Squirrel & Swan Stolen Things

by M. D. Archer

  “Blood,” she said, her face crumpling as tears streamed down her cheeks. “I remembered something.” Her shoulders started shaking. “There was blood. So much blood everywhere.”

  5

  Cecilia opened the fridge to check it held the wine and cheese she’d asked her husband to pick up this morning.

  “Martin?” she called into the recesses of their two-level, four-bedroom house in Orakei. Originally a 1960s concrete block of four units, they’d converted it into one extra-large one. The conversion design had been Martin’s, and even though there had only really been one way to create this monstrosity while keeping the building structurally sound, Cecilia still found herself blaming him for its shortcomings. For example, to go upstairs—the location of their master bedroom with an ensuite, Cecilia’s home office, and a second living room—you had to go down the hall to the back where the internal stairs were. Which meant that sometimes, like now, one could have no clue whether the person you were shouting at was even home.

  But this was probably good, Cecilia thought. For days like today when she was hosting her writing group and Martin could stay happily upstairs having a Sunday afternoon snooze as he liked to do, undisturbed in either the bedroom or the second living room that got a lot of afternoon sun. Martin seemed to be taking rather a lot of naps recently, but then he was considerably older than Cecilia.

  When they’d met he was a senior lecturer in the school of design and she was an ambitious young writer paying her dues with a masters in creative writing—although that had turned out to be less about hard work and more about paying a lot of money to have a bored and frustrated writer periodically ask to see her work and cast a more or less critical eye over it, depending on their mood. When she’d met Martin at some postgraduate and faculty function—Cecilia had been there for the free wine—he’d seemed impossibly exciting. Not only was he older and sophisticated, he’d been fending off obvious advances from an attractive philosophy professor, which had made the young and tenacious Cecilia even more determined to make him her own. And so, she did. Twenty years later, while Cecilia felt she was a still-vibrant 48-year-old, Marty was turning into an old man before her very eyes. She shrugged to herself. Oh well. What will be, will be. If another opportunity should come her way then maybe she’d take it, maybe she wouldn’t. Romantic folly couldn’t be ignored, Cecilia thought. It was the stuff that fed creativity.

  Through the window of the backdoor Cecilia caught a glimpse of her neighbour, Gillian. She waved. When Gillian had bought that place a few years ago, they’d discovered that they used to work at the same company, eons ago. Now, they were friendly enough to chat regularly. Over the fence or with a cup of tea or a glass of wine. But while Gillian was nice enough, she wasn’t particularly interesting. Rather dull, even. The neighbour on the other side however... Cecilia had only seen him a few times in passing and he’d lived there for years. Who was this ghost-like person; what was he all about? These wonderings were starting to niggle at her, increasingly demanding to be turned into the B-plot of one of her novels.

  “Martin!” Cecilia roared.

  The thump of footsteps descending the stairs informed Cecilia that he was home, and he had heard her.

  “Yes, love?” he said mildly, entering the kitchen.

  Cecilia turned to look in the fridge and suddenly saw, quite clearly and obviously, the wine and cheese she’d been about to blame Martin for not purchasing. “Oh, um, the writing group is this afternoon. Are you going to be around?” she said instead.

  Martin stroked his small pointy beard and looked off to one side as he did when he was thinking. “Perhaps,” he said. He planted a kiss on her cheek and wandered into the front living room.

  “They’ll be here in a couple of hours,” Cecilia said, trying not to sound threatening but managing to anyway. “Three o’clock, like usual.”

  During the last two group get togethers, both held as they always were in the front living room of the Jenkins’ home, Martin had been something of a presence. Either appearing out of nowhere to casually lean on an armchair, seeming to be listening to their conversation and sometimes even offering his opinion, or intermittently wafting through to the kitchen. Cecilia hadn’t cared for this at all.

  “We quite like privacy so we can discuss our ideas openly,” Cecilia added.

  “I’ll stay away,” Martin said, seeming to get the point.

