Eyeshine

by Cy Wyss

  Jake sipped from the champagne glass he had sitting on the table beside them. “Someone witnessing something like someone falling into a raging river usually thinks to go get help.”

  PJ wasn’t sure if Jake was talking about her or Alex. A chill passed down her spine. “What do you mean?”

  “Wouldn’t you call 911? I mean, if you saw someone fall into the water and drift away?”

  “Uh.” PJ noticed her hands were shaking. She took a deep breath and tried to quiet her telltale reactions. “Well, I guess I might try to help first.”

  “After calling 911, hopefully.”

  “I might not have a phone handy.”

  “The whole night, no 911 call.”

  “Alex is only fifteen. If he’d been thrashing around in the cold water and nearly lost his own life, maybe he was too freaked out—especially with his disability. He probably didn’t understand enough to think right.”

  “I think Alex Tate understands more than anyone gives him credit for. He must not have told his mom about his predicament because I can only assume she would have had the wherewithal to call 911.”

  “Sometimes he can hardly talk. Plus, doesn’t his mom work nights?”

  “Not that night. Their truck was gone, but it was Trent, Alex’s older brother, who took it.”

  “Oh.”

  Jake stared at the floor between them. “Nuts.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sure I’m giving away some things I shouldn’t. It’s hard to remember you’re just a civilian and not law enforcement, too. Somehow, the way people talk about you, I feel like you’re more of a detective than I am.”

  “It’s my cat eyes.”

  “What?”

  “The yellow eyes.” She pointed to her eyes, which seemed golden in the daylight streaming through a nearby window. “My hypnotic cat eyes. I get people to tell me things.”

  He chuckled. “I guess so. What do you do with all these things people tell you?”

  PJ smiled mischievously at him. “Sometimes I put them in my newspaper articles and get people in trouble.”

  “Aw, darn. I’m screwed.”

  * * *

  After Jake left to greet some friends, PJ lifted a brownie from the dessert table and shoved it in her mouth.

  “Hey, I told you no more food. You’ll singlehandedly bankrupt us.”

  PJ started and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Mgmph.” She swallowed and cleared her throat. “I mean, yes, ma’am.” She briefly saluted Vicky, who laughed.

  “Looks like you and Detective Tipton are hitting it off.”

  PJ knew that was code for “tell me everything he said,” but resisted. All she said was, “I guess so.”

  Vicky eyed her askance. “He’s pretty cute.”

  “Does he have a girlfriend? Wife?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Interesting. What’s wrong with him?”

  Vicky rolled her eyes. “You’re never satisfied. If they’re hooked up, they’re off limits; if they’re not, there must be something wrong with them.”

  “I guess you’re right. There’s just as likely to be something wrong with them if they are hooked up as not. The world’s a crazy place.”

  “There’s something wrong with you too, girl, so don’t always be the single kettle turning away all those pots.”

  Before PJ could answer that, a booming voice interrupted.

  “Well, PJ, you staying out of trouble now?”

  Sheriff Curtis came over to them and slung an arm around his wife, who elbowed him in the ribs. “Ow. Police brutality. You see how she treats me, PJ?”

  “Poor man.” PJ stuck out her tongue. Everyone laughed.

  “That’s my girl,” Curtis said. “So did you get pics of the Greene murder or what?”

  PJ scoffed. “Why would you think I have pictures of some random nighttime event? And why are you calling it a murder?”

  “It wasn’t random. And it was right by your house. And it was big. Usually whenever something big is happening in town, we just wait until you send pictures of it. We don’t even have to do our jobs. We just look at your pictures.”

  The three of them chortled amicably. Then the smile dropped from PJ’s face. “Why is everyone calling it a murder?”

  “You’re right,” Curtis said. “Technically the ME’s report isn’t back yet. Silly me.”

  “It wasn’t a murder; it was an accident. I’m sure of it.”

  Sheriff Curtis nodded slowly. “Uh-huh. Sure. Well, we’ll see.”

  “I don’t get it. Chip fell in the water and unfortunately drowned. Alex even tried to save him.”

