—”

  “Right, right,” Lila murmured. “Yes, sorry. Gosh. That must have been terrible. It’s just that when the police said he was unconscious before he drowned…”

  The medical examiner had said that, actually—not Chief Monk. But I didn’t bother to correct her. “Did you know Ian well?” I asked instead.

  “What? Oh. Yeah. He was very active—environmentally, politically, you know. I think everyone in certain circles couldn’t help but know him.” She laughed—a sort of forced jollity.

  And perhaps he also was exceptionally familiar with everyone female, since he had reportedly been a perpetual dater. I knew from experience that that kind of awareness went both ways, much like how Doc was warned about but marginally tolerated by the double-X chromosome contingent within the marina.

  Because, no matter what Vaughn’s opinion was, I couldn’t get over the impression that my stalker/informant of the previous day had been a woman. Beyond the helpful notice about the squishy tire, I suspected my hunch was connected to the use of the word cozy, where the writer had suggested that I was cozy with Vaughn. I was pretty sure a man wouldn’t have described that observation with such an emotive term.

  But did it matter? So Ian had known a lot of women, and a lot of women had known Ian. Surely Frank Cox wasn’t the only male in the suspect pool?

  I sighed, grateful that it was Vaughn’s problem and not mine. “Well, take care,” I said to Lila.

  “Back atcha,” she returned cheerfully.

  CHAPTER 12

  Bolstered by the feeling of an incredible lightness of being, otherwise known as a freshly-relieved conscience, I pulled on my grubbiest clothes and headed straight outside for a day of trim painting. A shower could wait—indefinitely. Sloane had warned me about the prolonged and incessant rainy season in the Pacific Northwest. I figured the clock was ticking on the stretch of good weather we’d been enjoying.

  Painting is good for sorting thoughts, too. I was trying to categorize each of the swirling suspicions in my head and consign them to their respective buckets so that I could focus. My one remaining client was going to need my undivided attention, and soon.

  And that’s when it happened. Blam! The best idea in the past forty-eight hours. I dashed up to the loft office, made a few phone calls, manipulated a couple design files, canceled an order in the barest nick of time, created a new order, and returned to the great outdoors breathless but happy.

  Brilliant. Sometimes I surprise myself. Which just goes to show how much the Frank Cox/Ian Thorpe ethical dilemma had been bogging me down. So totally worth it to “fire” a client and free up those brain cells.

  But I was in for another surprise—Cal had taken my place. He held the narrow angle brush delicately in his thin, long-fingered hand, as though it was a set of ivory chopsticks, and he was perched on the step stool, applying an even coat of white paint to the top sash of my kitchen window. The poor guy must be ravenous.

  The least I could do was keep him company.

  “You’ve done this before,” I said, admiring the perfectly straight line he was producing without apparent effort. In spite of his ragged physical condition, his nerves were steadier than mine.

  Cal offered a wan smile over his shoulder. “Your door was unlocked, so I slipped the brownie pan inside. I’m still working on the lasagna.”

  What was it with open doors and the irresistible impulse to slip something through them in this place? The opposite of pack-rat-ism? Neighborly generosity? Or plain old nosiness? I had the feeling it would be futile to complain.

  “The curtains are a nice touch,” Cal added.

  Yeah, so he couldn’t watch me sleeping anymore. Although, nothing about Cal set off my self-defense radar. I figured he’d be the last voyeur I’d ever have to worry about. In fact, his voyeurism—if that’s what it really was—seemed to have a purpose. A purpose worth exploring.

  “You’re like the silent sentry of the marina,” I said. “Or a guardian angel. Old habit?”

  Cal shrugged, somehow maintaining a smooth flow of paint from the brush while his shoulders rose and returned to their loose perpendicular line. “I suppose. Instinct.”

  “Training?” I countered.

  Another shrug.

  “Which only reinforced a natural inclination.” I was stream-of-consciousness talking, musing about the sort of genetics and upbringing that would incline a young boy to grow into a successful CIA covert operative, if, indeed, the rumors about Cal were true.

  The shrewd glance Cal darted my direction indicated I was hitting close to the mark—or maybe it was just my romanticized imagination running away with me.

  “Spear phishing?” Cal muttered.

  I grinned. So I had been in the right territory. “Guilty,” I replied.

  “Quit?”

  “Laid off.”

  “Left hanging out to dry.” Cal’s tone was flat—it was a statement, not a question. I suspected he’d experienced something similar. It’s not an uncommon event for those who work in certain arenas—the embarrassing ones the federal government is occasionally forced to acknowledge publicly due to some kind of screwup.

  I grunted in agreement.

  “This is a good place to settle.” Cal kicked the step stool over and started on the bathroom window frame.

  I followed cautiously. I didn’t want to crowd him, so I plopped down on the deck, rolled up my pant legs and dangled my feet in the river. Casual, right?

  “This deal with Ian Thorpe,” I said. “I’m curious.”

  “That’s reasonable.”

  I almost chucked aloud. There was a flow to Cal’s words just as there was a flow of paint from his brush. But the words weren’t nearly as smooth. Herky-jerky, but not unwilling.