  Cecilia’s writing group consisted of, in addition to herself, four amateur—or at least, fledgling—writers. And while Cecilia, a well-established and very successful author, was neither of these things, she pretended to be. With her nom de plum W. I. Sandstorm safely protecting her identity, in this group she was free to bounce her zanier ideas, get initial feedback on opening scenes, and have refreshingly naïve conversations about writing. They all thought she was writing her first novel—a trilogy, in fact—yet to be submitted to an agent or a publisher. Even though they were all purportedly at similar stages, Cecilia had taken on somewhat of a leadership role. And they seemed happy to defer to her, listening to her thoughts and advice with avid attention. All in all, it was a very enjoyable way to spend Sunday afternoon, once a month.

  Cecilia decided it was time to take out the brie. The softer the better, in her opinion. She set it on the counter, then set about chopping up some carrots and celery to go with the hummus for Annie, who was vegan.

  The landline rang. Cecilia started at the piercing intrusion—it was set to ring as loudly as possible so that it would permeate the entire house—and put down the knife and went to answer the call. The old-fashioned olive-green phone was an original fixture that Cecilia had kept. It was attached to the wall with a long cord which meant she could rove the length of the kitchen while she talked, and Cecilia loved it. Not only was she of the opinion that it provided kitschy retro chic décor (it didn’t) but it was useful. Her elderly mother lived in Sussex and refused to call her on her mobile, no matter how many times Cecilia explained she could call her back and with her international minutes it was free of charge.

  “Jenkins residence,” she answered.

  “Cecilia, darling, how are you?” Sally replied.

  Sally Cookson, the only other person who called the landline apart from the occasional telemarketer, was Cecilia’s editor and her agent as well as a friend. And while she employed somewhat of a micro-management approach, it did not bother Cecilia. She rather needed someone breathing down her neck as she galloped towards deadlines.

  “Fine, thanks. And you?” Cecilia cradled the phone against her shoulder and went back to chopping vegetables.

  “The sales of the short story collection are going very well,” Sally purred, obviously pleased. Sally’s enthusiastic pursuit of money was of benefit to them both.

  “You’ll send me the sales report?”

  Cecilia trusted Sally, but she still liked to see the actual figures. Charts and all.

  “I always do.” Sally’s voice was now clipped, irritated. “End of the month.”

  In the pause, Cecilia heard the muffled—but unmistakable—sound of chewing.

  “Are you eating?” she asked.

  There was the distinct sound of swallowing.

  “No.” Sally cleared her throat. “Have you started your new detective thriller?”

  Cecilia cast her eyes upward then shook her head. “Yes. Focusing on character profiles at the moment.”

  “Good. And we have the party next week.”

  “Hmm. Looking forward to it.”

  This was not entirely true. Cecilia quite enjoyed parties in general, but this would be full of literary types and they could be rather exhausting. Worse, she’d offered to host the darned thing at her house. Only a casual barbeque, but still.

  “Is Peyton coming?” Cecilia asked.

  “Of course he is.”

  Cecilia sighed.

  Peyton Brosnan, Cecilia’s rival, if one could call him that when five of her books had gone to number one and he’d only ever scraped
into the Top 100 list. Then again, he did win that award and Cecilia’s own mantelpiece was still bare.

  He liked to remind her of this at every opportunity.

  “Why can’t the two of you just get along, it would make my life a lot easier,” Sally said.

  “It’s his fault! Remember what he said to me when you two came over for that Christmas drink? He called my writing banal. Banal! Remember? To my face, in my own home.”

  “I know,” Sally said, then fell silent.

  “Sally?” Cecilia said after she’d given her sufficient time to add something about how awful Peyton was.

  “Yes, he can be difficult but...”

  Cecilia narrowed her eyes. Why couldn’t Sally take her side for once.

  “Alright then,” Sally said cheerfully, “see you Saturday.” She rang off. Cecilia scowled at the phone and hung up.

  As she moved out of the kitchen, she wondered whether she should have mentioned the deleted manuscript. But there was no point in causing a fuss when none might exist. She could perhaps have the recovered document back in her hands by Monday.