  “He didn’t call 911.”

  “So I heard. But that’s not evidence of anything but a muddled state of mind.”

  Sheriff Curtis glanced over his shoulder. No one seemed to be paying attention to their conversation.

  “The ME report isn’t official yet, but I’ll tell you, PJ. Keep it quiet for now.”

  “You know me. I’m the soul of discretion.”

  “Like mud is the soul of the Mississippi. But the body was moved.”

  PJ blinked repeatedly, trying to process what that meant. “What do you mean moved? Wasn’t it found in the water? Of course it moved.”

  “No, moved, as in wherever he died didn’t correspond to the evidence in the spot he was found in.”

  “I heard he was found by the bridge?”

  “Way south of Stoker Hills where he went in. Yep.”

  PJ had known there must be something wrong with that. Before her own near-fatal trip through the water, she had seen him much farther north. But she didn’t want to tell Sheriff Curtis that—at least not yet.

  “None of this makes any sense.”

  “You’re telling us,” Curtis said. Vicky nodded.

  “You’re saying Alex moved Chip, too, as well as pushed him in? What did he do? Follow him down the river and then keep him underwater? I can’t believe it.”

  Vicky said, “Why are you so bent on defending Alex Tate? Just because he’s a fellow resident of Stoker Hills? You know people in that dang trailer park commit crimes by the dozen. Just think of his brother, Trent Tate. You got him on video stealing from your trailer, for heck’s sake. And whenever we hear about users and gofers, guess where they’re from?”

  PJ frowned. “There’s a couple hundred people in the Hills. There’s bound to be some losers. The only difference between Stoker and somewhere like Wrenfield Downs is the good people of the Downs don’t get convicted because they can afford much better lawyers.” Wrenfield Downs was Mayhap’s most elite neighborhood; the mayor himself lived amid its impeccable landscaping and imposing mansions.

  Sheriff Curtis chortled. “You turning all socialist on us now? Maybe you should run an Occupy Main Street parade.”

  “Possibly I will.”

  “Don’t encourage her, Curtis, for heaven’s sake,” Vicky said.

  The sheriff walked away, chuckling and snuffling to himself as he went. “I don’t need to encourage her. She encourages herself. Good old PJ.”

  * * *

  After Vicky and Sheriff Curtis wandered off, PJ ambled around for a bit and then noticed her sister-in-law and niece sitting on couches in the living room. She went over and took up a place beside Nanci on the plush camel-colored sofa. Nanci, the wonderful girl, handed her a brownie.

  “Here, Aunt PJ, I saved one for you. I know Deputy Vicky always tells you not to eat after a while, but you’re always starving.”

  “Oh, you are a doll. Thanks, Nanci.”

  Nanci smiled, her amber-and-chestnut eyes sparkling. She hadn’t inherited the intense yellow of her aunt’s eyes, rather the darker brown-gold of her father’s. PJ found her catlike anyway. It would serve Robert right, PJ thought, if his daughter turned into a cat. Would he deny what he saw with her? Would he turn his back on her for being too feline? PJ sincerely hoped not. And she harbored hopes for Nanci’s fellow catness, in spite of hearing and detecti
ng nothing that indicated the girl was other than naturally special. PJ’s gift had started at puberty, at thirteen. Nanci was twelve and probably not quite there yet. PJ awaited the coming years with a mixture of apprehension and hope. Would she finally have a counterpart? Or would poor Nanci continue to lead a normal life? PJ didn’t know which she was hoping for more.

  To her sister-in-law, Didi, PJ said, “Is Robert around?”

  “Somewhere. I think he might be schmoozing the mayor in the kitchen.”

  “The mayor’s here?”

  “Sure is. As well as everyone else, it seems.” Indeed, the living room was packed. Aside from the space Didi and Nanci had carved out on the sofas, it was standing room only.

  “Robert says you think Chip Greene’s death was an accident?” Didi said.

  Nanci said, “I think it was an accident, too.”

  Her mother shushed her. “Nanci, you think whatever PJ thinks. We all know that.”

