by Joslyn Chase
Scientists call this “Utilization Behavior.” It involves familiar objects and the irresistible urge to use them at inappropriate times and it’s often part and parcel of a traumatic brain injury. I shudder to think what actions I might perform in front of a crowd should I encounter, for example, a roll of toilet paper in a public place.
I sometimes dress in strange combinations or use the wrong tools. A shoe is a shoe, right? So, I showed up at a gallery exhibition wearing a Nike cross-trainer on one foot and a brown wingtip on the other. This was frowned upon by the gallery-going crowd. I hadn’t given it a thought while dressing—just grabbed the two shoes closest to hand. My frame of reference for evaluating what’s appropriate has been knocked askew, yet my capacity to feel the pain and humiliation that arise from my faulty decisions remains intact, a cruel inequality.
I examined my state of mind and found that my levels of misery and inadequacy remained high with no signs of dropping. When I’d found that I could no longer sculpt with the same abilities of expression, with the sensitivity and interpretation that had built my burgeoning reputation, I’d been knocked flat. After Claire left, and the ruins of my life seemed to leer at me in stark highlight, I’d made a pact. One year to rise from the ashes. One year to convince myself that life was still a go.
I bought a gun and wrote a note dated one year from the day I recorded it. Now, I was six weeks away from that date and the view ahead was bleak as ever.
I opened a suitcase onto the bed and layered the folded clothes from my drawer on the bottom, tossing the dirty laundry on top. I was in the bathroom, gathering up my beard cream and the offending toothbrush, when someone knocked at the door and I called out an invitation to enter. It was Robyn.
She stared at the mess that was mounting in the suitcase. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“I’m wasting my time here. Going home.”
“Don’t shoot the messenger, David, but the police have instructed us all to stay.”
I sat on the bed and rubbed at my temples with the palms of both hands.
“I forgot about that.”
“Really?” Robyn looked startled. “I’m finding it difficult to think about anything else.”
She stood with one hand cupped under her elbow while the other hand played with her lower lip. Her eyes roved quickly around the room and then swiveled back to my worktable.
“These are fabulous, “she said. Stepping closer, she cocked her head and reached out a finger to stroke the satiny warmth of a mahogany carved woman. “I really like this one.”
I eyed the sculptures with resentment. “These don’t look like my work.”
A little trill of mirth escaped her lips. “David, that’s a non-statement. They are your work, therefore they look like your work. This is what your work looks like.”
I was irritated by her amusement, by how she took so lightly something that crushed my soul.
“I like the way my work used to look,” I said, the bitterness so strong in my words that I could taste it. “Before.”
Robyn didn’t reply. She ran her hand once more down the smooth mahogany and came to sit beside me on the bed.
“David, you’ve got to figure out who killed Muse.”
I looked at her, astonished. “Me? I can’t even figure out if I like apples or bananas. What misbegotten notion makes you think I can find out who poisoned the cat?”
She pointed back at my sculptures. “See those lines? The clean angles, the crisp detail? There’s such clarity there. You don’t seem to realize it, David, but you see things that other people can’t see. You have a way of looking deeper.”
I barked out a bitter laugh. “My way of looking at things is out of kilter. I’ve lost touch with this world, Robyn. I don’t know how to function here. I don’t know how to live.”
Parallel lines sprang up on Robyn’s forehead. She took my hand and her mouth opened and hung empty, as if words were forming but refusing to push their way free.
At last she said, “You’re the arugula, David, in a bowlful of iceberg. You bring a different flavor and color to the table and this world is starving for people like you. Your perspective might be a bit…zany, but maybe that’s what makes you best qualified to solve Muse’s murder.”
I sat very still. “You think zany qualifies me for the case? What about the police?”
“The police have their hands full with the Medora situation. They haven’t the time or resources to care who killed the cat.”
“But don’t they realize the two are related?”
Robyn’s delicate eyebrows rose a notch. “Are they? Hmmm. I don’t know what leads they’re following, but I get the impression they’re not much concerned about the cat.”
