Mercury Rising (Tin Can Mysteries Book 1)

by Jerusha Jones

  I planned to spend the rest of the day pretending that I was a good neighbor, that I hadn’t mucked up an espionage attempt, that I hadn’t capsized in the nominal wake of a tug with barges, that I was a responsible adult with ordinary concerns. I was suffering no ill health effects from the dunking I’d undergone, and I chalked that up to Cal’s homeopathic potion.

  Willow bounded into my good intentions while I was still munching my breakfast granola. “Take me shopping,” she said when I answered the door. “You’ll love it.”

  As a rule, I don’t love shopping. Particularly when my pocketbook is on the empty side. But she was so eager, and she had a large messenger bag slung across her torso, packed to the brim, apparently, judging by all the lumps and bumps under the thick canvas. It seemed my positive answer was a foregone conclusion.

  “Okay,” I said. “But we have to come up with something extra special to cook for Cal. I owe him big-time.”

  “Caviar?” Willow chimed. It was probably the fanciest food she’d ever heard of.

  “Have you ever eaten caviar?” I asked.

  She shook her head, wide-eyed.

  “It’s gross. Salt-cured fish eggs. Besides, you don’t prepare caviar, really. You just eat it off tiny mother-of-pearl spoons. There’s nothing you can do to make it taste any better. And the mama sturgeon is killed so her eggs can be harvested.”

  Willow’s expression was rapidly changing from starstruck to repulsed, so I pressed my advantage and continued, “Although some scientists are working on a procedure in which the mama fish is given a treatment that basically induces labor but spares her life. Purists say that type of caviar is inferior though—too mushy.”

  Willow’s face was almost as blue as her hair, and she was making gagging noises.

  I nodded with satisfaction. One minor good deed accomplished.

  She sat in the passenger seat of my old Volvo and fiddled with the seat levers while also giving me belated instructions about where to turn. We ended up circling several blocks several times, but our first stop was a farmers’ market on the Portland State University campus in the South Park Blocks.

  I was in heaven, and Willow knew it. She skipped with giddy delight, her blue locks flying, as she led me along the sidewalk past tables mounded high with apples, pears, lettuces, kale, beans, tomatoes in every possible shade from pale yellow to purplish-black, pungent herbs, soft stone fruits, lavender, honey from local bees, wines, specialty cured meats, giant bouquets of gaily-colored flowers. My head was swimming.

  “Kid, you are so not helping with the cash flow,” I moaned.

  “I don’t see any caviar,” she answered perkily, “so you’re saving money by not buying that.” For such a smart-aleck remark, I made her carry my already loaded shopping bag so that I could fill the other one too.

  “What are we cooking for Cal?” she asked.

  “I have no idea. But whatever it is, with how fresh these ingredients are”—I held the cut stem end of a Tuscan cantaloupe under my nose and inhaled deeply—“it can’t help but be marvelous.”

  I’m not sure if I dragged Willow away, or if she dragged me away, but we finally staggered to the car with bulging bags hanging from our arms. I was ready for a nap, but Willow insisted that the next stop would be just as good.

  “Maybe even better.” She cast a sly glance at me out of the corner of her eye and giggled.

  And so she directed me to Powell’s City of Books, a ramshackle city block of old warehouse-style buildings and rooms jammed up against each other with ramps and staircases leading every which way. They had to color-code the rooms so people wouldn’t get lost. But I got lost anyway, in the Orange Room, amid the towering stacks of cookbooks for the better part of an hour while Willow browsed the sci-fi section in the Gold Room. I managed to restrain my purchases to just two books—tree and bird identification field guides which Willow helped me pick out.

  “Mercy,” I breathed once we were safely in the car again.

  “Nope. One more,” Willow insisted. “Besides, aren’t you hungry?”

  Which was true. I was starving. Shopping must increase my metabolic rate.