  “No, really, I do,” Nanci insisted. “I’ve been investigating, and it’s definitely an accident. A hundred percent.”

  PJ turned to her niece. “You’ve been investigating?”

  Didi said, “She’s got some kind of detective club with her friend Bridget Boone.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yeah!” Nanci said. “It’s so cool. I use that big magnifying glass you gave me when I was ten, Aunt PJ. We were walking around the ravine, and we found clues near Bridget’s house.”

  PJ’s cat sense tingled along her scalp. “What’d you find?”

  “Well, Bridget found you that morning, remember?”

  “Oh. Uh, right.” PJ had no idea how she’d explain that. She looked at Didi sheepishly, but Didi was studying an imaginary speck on her skirt.

  “Wasn’t that weird? Did you see anything?”

  “Not really.”

  Nanci’s face fell. “That’s too bad. We were hoping you saw what we did.”

  “And what’s that?” PJ asked.

  “We found a shoe!”

  “A shoe? Where?”

  “On the other side of the water, a ways north toward Stoker Hills. It was a hundred and sixteen steps from where Bridget found you,” Nanci added confidently.

  “What kind of shoe?”

  “It looked like a man’s loafer, and it was almost buried in the mud. If I didn’t have my magnifying glass, I’m sure I wouldn’t have seen it. Do you think it had something to do with that man who drowned? It can’t be just a coincidence.”

  “I hope you didn’t touch the shoe.”

  “Oh, we were very careful to leave it alone, just like real detectives. You know they have to keep away and let the CSI people handle everything like that—at least that’s what Dad says. Plus we didn’t want to dig in the icky mud. So we set up some crime scene tape around it.”

  “Crime scene tape? Did you take that from your dad?”

  “Well, it’s not real crime scene tape. We borrowed some yellow electrical tape from Bridget’s dad.”

  “Did you tell your dad about the shoe?”

  “We sure did. He was very proud. He made me an honorary agent. I’m Junior Special Agent Taylor now. It is the coolest thing in the history of the universe. I bet we could get him to make you an honorary special agent too, if you want, Aunt PJ. Do you want to join my club?”

  Didi dissolved into giggles.

  “I’m way too old,” PJ said. “I’d just slow you girls down.”

  * * *

  Robert was in the kitchen when PJ found him. The room was huge with infinite counters, two breakfast nooks, chrome appliances, and a long breakfast bar. Robert was propped against one of the breakfast bar stools, listening to the mayor and Sheriff Curtis converse. PJ closed up to him and whispered near his ear, “Can we talk?”

  He peeled himself away from the others and followed PJ to a small reading area overlooking the backyard, with two chairs and a bookcase. Fortunately, the space was unoccupied. They sat and Robert leaned toward her, hands folded together and elbows propped on his knees.

  “PJ, is there something you want to confess to me?”

  “Uh. I wouldn’t say confess.”

  His golden-brown eyes shone in the daylight of the sliding glass doors beside him. Occasionally people came or went through the doors, occluding those inquiring, clever eyes when their shadows passed over Robert.

  “Okay, chat then. Let’s say you wanted to chat.”

  “I guess you’ve talked to Nanci and Bridget.”

  He nodded slowly.

  “They’re investigating the drowning, I gather.”

  He nodded slowly again.

  PJ sighed. “Can you chat too? It’s not only me here. You know I hate talking to a vacuum.”

  Robert unfolded his hands and rubbed them up and down his thighs. “Nanci found a shoe, it seems. We have the crime lab looking at the area.”

  “Is it Chip’s?”

  “Too early to say.”

  “Let’s pretend it is. What do you think it means?”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “I asked you first.”

  “PJ, if you want something from me, you have to give first. What in the heck were you doing washed up naked there that morning?”

  Fear shot through PJ. How could she possibly explain? She didn’t have a ready story cooked up because she had forgotten that she would need one. She’d been so busy running around trying to come to terms with Chip’s drowning that she’d completely forgotten how deeply she had to justify her role in that night’s events.

  She crimsoned. “It’s embarrassing.”

  “Try me. I’m your brother. I raised you from a little girl. You can’t embarrass me any more than you probably already have at some point.”