I stood and allowed my butchered brain to process what she’d said. Whether I investigated the cat’s death, or wasted time sculpting, or simply laid in bed staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t leave until the police released us. I doubted I could accomplish much, but I’d do my best to give George and Gertie some closure.
The locked safe holding my gun wasn’t going anywhere. I could meet up with it next week when this business was resolved. I scooped my laundry from the suitcase and returned it to the hamper.
“We’d better get on it, then.”
~~~
It was lunch time at the lodge, and my fellow artists, those I must now view as suspects, were gathered for the meal. The spicy scent of a tomato-based sauce filled the room, and my taste buds surprised me, perking up at the promise of pizza or spaghetti. They were usually so apathetic. A Frank Sinatra song played softly in the background, telling me Gertie was feeling a bit better, or at least determined to fake it.
As we entered, I told Robyn I intended to ignore the connection between Muse and Medora and focus on the death of the cat. She agreed to the wisdom in that. The buffet counter was laden with salad fixings, two pans of lasagna, and a rack of garlic bread. Everyone served themselves and took their seats around the table, except for Sondra, who whisked her plate out the door without a word or a glance at anyone. Marvin was also absent, having declined lunch.
There was little conversation, so I had everyone’s attention when I spoke up. “It looks like we’re not going anywhere until the police are through with us, and I’m guessing that most of us aren’t getting a lot of work done. There is something we can do, that we can focus on, that will be an outlet for our creative energy and accomplish something constructive.”
I looked around the table and saw all the faces swiveled my way, their expressions ranging from boredom to anxiety.
“We need to solve the mystery of Muse’s murder.”
“What mystery?” Arthur snorted. “Seems pretty clear who killed Muse. And soon the cops will be arresting Sondra for Medora’s murder, too.”
“The brat’s got a lot to answer for,” said Patrick, reaching for the salt.
“Okay,” I nodded. “If Sondra killed Muse, we need to find out how and gather evidence that proves she did it.”
“Why?”
The question was fired by an acid-sharp voice, and we all turned to see that George and Gertie had come out of the kitchen. Gertie stood at the head of the table, her fists white-knuckled against the dark tablecloth.
“It doesn’t matter how she did it, my Muse is gone.”
Her face twisted in a spasm of grief, and the room fell silent. Even Frank Sinatra held his tongue. I struggled to find the words that could express my idea.
“If someone murders your friend,” I said, “or a member of your family, you want justice. You want to find out what happened, and why. You want the perpetrator punished. Not just anyone will do—it must be the one who actually committed the act, or retribution is meaningless. If we can prove Sondra killed the cat, then you can rightfully hold her responsible. Otherwise, it’s just unsubstantiated slander.”
George spoke up, his voice a quiet rumble, but every word distinct. “He’s right, Gertie. The police are investigating Medora’s death
and Muse deserves the same consideration. No one else is going to make that happen. It’s up to us.”
Gertie dropped into a chair, loosening her fists. Her eyes were haggard, her hair stringy and showing its gray. She rubbed a hand across her brow. “Okay, you’re right. Knowing the truth might help me get past this. But I don’t see how we can possibly get to the bottom of this.”
I looked at George. “You haven’t buried her yet, have you?”
“No. Marvin and I dug the grave and I’ve been building a casket in my workshop. Should have it finished by dinnertime. We were planning an early morning service, just Gertie and I.”
“Would you mind holding off a bit longer?”
George pushed out his lower lip and worked his jaw, something I’d seen him do before when mulling things over.
“I suppose we could. Why would it matter?”
“Did Muse have a vet?”
“Sure, up in Belfair. What’s your idea?”
“I’d like to take her in and see if the vet can determine what killed her.”
Arthur nodded. “Now, that’s a fine idea, get us some concrete information to work with.”