  So I started slowly. “Had you seen him out kayaking before?”

  “Twice a week. Work, not pleasure.”

  In my vast experience with kayaking, it had been both work and pleasure. “How can you tell the difference?”

  “Timing. No one who’s doing it for pleasure keeps such a regular schedule.”

  “Was he collecting water samples?” I asked.

  This earned me another shrewd glance. “His technology was more sophisticated than that. He installed sensors at various points in the current.”

  Wow. Cal had moved from spurts of information to a deluge in a matter of seconds. I struggled to fully grasp the meaning of Ian’s regular activities. “Did you ever get a good look at his equipment?”

  Cal emitted the softest snort—in no way approaching Willow’s expressive territory—but it made me realize I’d asked a dumb question. So I doubled up. “Were the sensors enabled for active signaling or just passive data collection?”

  “You coming around the corner?” Cal asked.

  I scrabbled after him as he moved on to paint the trim around the French doors leading from the empty bedroom on the other side of the house.

  But he didn’t need additional prompting. He answered so rapidly that I thought he’d been mulling over these particular details for a while. “Active, but they’re fragile, and it seems they got clogged or became erratic on a regular basis, which is why Ian had to go out and check them twice a week. There was a threshold above which each unit would produce an alarm signal—not audible, but an additional alert to the receiving unit, wherever Ian had that located.”

  “What was he measuring?”

  “Unknown. But I can guess. The Willamette’s had problems with mercury for a long time. B
asin runoff mostly. But that goes back to whatever airborne pollutants we have. Pervasive, really.”

  “So why is it an issue now?”

  Cal shook his head. “The river’s been somewhat cleaned up. Enough so that the health department has issued mild encouragement regarding the safety of eating fish caught in the river—provided you don’t eat too many of them, of course.” He squatted to neatly apply paint to the lower trim. “Considering that it was a pet project of Ian’s, it’s one of two things. Either there’s been a recent increase in river pollution overall or the pollution already in the river has built to a point that it’s harming other species that call the place home. River otters come to mind. They’re an indicator species because they primarily feed on fish. A pollutant like mercury accumulates as it advances through the food chain.”

  I’d heard the warnings, of course, about fish like tuna and swordfish. Particularly that pregnant women shouldn’t eat such delicacies. It was the sort of factoid that rattled around in the back of my head but which I’d paid little attention to since my tuna sandwiches were few and far between.

  “How many people knew Ian was collecting this data?” I asked aloud. Not that I expected Cal to have an answer.

  “More than one, I’m guessing.” His bright blue eyes glinted, as though he knew exactly what had been dropped on the backseat of my car the day before.

  I wondered if Ian had intentionally spread the data around for safekeeping. I also wondered if that was what had gotten him killed.

  oOo

  Friday was hectic but in the best possible sense. Filled to the brim with the kind of frantic errands, perfecting touches, and petty anxieties that make the work of marketing so challenging and so fun.

  The Willamette Week reporter had been eager to do a write-up about the Wicked Bean Annex, so I had a meeting scheduled with her and Darren in the morning. On the way, I stopped at the printer—the amazing, flexible, last-minute printer that had swapped orders for me and was now permanently engraved in my list of reliable contacts—to pick up the coasters, coffee cup sleeves, and matchbooks inked with the Annex’s snazzy new logo. There is absolutely nothing better than making swag functional in order to extend its marketing life, especially if the promotional item is also reusable and collectible.

  The reporter presented an image, poignantly, of what Willow might look like in another decade—perky, inquisitive, tattooed (which, I think, helped alleviate Darren’s pretty bad case of nerves about being interviewed), pierced in so many visible places that I shuddered to think what she’d done to the body parts I couldn’t see, and dazzlingly intelligent. Whip smart. A million questions a minute with laughs in between.

  Her name was Josie Rodriguez, and she had magenta and black streaked hair with an extra white streak along the left side of her face. Remarkable. I had a hard time keeping my staring to a minimum.

  If Darren had been overwhelmed by my enthusiasm for his new venture earlier, then facing Josie ratcheted everything up exponentially. He walked around the cavernous room—which now had café tables and chairs and rolling partitions that could be hung with artwork and positioned for strategic viewing enclaves—trailing Josie with his hands stuffed in his pockets and a mesmerized half-grin on his face, but he managed to lucidly answer the questions she fired at him. I only interrupted when I thought he was being too humble.

  When Josie had collected more than enough material and was finished oohing and ahhing, I walked out to her car with her.

  “Thanks so much for doing a feature,” I said.

  “Couldn’t resist. I have so many friends who will be clamoring for studio space in there. Can you imagine? It’s everything you need—coffee, music, like-minded companions sitting right next to you to gossip with, and a setup for doing your art, if you can find the time with all the distractions.” She chortled. “Half of art is talking about it, anyway, for most of us. Pondering. It’s the angst thing.”

  “So, uh, placement? And the article will come out on Wednesday?” I asked, ever mindful of my client. He needed her glowing review to appear before his official grand opening the following weekend.