  “Well, you know I have to wear those light goggles when I’m out.”

  “Yes. And I gather they make it so you can’t see very well, since you couldn’t really see what happened with Alex and Chip.”

  PJ cleared her throat. “Well, no. Anyway, I, uh, slipped.”

  “You slipped?”

  “Yes. I fell into the river too. Just like Chip.”

  Robert ran his fingers through his hair. “Jeez, PJ. You could have been killed. Why were you naked when you washed up?”

  “I just had my robe on. I was only investigating because of the shot. My robe must have fallen off and washed away.”

  Robert sighed. “PJ, you’re not making this easy. Every time I talk to you, your story changes. How am I supposed to defend you if you don’t tell me everything?”

  “Defend me? Defend me how? From who?”

  A large man carrying a plate bulging with pastries slid open the door and exited, closing the door behind him.

  Robert laced his fingers together and tapped his thumbs together. “People are talking. It’s just a matter of time before you’re going to have to get your story straight.”

  PJ felt her neck and face heat up. She said clearly, in a low voice, “Well, Robert, you know I turn into a cat nightly. I witnessed the whole thing but fell into the river trying to save Chip and woke up the next morning by Bridget’s house with no memory of what happened in the water. Of course I don’t have clothes when I’m a cat, so I have none when I turn back into a human either.”

  Robert closed his eyes. “Very funny.”

  Now PJ could always and forever afterward say she tried. She had tried to tell Robert the truth, but it was beyond his powers of imagination. Now, she felt, she could say that whatever she made up was completely justified. When the truth was “impossible,” better to make up something improbable since that’s what people could believe.

  “Okay, fine, it’s part of my therapy.”

  “What?” Robert’s eyes snapped open.

  “My therapy. Getting adjusted to being out in the night. That’s why I was out there. I’m supposed to start with ten minutes or so and work my way up. I happened to be out there during the ten minutes with Alex, Chip, and the shot. I have to say, I was
so stunned by the whole thing, and so freaked out by the noise of the shot, that I fell into the river. My robe got lost, as I told you, and other than that I don’t remember anything until I woke up with Bridget poking me the next morning.”

  “That’s your story?”

  PJ noted the timbre of Robert’s voice was far more skewed toward belief than when she told him the actual truth mere moments ago.

  She smiled. “I know. I feel stupid, but what am I supposed to say? It was the world’s worst timing. But how was I to know that at the exact time I’m poking around for ten minutes with those stupid light goggles on there would be a town-shattering accident? I’ve been out there trying to get used to the night for weeks, and no one’s ever noticed, and I’ve never been washed downstream. Then the other night, bam! Everything goes all wonky.”

  Robert had his eyes closed again and was rubbing his forehead. “How am I supposed to tell this to the sheriff? The police? They’ll think we’ve both gone off the deep end. Can you at least get Doc Fred to confirm your so-called therapy?”

  “You know it doesn’t work that way. He’s bound to silence.”

  PJ had no clue what Doc Fred would say if Robert did ask him. But she’d sent more than one questioner his way before and so far her luck had held. From the rumors, she thought Doc Fred seemed as eager to pretend they had a therapeutic relationship as she was. She supposed he might be grateful for the publicity of treating the famous town nutball, PJ Taylor. If Mayhap were Beverly Hills, they’d probably have a line of swag devoted to their mutual cause and sell $50 rhinestone-studded T-shirts to movie stars.

  “Great,” Robert said.

  “So back to the shoe.”

  He glared at her. “The shoe?”

  “Yes. The one Nanci and Bridget found? The one they cordoned off with yellow electrical tape? The one you just said was inconclusive yet?”

  He laughed. “As usual, you know everything, don’t you?”

  “Well, in addition to being a cat and running around at night with light goggles, I’m a psychic, don’t you know.”

  Robert’s laughing turned into swelling snorts. “You’re too much, PJ. I can’t take it.”

  “You know you should keep yourself calm, Robert. It’s kind of unseemly for a man your age to be screaming with laughter like a little girl.”