by Jonni Good
Josie held the baby up so she could see the old dog’s head, and a random movement brought a tiny fist down hard on Molly’s muzzle. I held my breath for a second, until Molly reached up and gave the baby a wet kiss. The baby thought that was really funny. I handed Josie a tissue from the box on the table, and she wiped the slobber off the baby’s cheek.
Jocko was still barking. I pulled a big pan out of a cupboard and filled it with warm water. Then I went to the closet near the bathroom where I keep the towels and pulled out an old one that I keep for the dogs.
Before I went outside, I picked up the cell phone again and called Arlene Cranston to tell her about Randy Johnson’s situation. Arlene was good at figuring out ways to help people without making it feel like charity, even though she and her husband were having money problems of their own. The couple have known the old man for years, and they’d probably start by inviting him over for dinner.
After the call, I put the cell phone on the plywood counter, added a few hazel sticks to the fire tube on the rocket stove, and then went outside to get the skunk off my dog. The hydrogen peroxide and baking soda are kept in a tin box out on the porch, just in case.
It didn’t take long to soak the fur on his chest with the solution, and it neutralized the sulfur in the skunk juice. He still smelled like wet dog, but that’s an odor I can handle. I rubbed him down real good with the old towel and we went inside. I needed to get the clothes off the front porch, too, but that could wait.
While I poured some kibbles into my complaining cat’s bowl, Jocko went over to the couch to check out the baby, but he soon wandered off to lay down next to the heated bench. It wouldn’t be long before his fur was completely dry.
I walked around the big table in the middle of the room and reached over Josie to pull a book off the shelf behind the couch.
Nightfall in Babylon, by Sonje Neilina McCrae. I turned it over. There was a photo of a woman on the back, in her late 30s, maybe early 40s, with straight dark hair falling to her shoulders. She had a stern look on her heart-shaped face. The word ‘uncompromising’ sprang to mind. She wore a brick red shirt, open at the neck, and a short black leather jacket. Her lipstick matched her shirt. She was looking straight at the camera and standing in front of dark rusty industrial equipment.
It was definitely the woman I found out by the river, the same one I’d seen in the diner the day before.
I handed the book to Josie. “It’s Gwyneth Price. She changed her name for the books.”
Josie was startled by the name. She looked at the photo, then towards the door to the bathroom. “Gwyneth Price? That’s the boy’s mother?”
I nodded. Then I poked Molly and made her get off the couch. She slid off and flopped down in her usual place, with her back against the heated bench. Jocko had to move to make room for her.
Chance wandered over and started to jump on the couch, but I put out my hand to stop him. He padded over to the bench and jumped up, found the warmest spot, and curled up to take a nap.
I pulled the granny afghan off the back of the couch, sat, and covered my cold bare legs.
“She dyed her hair,” Josie said. “But if you ignore that, and the harsh red lipstick, she looks a lot like her sister. Emma was devastated when Gwyneth left. Losing her father, then her sister—it was too much. Mildred felt betrayed, as if Gwyneth moved to the city with her dad just to spite her mother. Mildred is usually more sensible than that. Emma was only eight or nine years old, I think.”
“Gabe says he’s never met Mildred. And he says she isn’t really his grandmother, except she ‘sort of is,’ which made no sense to me.”
I turned my head to make sure the shower was running and the bathroom door was closed. I still lowered my voice. “And he says he never met Carol Kramer, either. I saw Sonje sitting with Carol at the diner yesterday, when I took Mort’s eggs over to Angie. They were both happy when I saw them, but Mort says it looks like Sonje’s death might have been a suicide.”
“She was talking to Carol Kramer?” Josie said. Little lines formed between her eyebrows as she frowned. “Oh, my,” she said.
I hiked the afghan up a little higher, trying to warm up. “What he said about Mildred not being his real grandmother—it almost makes sense, in a way. Mildred has all those photos of Mark’s two kids stuck all over the wall behind her desk at City Hall, and you can’t walk by without having to look at the newest ones. But she doesn’t have any pictures of Gabe or Grace.”