“We’ll also want to talk to each one of you and find out if you saw or heard anything that can help piece this together,” added Robyn. “Think about that morning before Muse died and try to remember whatever you can. Even if you think it’s irrelevant.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t see the point of this exercise,” said Patrick, rising from the table. “Sondra is clearly guilty and I, for one, have not let this fiasco stop my work. My keyboard awaits.” He tossed his napkin onto his plate and strode out the door, almost knocking down the part-time maid coming in to clear the table.
“What a ghoul,” Janet said, staring after him.
George nodded, blowing out a big breath in disgust. “He thrives on the sordid and unsavory. Without them, he’d have no basis for his novels. It may be a sad commentary on human nature that they always make the best-seller lists.”
“I saw him on a talk show once,” said Gertie. “Did you know that by the time he turned thirteen his father had abandoned the family and his mother was an alcoholic who committed suicide? He was adopted and changed his name but he’s still living a fractured life. Blames everything on the woman who seduced his father and ruined their lives.”
Arthur spoke up. “That may be, but if you ask me, she’s the one who launched his career and made his fortune.”
“I doubt that’s an adequate trade-off.” Gertie pointed out.
“I’ll go talk to him later,” I said. “I’ll have to see Sondra and Marvin also. What about the rest of you? Anything to report?”
There was silence while everyone racked their brains for any detail that might help. Janet raised a timid hand.
“Hold up a moment,” I told her, turning to Robyn. “Will you take down notes?”
Gertie jumped up and ran into the office, coming out with a notepad and pencil which she handed to Robyn. I gave Janet the go ahead.
“I saw something unusual that morning. I heard someone walking around outside our cabin, so I looked out the window and I saw a man, a stranger. When he saw me looking, he turned around and hurried away.”
“Oh, Janet,” Arthur spluttered, “you’re just making that up to protect Sondra.”
“Why would the girl protect Sondra?” roared George. “Sondra’s been nothing but nasty to Janet. If she’s going to make something up, by rights it should incriminate Sondra, not protect the wretched woman.”
“I’m not making it up,” said Janet. “I saw a strange man outside our cabin that morning.”
“Can you remember what time it was?” asked Robyn. “It’s important to put together an accurate timeline.”
I looked at her with interest. She was all business now, pencil poised to record Janet’s answer, eyebrows raised in expectation. Sharp, and shrewd. I was impressed.
Janet wrinkled her brow, looking doubtful. “Maybe ten or ten thirty, I guess.”
“Hold on,” said Arthur. “How was he dressed?”
“That was odd, too,” said Janet. “He wasn’t wearing what you’d expect around here. He wore a dark blue business suit and tie, and he carried some sort of attache case.”
George laughed. “Maybe Bill Gates wandered off his property,” he said, referring to the magnate’s lavish vacation home a few miles down the road.
“Ah,” said Arthur, “I got it. No, it wasn’t Bill Gates. It was a fan of mine, tracked me down so I could autograph his playbill. And the time was closer to eleven o’clock.”
“Oh, yes,” said Gertie. “I remember. He stopped by the office and you said it was okay to send him over, so I told him you were in cabin six and I wrote down the number and passed it to him. He must have looked at it upside down and headed to Sondra’s cabin—number nine.”
Arthur nodded. “Then he realized his mistake and turned around. He ended up at my cabin and we talked for about ten minutes. I got the impression he was ready to settle in for a long discussion and I wanted to get back to work, so I did that thing where you glance at your watch. He took the hint and left soon after. It was 11:05.”
“Good,” I said. “That’s exactly the kind of detail we need to nail down. As near as we can, we need to reconstruct the hours before Muse died.”
“Well, for my part,” continued Janet, “after lunch Sondra sent me out to shop for some items in town. She said she was going to take a nap. It must have been five or ten minutes past one when I left, and I got back just in time for all the fuss.”
Robyn tapped the pencil. “We know that Muse was still alive during lunch. Remember, Arthur, how we saw her on the lawn outside the window? She was cavorting like crazy.”