  Josie made a face. “This thing with Ian—the murder? It’s crowding my column. That shouldn’t happen, you know? Murder, politics, all that droll stuff—they get the entire news section. Should be plenty of space, and I’m squarely in the arts and entertainment section. But leads are pouring in left and right, speculation up the wazoo, conspiracy theories, you name it. I feel bad for our news reporters who are chasing down all the wacko tipsters and trying to make sense of it all before the deadline.” She sighed. “I’ll do what I can. I got the photos you emailed. Good pics always help win a place in my editor’s heart and inches on the page.”

  So Josie was on a first-name basis with Ian Thorpe too? Not surprising, I supposed, considering what I’d learned in the past few days. I couldn’t help myself—I had to ask. “So what’s the prevailing theory? At the moment?”

  “Seriously? Three-quarters of the people on our staff, including the advertising manager—who’s supposed to be happy taking anyone’s money, right? No biases?—think Ross Perkins had something to do with it. You’d never catch that guy actually in a kayak—it’d sink—and visualizing him enjoying nature from the bank of the river is an enormous stretch too—so placing him at the scene, wherever that is, requires quite a suspension of disbelief. But it feels grimy, which is pretty typical of Ross’s dealings. Something underhanded, a bribe, a kickback, a weekend at a spa in Sonoma for his wife, that kind of stuff. He always pays up when he gets caught, is really good at the ‘It was a simple misunderstanding’ line. Murder would be new for him, but it’s probably the next logical thing on his list.”

  Josie ticked the city commissioner’s alleged crimes off on her fingers. “Bribery, influence peddling, extortion, nepotism, cronyism, adultery, fooling around with a girl who was a few weeks shy of her eighteenth birthday, theft, larceny. Yeah, if he wants to get creative, I guess murder’s the next step.”

  “And yet he keeps getting reelected?” I blurted.

  “Yeah, well, he’s never been convicted. Whenever something comes up, he complains vociferously about people not understanding what it takes to be an effective politician, to do his constituents’ work, et cetera. Says everything is complicated, points at his track record—which is rather full of progress if you measure progress by infrastructure and employment rates—and lays money on the table to cover his oversights. Probably his favorite term—simple oversights. Plural, mind you, multiple simple oversights. But he certainly gets things done, does our Ross.”

  I was left breathless just listening to Josie. No wonder Ross Perkins seemed to incite a visceral reaction from people—me, Roxy, Josie herself, and doubtless countless others. I wondered how far the news reporters would go in suggesting his complicity in Ian Thorpe’s murder without actual evidence. Probably depended on how badly the publisher of the Willamette Week wanted to get sued.

  oOo

  I swapped the whirlwind that is Josie Rodriguez for the rubber-scented respite of the Les Schwab Tire Center waiting area. Vaughn had told me exactly where to go, with the added helpful tidbit that the friendly technicians would probably not charge me for repairing my flat tire even though I had never been a customer previously. This policy was designed to make people happy and encourage future purchases, and I dearly appreciated it.

  I munched fresh (free!) popcorn and tried not to watch the muted true-crime reenactment television show that was playing on the flat screen mounted above a display of car batteries. I had enough true crime in my life as it was.

  Instead, I tuned in to the conversation two old men were having on the other side of a dusty fake ficus tree that had been staked in a big wicker basket as a homey touch in the otherwise strictly utilitarian space.

  Old Man #1, in a gray billed cap with a patch bearing the cursive word Coastal in a red oval stuck on the front, said, “You know that fellow got himself killed? Environmentalist?
He came in my shop last week. Wanted rubberized tubing in a few different diameters. I think he was rigging up some kind of contraption to tow behind a boat.”

  “Could be, Marv,” Old Man #2, the one in the green quilted down vest, said. “You seen those algae slicks on the banks? Getting worse. No way I’m dipping this pretty hide of mine in that water anytime soon. And those kids out there waterskiing. Probably get sick two days later and think nothing of it.”

  “Yep,” Marv agreed. “Every time it rains, Portland flushes, and we get their sewage down here in Fidelity and points beyond.”

  The receptionist called Marv to the counter so he could pay for his wheel alignment, cutting off my chance at eavesdropping on more tantalizing details. On the television screen, the actress whom I assumed was playing the victim strolled through a stand of yellow-leafed trees, swinging her arms, blissfully unaware of the stranger in the blue hoodie crouched behind some bushes.

  Ugh. I stood up, walked three feet, and plopped into a chair facing the other direction. No matter where I was—in the tiny town of Fidelity or in bustling Portland—it seemed everyone was buzzing about Ian Thorpe’s murder. I supposed I’d missed out on the pervasiveness of the early hubbub since I didn’t watch the local news or read the newspapers and I definitely didn’t give any credence to the talking mediaheads who rehashed the few known details ad nauseam. But now that the case had spread to the point that it infiltrated dialogue among friends, I felt for Vaughn.

  As a small-town police detective investigating the murder of a prominent activist, he had a tough job to do, with everyone watching. A little grouchiness was permissible.

  CHAPTER 13

  At what time would a spry older lady serve dinner to her new man friend? I was betting on six o’clock. A more formal affair would normally be scheduled for later in the evening, but if Norman was going to review Bettina’s investment portfolio, I figured they’d want to get an early start.