“I’ve told her a dozen times that she should stop bragging about Mark’s kids all the time,” Josie said. “After Emma’s miscarriage, and the IVF treatments not working, and the cost. And her husband leaving …”
I must have looked a little shocked. Josie is famous for her refusal to gossip. When she still worked at the diner, people said incredibly private things to each other that she couldn’t help but overhear—but she never shared them with anyone. Not even me.
Her rule against gossip especially applies when someone tells her a secret on purpose, which they do far more often than she would like.
She saw the look on my face and interpreted it correctly. “Well,” she said, “this is different, because somebody died.”
The shower turned off. In less than a minute, Gabe came out of the bathroom wearing Sam’s big purple sweatshirt and my sweatpants. The elastic around the ankles kept the pants from dragging on the floor.
I threw the afghan off my legs, walked around the big table, and poured Gabe a mug of hot chocolate. He sat down on the wooden chair at the end of the table and I set his mug in front of him. Jocko came and sat next to him, with his chin on Gabe’s thigh.
Josie was looking intently at Gabe, with her head cocked slightly to the side.
“OK,” I said. “My turn in the shower.”
FOUR
When I came out of the bathroom, wrapped in my old green chenille bathrobe, I went out to the front porch and retrieved our smelly clothes. I brought them inside, holding them out at arm’s length, and threw them in the washing machine. I added vinegar and soap. I didn’t know if it would work or not, but it was worth a try. My yellow coat was practically brand new.
I went back in the kitchen and washed my hands with dish soap at the kitchen sink. Gabe was working on his second mug of hot chocolate.
When the bell over the front door tinkled, Molly got up and padded to the door that leads to the museum. Sam was home. He came into the kitchen and gave Molly’s ears a good rub. He’s a big guy, six foot four, and solid. I went to school with him, but he was several grades ahead of me. Now, at fifty-two, there’s a few white strands in his black hair, which he wears pulled back in a long thin braid.
Molly went back to the couch. Sam walked further into the room, and stopped. I gave him a grim smile. He brushed snow off his jacket, and looked at Josie, and the baby. He shook his head, slowly, taking it in.
I introduced Sam to the boy. They shook hands.
Sam said, “It looks like you got some bad news.”
Gabe looked down at the fur on Jocko’s neck and nodded.
“It’s a hard thing to hear,” Sam said. “I’m really sorry.”
Gabe nodded again, and brushed a tear from his cheek, still not looking up.
Sam said, “I’m going to make breakfast. Josie, you want some?”
“No thank you, dear. I ate at the diner.”
“I do,” I said. “We still have bacon, and I’d really love pancakes.”
He rummaged in the fridge for a minute and came up with the supplies.
I sat down on a chair near Gabe. “Where’s your dad?” I asked.
“Amsterdam.”
That was unexpected. “All the time?”
“No, he’s doing a tour.”
“A tour,” I said, not quite getting it.
“He’s in a band. Blue Malachi.”
Sam turned around from the counter, holding a bowl of pancake batter that he was stirring. “Blue Malachi is one of my favorite bands. What’
s your dad’s name? I bet I’ll recognize it.”
Gabe sniffed. I pulled the box of tissues closer to him. He took one, and wiped his nose.
“Gavril Constantin,” he said. “He’s the lead singer.”
“Constantin has a great voice,” Sam said. He turned to me and explained, keeping his voice soft, in respect for Gabe’s grief. “It’s a Christian country rock band. Or country blues—I’m not sure how they describe themselves. They were on Jimmy Fallon’s show a few months ago. You saw the show with me, Utah.”
I nodded vaguely, but I didn’t remember.
Sam let out an unnecessarily heavy sigh. “He’s the guy with the tats you liked.”
“Oh—the Celtic sleeve tattoo, lots of negative space, on one arm. I remember that. It was nice work. Really nice. But, you said they did gospel music? They’re a Christian band?”
“They played during the last segment. Mavis Staples sang with them. It was a huge honor for the band. Don’t you remember?”