  Willow’s final destination was only a short distance away, under the Burnside Bridge—the Portland Saturday Market, with rows and rows of small booths featuring local artists and handmade goods. Hats, paintings, photographs, clothing and textiles, metalworking, jewelry, carved wooden toys, soaps, pottery, and wood prints galore. I stumbled at Willow’s heels, gawking at all the trinkets and bright colors which were interspersed with the occasional truly spectacular item that caught my eye. A blue-speckled ceramic pitcher, for example, or a long woolen scarf in a striking plaid.

  “Come on.” Willow tugged on my arm, and we eventually made it through the throngs to the row of food booths closest to the river. I chose Cape Cod-style fish and chips, while Willow devoured a churro and slurped a mango smoothie.

  “We’re going to have to talk about your nutritional choices,” I said with my mouth full.

  She shrugged. “It’s Saturday.”

  I was about to point out that stomachs don’t know what day of the week it is, but she jumped to her feet and tossed the paper wrappings from our lunch in the trash.

  “There’s somebody you need to see on the way out.”

  It struck me, as I trailed her through the crowd, that her blue hair was particularly helpful in situations like this. It provided an easy beacon to spot and follow.

  Willow skidded to a stop at a booth on the corner of one of the many pathway intersections. Bits & Baubs read the plaque hanging from the awning. And inside was a familiar orange-haired lady who was clanking and jangling her way through a sale of earrings to a middle-aged woman and her daughter. I gaped when I saw how much money exchanged hands. I hated to think how much the bangles Bettina had given me were worth.

  Bettina’s face split into a joyous smile when she saw us, flooding me in a poignant swamp of guilt, embarrassment, and chagrin over my behavior the night before. I had to quickly arrange my features in what I hoped was a look of delighted surprise.

  “Are you having a girls’ day out?” Bettina crowed. “How marvelous. Willow, sweetheart, have you seen the new abalone dangles I’ve made?”

  But Bettina was interrupted by yet another customer with money clenched in her fist, and commerce ensued while Willow and I waited.

  “How was your dinner last night?” I blurted when Bettina returned to us. I deliberately chose the word dinner instead of date, hoping she would note my interest in the food rather than the man and so that she would have a chance to slink an answer past Willow without admitting to any romantic intentions.

  But my subtleties went unheeded.

  “Oh, Norman. Well—” Bettina fanned her hands in front of her face.

  I couldn’t tell if the gesture meant that Norman made Bettina’s temperature rise—as though he was a source of rampant sexual appeal—or if she was waving him off as a nonstarter. And then a young man on the other side of the booth had some questions about a carved wood bracelet he was thinking of buying for his girlfriend, and we lost Bettina to the demands of her business once again.

  Willow was far too keen to have missed the undercurrent, so I whispered to her, “What do you think that means? Are we going to have Norman hanging around the marina, being a pest?”

  She snorted. “I’d bet a month’s worth of lunch money on it.” Then she groaned. “Another one. We haven’t recovered from Nigel yet. When old guys get the hots, they can be soooo annoying.” The statement was accompanied by a dramatic eye roll, and it was my turn to snort.

  “Oh, girls, I’m so sorry.” Bettina rushed back. “Watch, in twenty minutes, there’ll be a complete dearth of customers, but right now…” Her brown eyes darted toward a woman who was holding a pair of flashy silver hoops up next to her ears while peering into one of the many mirrors Bettina had installed around the booth.

  “It’s all right,” I said quickly. “We’ll catch up late
r.”

  Bettina fluttered her fingers at us and turned to help the woman decide just how extravagantly large a pair of earrings she could wear without bonking herself in the nose with them when she shook her head. It was a criterion I had never considered before.

  Willow was quiet in the car on the way home. Too quiet.

  Moodiness? Fatigue? An introvert who’d used up all her social reserves?

  I didn’t want to pry—my track record at helpful prying being somewhat dismal at the moment—but I also wanted Willow to feel comfortable talking with me. So I opted for a non-threatening observation. “I noticed that Bettina’s house is called Dock’s End, and the one next to it, where Boris and Petula live, is called River Haven. Is that common, for people to name their floating houses? I mean, I get it that boats have names, but floating houses too?”