  PAIGE STEPPED UP TO the front door of her family home and knocked, then waited. Finally, she opened the door cautiously. “Hello?” she called out. This wasn’t her style, at all, but barging in on her mother and Leo making out on the couch a couple of months ago had been such an unpleasant moment it had had a lasting effect on her behaviour. At least, around her mother.

  “In the kitchen,” her mother called back.

  Paige walked through to see her sitting at the breakfast bar, staring intently at her phone.

  “How do I do it?” Alice said.

  Paige stopped. “Mum?”

  “Yes?”

  “You realise I’ve literally just got here, right? How could I possibly know what you are doing or how you’re supposed to do it?”

  “I thought all you young ones knew how to do it.”

  Paige stalked over to where her mother was perched on the barstool and looked over her shoulder.

  “How do I indicate I like them,” Alice continued. “Or at least, I suppose, the look of them?”

  Paige staggered backwards. “You’re on a dating app?”

  “Yes, dear. I told you, didn’t I? It’s called Bumble Bee.”

  “But... but...”

  Alice lifted her gaze from her phone and waited.

  “How did you download the app?” Paige folded her arms. “Someone must have helped you.”

  “Your brother did, dear.”

  “Thomas? When he was over for Christmas?” Paige scowled. She’d barely had a proper conversation with him his whole visit, but he’d managed to carve out some of his precious day to get their mother set up on a dating app? Unbelievable. Typical Thomas. Set up something he knew he wouldn’t have to deal with. He probably thought it was funny because their mother wouldn’t be calling him with mortifying and cringe-inducing dating questions, no. Paige would have to suffer those indignities alone.

  “Mum, I’m not going to stay if you’re going to talk about dating, okay? I thought we were going for lunch.”

  “So sensitive,” Alice muttered under her breath as she picked up her handbag.

  Paige let the comment slide. “Where shall we go?”

  “There are some new places in Newmarket aren’t there?”

  “Newmarket on a Saturday? It’ll be bananas. No, let’s just go to that café down the road. We both like it.”

  Alice lifted her shoulders. “You’re calling the shots.”

  “I am?” Paige said.

  “Yes. With me, with Tim,” Alice said casually as they left the house and walked in the direction of the cluster of shops and cafes at the intersection.

  “Are you trying to get at something, Mum?” Paige said as they waited to cross the road at the lights. “In your oh-so-subtle way?”

  “Have you talked to Tim about what he wants? About your future?”

  Paige stared fixedly across the road.

  “Because it’s getting about that time. You’re at that age and Tim wants children, Paige, he really wants them.”

  “Honestly, Mum—”

  “You can argue with me as much as you like, Paige, but I’m right about this and you know it.”

  ANNIE WAS THE FIRST to arrive, knocking on the door at one minute past three, giving Cecilia the impression she’d arrived even earlier than that and had loitered somewhere nearby until it was time.

  She brought with her a bottle of vegan wine from which Cecilia poured her a glass and then put away in the fridge to be forgotten about until Annie retrieved it to take home. From Cecilia’s own stash she poured herself a healthy-sized glass of chardonnay and they went into the living room to wait for the others to arrive.

  Annie was thin and bird-like and a vegan for the environment, she’d told Cecilia when asked. She was working on a rather strange sounding novel about a young woman who befriends the ghost in her attic. But it wasn’t a fantasy book, Annie insisted, refusing to explain further. “That’s just the story,” she’d said resolutely when someone had pressed her.

  Juniper arrived next, a twenty-two-year-old student who’d been part of their group for over a year but seemed perpetually uncertain of not only the rest of the group’s writing projects, but their names as well. Juniper’s distracted self-involvement was almost pathological, but this was one of the reasons Cecilia maintained this group—she’d used such quirks and traits as inspiration for more than one character.