“You mean, like in a poisoned frenzy?” George asked.
“Oh, surely not,” Gertie protested in horror. “She was just frolicking. She always was a playful cat,”
“Well,” said Robyn, “I don’t think she could have been sick already. I definitely heard her playing the piano at Medora’s at twenty past one. You know how she loved to jump up and run along the keyboard. She scampered up and down the keys several times that afternoon.”
“How can you be so certain about the time?” I asked.
“Hearing her reminded me that I needed to call my agent. I checked the clock to see what time it was in New York.”
“Maybe you heard Medora running scales,” said Gertie. “She always rehearsed for two hours after lunch.”
“No!” said Arthur with such vehemence that we all stared. I noticed, with detached interest, that his lower lip trembled almost imperceptibly and I saw that it took effort for him to rein it in. The others were silent, and when I looked at Robyn, I saw that her eyes were wet. She placed a hand over Arthur's and he swallowed hard before continuing with his explanation.
“Medora and I were playing chess in the rec room. We’d gotten into a debate over which type of creative mind is superior—writer or musician. I teased her that a writer must plot, analyze, create authentic detail and dialogue, orchestrate stage directions, and know the end from the beginning, while a pianist simply reads the notes and reproduces them on the piano. Medora contended that I couldn’t be more wrong.”
He stopped and swallowed several more times. When he spoke again, his voice had thickened and came out gruff.
“We decided to settle it over a game of chess.”
No one asked the obvious question, but I really wanted to know. “Who won?”
A wash of pink stained Arthur’s cheeks. “Medora did, but I couldn’t let that stand, so I challenged her to best out of three and I won the next game. We were in the middle of the tie breaker when we heard Gertie screaming.”
“So, let’s come to a consensus,” I said. “What time was it when you discovered the cat, Gertie?”
Gertie drew a deep breath and let it out on a shaky sigh.
“George and I were working in the boathouse,” she said. “I saw that it wa
s a quarter to two and I was about to leave and go watch my soap when Marvin came bursting in and said Muse was in trouble. We took off running.”
“So, you would have reached Sondra’s cabin about 1:50,” said Robyn. “Does that sound about right to everyone else?”
Heads nodded around the table.
“Okay, then,” Robyn continued. “We’ve got a basic timeline. If any of you remembers anything else, please tell David or me.”
She rose and gathered her things. “I’m going to try talking to Sondra. What’s your next move?” she asked me.
“I’m taking Muse to the vet.”
~~~
George agreed to call the veterinarian, Dr. Bergman, to explain the situation and enlist his help. The doctor gave instructions for me to park behind the building and come in the back door, but two men were unloading merchandise at a neighboring establishment, and their truck blocked all the available parking.
I drove around and found a spot near the front entrance. Carrying Muse’s sheet-wrapped body, I pushed the glass door open with my backside, activating a chime that announced my arrival. I turned and confronted the horrified face of an old woman, cradling a cat. Her eyes, a distressed shade of blue, peeked out from two triangles enfolded with curtains of wrinkled skin, and the cat on her lap gave a menacing yowl.
Two dogs began barking and the cat increased its volume, both in terms of voice and fur. The hair on its body stood on end, doubling its size, and I had to look away. I turned to see a spaniel and a German Shepherd straining at their leashes, held back by their owners. A small girl began to cry, balling her fists into her eye sockets, while her mother sent me a look which smoldered and threatened to catch fire.
I stepped away from the door, but the sheet caught in the locking mechanism and slipped partway off Muse’s stiff form. The large man holding the German Shepherd rose from his seat and started toward me, his arms raised like an attacking monster. A door behind the counter flew open and a man in a white coat hurried out, caught the sliding sheet, and gripped my elbow much harder than was really necessary. He marched me into the nether regions of the office. A young woman, dressed in pink surgical scrubs, rushed forward, but he waved her off and she went out the door into the waiting room. I heard the murmur of voices, human and animal, coming in through the cracks.