I tried, but there was nothing there. “I think I fell asleep.”
Sam rolled his eyes dramatically. Gabe smiled. Sam sent me an apologetic grin for making a joke at my expense, but I didn’t mind.
“Blue Malachi,” I said. “It sounds like the band’s name must mean something.”
Gabe said, “My dad thought it up. He got Malachi from the Bible, and liked it because it means ‘messenger’ or ‘my angel.’ Gavril is how you say Gabriel in Romania, so him and me are both named after an angel. And the ‘blue’ part is because of the music. Mom liked the name because malachite is green, so it sounded like sort of a joke.’
Although the boy was still very sad, he was now sitting up straight and his eyes darted around, looking at the tall curved ceiling above the kitchen, the open stairway to the loft, the dragon sculpted into the back of the heated bench, and the old kitchen cupboards with the varnished plywood countertop.
He said, while still looking around. “Where’s your living room?”
“On the other side of town,” Sam said, with a smile. “At my house. Utah forgot to build a living room when she put this apartment together.” He winked at me to show he was kidding. Sort of.
“Oh,” Gabe said, with a confused frown. “I thought you all lived here.” He looked at the bowl of pancake batter Sam was stirring, and then at Josie, holding the baby.
Josie said, “I have a cute little trailer out back. I don’t live here.”
“I spend a lot of time here,” Sam said. An understatement, since all his clothes are in my closet. “But we watch movies at my place. Utah won’t let me bring my TV over here. We’d have to put it in the bedroom, and she says it isn’t healthy to watch TV before going to bed.”
Gabe looked at the railing of the loft, above Josie’s head. “That’s what my mom says, too. It’s what she used to say, I mean. That’s why she always told a story before bedtime, because she said the TV makes you have the wrong dreams. I tried to tell Grace a story last night, but she went to sleep before I was done.”
Tears threatened to spill out over the ledge of his lower eyelids, but he brushed them away. “Will I have to go live with my real mom, now?”
Josie was watching intently, the baby asleep in her arms. She bit her lower lip.
I said, “Isn’t Sonje McCrae your real mom?”
“Yeah. But not my first mom. I was adopted.”
Josie stood up and started to pace. The baby opened her eyes for a second, but went right back to sleep.
“Well,” I said, “what about your dad?”
Gabe shook his head. “But he’s not my real dad, either. He’s my step-dad. They got married when I was six. He and Mom were getting a divorce. When they told me they were splitting up, he promised he’d always be our dad, but he’s not around very much because of his music.”
He followed a long scratch in the old wooden table with his finger. “He says they have to do a lot more gigs now because nobody’s buying music online anymore. That’s why he hasn’t come to spend any time with Grace. That’s what he said, but I don’t think he wants to. And he doesn’t really live at our house anymore, anyway, because of the divorce.”
“Well, let’s not worry about that right now, OK? I’m sure you’ll feel a lot better after you have a chance to talk to him.”
He nodded, but he wasn’t convinced.
There’s a window in the wall of the loft that looks out over the museum. I pulled on a clean sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, and I was pulling on a pair of wool socks when I heard the bell over the front door tinkle. I looked out and saw Mort and Wally, the old sheriff and the new one, taking off their boots by the front door.
I hurried down the stairs and out the kitchen door. I met them next to the Camelops, the extinct American camel with the silly-looking feet. There’s a loveseat in front of the camel, but we didn’t sit down.
Snow was coming down at an angle. The flakes were small because it was getting colder. The roads were going to be pretty bad if it the wind got any worse.
Wally brushed snow off his shoulder, and took off his jacket.
Mort leaned his forearm on the camel’s muzzle and said, with his voice lowered out of respect, “We didn’t find any signs of foul play. No sign of a struggle, no bruises. She didn’t have any ID on her, but we found it in her car. It was parked on the north side of the diner.”
“Her original name won’t be on the ID,” I said. “Her son told us she’s Mildred Price’s daughter, Gwyneth, but that’s not what she calls herself now. She changed it officially to her pen name. Sonje McCrae is a rather famous author.”