  Similarly, Geoff—twenty minutes late as usual—had been good fodder for her writing. He was the classic pale stale male—a term she’d only recently learnt of, but with which she’d been immediately smitten: a white male of an older vintage with old-fashioned sentiments. Geoff was only in his fifties but he definitely qualified, in Cecilia’s opinion. And she’d already decided to base one of the characters in her upcoming detective thriller on him. An entitled antagonist who thought the world owed him something, even though it already gave him everything.

  Finally, there was Tammy, who arrived at the same time as Geoff. Tammy was of indeterminate age and mostly a benign, neurotic sort, but she could be unexpectedly steely and temperamental when it came to two matters. First, there was her mysterious career she refused to talk about. Beyond the occasional complaint about “work drama”, or intriguing comments about people called Phil and Deidre, she refused to discuss it and any inquiry into the matter was quickly and firmly shut down. Then there was her tendency to lash out rather unexpectedly at any sort of criticism of her writing—no matter how gentle. They had all learned to pad their feedback in so much cotton wool that the point they were trying to make was often unrecognisable. But Tammy provided constructive and insightful feedback to others, and was generally rather nice, so these two issues were tolerated.

  Once the whole group had assembled in the living room with beverages and a tray of nibbles to pick at—Martin was completely absent, as instructed—they each took a turn talking about their writing progress over the past month. For her own updates, Cecilia usually made up some obstacle or challenge to her writing, usually picking something she felt she could share knowledge or impart wisdom about, and using it to segue into a little seminar. That she always came up with the solution to her own writing challenges no one seemed to notice.

  And so, the afternoon progressed.

  Two hours later and smiling—it had been a very rewarding session—Cecilia shut the door and cleared the last of the plates from the living room. She picked up her phone from the kitchen bench and took it over to her favourite armchair in the living room, right next to the window. She picked up the large book lying on the armrest—the last in Nicci French’s Frieda Klein series—and prepared to resume reading, but her phone chimed with a message. Sally had sent her a link with the explanation: You need to look at this book!!

  She followed the link through to amazon.com and a moment later brought her hand up to her mouth to stifle a gasp. An awful feeling crept over h
er shoulders. When she clicked on ‘Look Inside’ and read the first chapter her fears were confirmed. She tried to reread the words, but they refused to cooperate, instead dancing and swimming in front of her eyes.

  Those were her words. Her beautiful, treasured, precious words. Perhaps even worse, they were her characters. Names had been altered and some of the text had been changed, but they were as recognisable as if photographs had been included.

  Her manuscript The Breaking of Dead had not been deleted from her laptop and hard drive in error. Someone had stolen it. She knew this because here it was, packaged as The Bonds of Death by J. J. Wonder. It’d been released only a few days ago, but it was already climbing the bestseller list and trending on Twitter as an unknown and unexpected literary sensation.

  Cecilia sucked in a breath. She’d known her novel was good; damn good. Good enough to be the next big thing. And someone had stolen it and claimed it as their own. How dare they.

  Her first thought was to call the police, but then she faltered. They would probably laugh at her. And what would they do? Nothing. She had no proof that anything had been stolen from her. But there was another way. She went over to her tote bag, rummaged around until she found the business card she was looking for, then picked up her phone and dialled.

  “You’ve reached S & S Investigations. We can’t come to the phone right now, busy working on cases, but please leave a message and we’ll get back to you.”

  “Yes, It’s Cecilia Jenkins here,” she said, her voice shaking with anger, “my manuscript wasn’t deleted by accident, not at all. It was stolen. I know because it’s been published on Amazon by someone else. I’d like to hire you to find out who. I don’t care how much it costs.” Cecilia paused, rethinking this rash statement. “Email me that quote first though, of course, I’ll have to approve it. I’ll expect it by midday Monday. Thank you.”

  Cecilia disconnected and folded her arms. How on earth had they done it? When her laptop wasn’t on her person being used, it was locked upstairs in her office, which was where the hard drive lived. And it wasn’t as if they could have somehow unlocked the room without her knowledge because she kept the key on a chain around her neck. So how did the thief manage to swipe the manuscript from both of her devices? No one used her laptop or her home office except her. It seemed inconceivable. But it wasn’t, because it had happened.