  “Oh yeah,” Willow said eagerly. “You should name yours. Tin Can might be nice, now that the cargo containers are painted gray.”

  I don’t know why it struck me as so funny. Tin Can. But it was. I laughed until I had to wipe tears from the corners of my eyes. I think it was the idea—when the time came—of admitting to my father that I lived in a tin can that sent me into hysterics.

  “Done,” I finally wheezed. “I’ll find a jazzy font and something to paint it on.”

  Willow beamed.

  CHAPTER 15

  I had to admit Willow had been an excellent tour guide. I wanted to repay her kindness, so I invited her on a combo business/pleasure outing that evening—to the soft opening of the Wicked Bean Annex, and in so doing, I thrilled her little heart to the core.

  “Darren’s too old for you,” I warned. “And you can’t have any alcohol tonight. Strictly coffee.”

  “I know, I know,” she muttered, but her pale gray eyes sparkled.

  I didn’t want to come across as too dictatorial, but I did also mention that since it was a special occasion, conservative, arty, and bohemian—but with a classy flair—attire would be appropriate. I tried not to chuckle as I said it, and was anxiously awaiting what ensemble Willow would come up with. As long as it was an improvement over her hoodie, ratty jeans, and scuffed sneakers, I’d be happy.

  Frankly, I felt a pair of Bettina’s dangly earrings was in order, so I trotted over to her house along the floating walkway maze and left a note taped to her front door. I also took the opportunity to lean around the corner of her river-facing deck and verify that my audio recorder was no longer where I’d left it.

  Which led me back to Cal’s slip and the Ecclesiastes tugging at her lines. But Cal wasn’t home either, or at least he didn’t respond when I knelt and pounded on the hull with my fist.

  He had returned my kayak, however, including the paddle. How he’d retrieved them both, I couldn’t fathom, but there they were—the kayak upside-down and lashed on my rear deck with the paddle tucked underneath, the way I always stored them.

  I spent the next hour examining my wardrobe. As I had been made acutely aware of over the past several days, Portland was nothing like Washington D.C. in terms of fashion. All my tailored skirt and jacket ensembles, the pantyhose, the moderately-heeled pumps, and the pressed white blouses constituted overkill of the most snobbish variety. The only way they’d be useful to me now was if I separated them and used them individually. And the pantyhose not at all. I threw every single pair in the trash. I can’t even begin to describe how wonderful that felt.

  I was in the middle of pulling my clothes from their hangers in the closet and heaping them into piles on the floor by season when a knock sounded on the front door. I rushed into the living room and flung open the door, expecting Bettina and a fountain of unsolicited advice which I felt in a particularly good mood to endure. But instead Cal stood there, furtively glancing over his shoulder. He pushed his way inside and latched the door behind him.

  “Here,” he nudged a small black box into my hand—my recorder.

  “Have you listened to it?” I whispered, wondering as I did so why such secrecy inside my own house was necessary. Cal’s mannerisms were rubbing off on me.

  “The guy’s a crook.”

  “I thought so,” I growled. “Twenty percent. Nothing in the stock market guarantees any return, let alone twenty percent.”

  “It gets worse.” Cal nodded toward the recorder. “Vaughn needs to know.”

  I started a little, took a step backward. “Uh, that’s a problem. You see, Bettina trusted me with this, and if I go blabbing…” I narrowed my eyes at Cal. “Wait. Why are you so watchful? Are you on Vaughn’s payroll or something?” I wasn’t quite ready to buy the excuse that old habits die hard, although that was probably true too.

  “Bettina’s the closest thing I’ve got to a mother,” Cal mumbled. “Her parties aren’t my cup of tea, but I like to look out for her.”

  “Okay. So that’s you, me, and I’m pretty sure Willow has a good grasp on the situation as well.” I sighed. “We ought to be able to handle it, just the three of us.”

  The door behind me rattled with an insistent knock. I flinched but managed to check the peephole this time.

  “Bettina,” I hissed, and tossed the recorder to Cal. I pointed deeper into the house. “Turn the lights off.”