We started walking back to the kitchen, but I needed to know something before we went inside. With my voice kept low and quiet, I said, “You aren’t still thinking she went out there and froze on purpose, are you?”
They looked at each other, hesitating. They stopped walking. Mort looked off to the side, feigning interest in the Doedicurus clavicaudatus, a giant beast with the armor of an armadillo and a spiked mace-like weapon on the end of his tail. He’d seen it a thousand times.
Wally ran his hand over the stubble on his chin. Then he pulled off his wool watch cap and whapped it against his thigh to knock off the snow. “It happens. Not often, thank goodness. It’s not at all like that Jack London story they made us read in school, where you just quietly go to sleep. It’s a stupid way to do it, in my opinion.”
He turned his cap in his hand and shook his head sadly. “We found a note in her purse. It wasn’t signed and it wasn’t real clear, but it did say she ‘didn’t want to go on this way.’ Maybe she was starting to write a full suicide note but didn’t finish it.”
I didn’t believe it. “She’s a professional writer, Wally. If she wrote a suicide note, it would be clear. Listen, don’t tell Gabe what you said, OK? He’s having a really rough time. If he thought she did this on purpose—”
“Yeah, I get you,” Wally said. “I hate this part of the job.”
Now Mort decided to talk. “You say it’s Gwyneth Price? Mildred Price’s girl? That’s why she looked familiar to me. But what would she be doing here? They haven’t spoken in years.”
I told him a short version of Gabe’s story, and about the house with the wood stove.
“The old Kramer place, I’ll bet,” Mort said. “I don’t know why they call it that, since the old lady was a Johnson. Carol inherited it from her grandma. Harold doesn’t have anything to do with the place, and it shows. It’s not far, but if the kid was carrying a baby, and just after dawn, that’s pretty amazing. He’s a fighter, that’s for sure.”
Mort pulled his cap off his bald head and shook it to get the snow off. Some of the snow had already melted and dripped down his neck. “Harold rents it out to hunters sometimes. The place ought to be torn down. Why would they stay there?”
“Were you able to reach the father?”
Wally nodded. “He’s flying back from Europe. He was on the plane when I called, and they were coming in for a landing. I c
ouldn’t talk long, because the flight attendant told him to turn off his phone. He’ll be here as soon as he can.” He let out a big sigh, and grimaced. “I guess I’ll have to go talk to Mildred, too.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mort said. “Me and Utah will go see her. It would be easier for the old girl, coming from us.”
I wasn’t too happy about that idea, but of course he was right.
We went into the kitchen. I introduced the two men to Gabe, and they sat with him at the table to talk. Wally asked a few questions about the night before, when Gabe’s mother went missing. The boy answered with the same story he’d already told me.
Sam poured the pancakes and they sizzled on the griddle. When the cakes were nearly done, he cracked two eggs and cooked them, over easy. He’d been getting regular cooking lessons from my mother, who used to own the diner across the street. He was a good student.
He put the eggs and pancakes and three strips of bacon on a plate, and took it to Gabe. The boy picked up a piece of bacon in his fingers and started to eat. Jocko’s ears went up and he sat close to Gabe’s chair, hoping for a bite. I growled at him and pointed to a spot near the bathroom door. He went, and sat, but he still kept his eye on the bacon.
Sam put a bottle of maple syrup in front of the boy, a napkin, and butter. Mort and Wally waited while Gabe ate.
“Wally, would you like breakfast?” Sam said.
“Thanks, but no—I need to be getting back to the office.”
“Mort?”
Mort looked at Josie, who was still walking the baby up and down the room. She shook her head. Sadly, Mort turned to Sam and admitted that he’d already eaten at the diner.
Sam poured more batter onto the griddle, fried more eggs, and then he and I both sat down at the table to eat. Mort reached over and stole a piece of bacon off my plate.
When Gabe was finished, Wally said, “Son, I’m awful sorry this happened to your mother. I’ve got your dad’s number and I called him to let him know what’s going on.”