  He was gone—silently, speedily, and for the second time in less than a week, I had a man hiding in my bedroom.

  I opened the front door.

  Bettina came bearing three shallow, stackable trays. “Darling, if you’d told me at the booth today, I would have sent you home with my newest creation, a pair of amethyst and silver bicone bead delights. They look like chandeliers on the ears.”

  “I was hoping for something subtle and demure,” I muttered.

  “Nonsense. Do you know how much inventory I have? Absolutely a delight to give these a public showing.” Bettina plunked the trays on the kitchen counter and spread them out.

  “How much do you have invested in your business?” I asked, cringing at the impertinence of my own question.

  Bettina shrugged, sending her cascade of necklaces jingling. “It’s all I have to do, in my dotage. Either that or the money sits in the bank. And I enjoy it, the creative process, figuring out new combinations and techniques.”

  All that money, huh? No wonder Norman found her tantalizing. I gritted my teeth and bent to admire the selection of earrings on display.

  “What are you wearing tonight?” Bettina asked. And before I could stop her, she was marching toward my bedroom, moving very fast for such a tiny lady. I skittered in her wake.

  But when she flicked on the lights, there were just piles of clothes scattered on the floor. I quickly glanced into the open closet—hangers, a laundry basket, but no man—and exhaled.

  Talk about tradecraft. Cal was a disappearing genius. He must have gone out through the French doors, but the lever on the handle was still in the locked position. I shook my head in wonder.

  Bettina, however, was nudging through my piles with the tip of her faux-croc, pointy-toed, kitten-heeled shoe, her hands firmly planted on her hips. If she noticed or cared that there was no bed in the bedroom, she didn’t say so. But the dismal condition of my wardrobe appeared to be causing her palpable distress.

  “The only good thing you have is that little yellow number you wore to my party,” she sniffed.

  “I need something warmer for tonight, and more professional.”

  “Professional?” Bettina arched her left brow at me. “Darling, you should try sexy sometime.” She held up a be-ringed index finger before I could object. “I get it, I get it—not tonight.”

  Except the outfit she finally coerced me into was on the sexy side. Sexy professional. I tried to convince myself I was starting a new trend while I examined my reflection in the full-length mirror and tugged on my hemline.

  Willow opened the front door and yoo-hooed in lieu of knocking. She appeared in the bedroom doorway bedecked in a corseted steampunk thing—all pink satin and black ribbons with a poufy tulle skirt and black leat
her motorcycle boots. She flung a short hooded cape over her shoulders and twirled for us. She looked like a pink (with blue hair) version of Little Red Riding Hood on her way home from a night of playing strip poker at a biker bar. At least she’d won more than she’d lost. I wondered if Roxy had seen her before she’d left the apartment.

  “Perfect!” Bettina clasped her hands over her heart and smiled beatifically at her. My role model—oh joy. Also, I should be careful what I wish for—or at the very least, what I suggest to others.

  It was with an odd mix of gratitude and guilt that I bade farewell to Bettina and set off with Willow in my faithful old Volvo. These two women, at opposite ends of the age spectrum, were my first real friends in my new town. I hated the idea that I might be on the verge of betraying one of them and co-opting the other one into helping me do so.

  oOo

  If the crowd at Wicked Bean and the Annex next door was any indicator, Darren had a smashing success on his hands.

  Willow and I waded through the packed bodies to the coffee counter and ordered drinks. After that, I lost immediate, arm’s-reach contact with her, although she was very easy to spot in the melee.

  It’s one of the nice things about being tall—still having a good view even if the venue is congested. Another perk is the opportunity to catch snatches of conversation that rise above the general hubbub and to have a chance to link the words with the speakers since I can see them.

  If I’d had my audio recorder with me, I would have been able to score at least a dozen raving reviews. But at this point, I didn’t think Darren needed much more marketing or publicity efforts from me. It was all going swimmingly, and I hated to think what the fire marshal might say about the official grand opening scheduled for the following weekend based on the size of the horde of happy, caffeinated, chattering people attending this preliminary event.