Low City: Missing Persons (A Tractus Fynn Mystery Book 3)

by Alexander, MK

  “So, honey…” she whispered. “What brings you in on a Friday?” Amy giggled. “Me?” she added coyly.

  “I had to check the back issues.” I struggled to look down at the big bound book but she slowly closed it.

  Amy gave me a quizzical glance. “How did you know I had it?” she asked.

  “Um, Miriam told me.”

  “Really?” Her tone was a bit sharp. “She was in my studio?” Amy’s expression changed markedly. “That bitch.”

  I had no reply and it was just as well; Amy called out to Miriam and stormed from the room.

  “What the hell were you doing in my studio?” Amy started yelling. “Did you even knock on the door?”

  “Well, why was the big bound book even in there? It’s not supposed to leave the editorial office— ever,” Miriam countered. She rose from her desk with tank-like efficiency and started towards the studio, presumably to retrieve the book.

  “And why is that any of your business?” Amy shrieked. “Your space ends here… at the copy machine…”

  I knew well enough to leave before their argument escalated as they always did. They’d come to blows, no doubt. I also heard footsteps coming up from the basement; Jason would soon be on the scene. It was clearly time to go. I slipped between them and grabbed the current issue of the Chronicle, tucked it under my arm, and made for the door.

  As I left, I ran into a woman just at the exit, quite literally. She was very pale and somewhere in her early thirties with a pretty face hiding behind square glasses; her dark hair was tied back severely. I also noticed she wore a blue suit that was easily one size too big. She was carrying what looked to be an extra-large latte in a cardboard cup, though I was probably mistaken.

  I tried to look happy and hopeful— I might not have pulled it off exactly. She seemed shocked by my smile, or astonished, and pushed against her glasses.

  “Welcome to the show,” I muttered as I slid past.

  Miriam called out from the reception desk, interrupting her own argument. “Oh Lilly, I’m glad you’re here. Could you please tell Amy to return the big bound book to the editorial room? I am no longer speaking to her.”

  The woman glanced at Miriam and then gave me one last look before she slumped her way into the main office.

  chapter two

  spiral down

  Leaving the bicycle for now, I strolled up to Commercial Street and noticed a new storefront. The sign said, Cuppa-Joe’s Coco Bar and Tea Room. Hmm, I seemed to recall an antiques parlor should be there instead. The place was closed though, and I peered through the windows. Out front a blackboard boasted Butterscotch Coco-lattes in colorful chalk.

  A few doors further and just across the alley, I walked to the Domino Real Estate office. There was a hanging black placard with exactly the logo you’d expect to see. Inside, the room was tidy, efficient, and above all, tasteful. Mrs Domino was talking on the telephone when I entered. She seemed so familiar, though not quite as I remembered her. For some reason I thought she should be in Colorado and not Sand City.

  Mrs Domino was a woman approaching fifty, widowed some years, and still very attractive. She was remarkably fit and had kept her figure. Her face, while pleasant, couldn’t mask a barracuda smile. It’s possible she had some work done, cosmetic surgery. Her hair, dyed blonde, was expensively cut to the neck, but she had dark soulless eyes and too much lipstick. Today she wore a carefully tailored suit; matching beige over a shiny silk blouse with four big buttons, only two of which were fastened properly.

  “Well, Mr Sevens, I reckon you’re too early to be bringing me the rent check.” She called out and rose to her feet. Perched on high heels, Mrs Domino teetered over, took me by the arm and led me to the chair opposite her desk.

  “Mr Sevens?” I asked, slightly surprised.

  “Isn’t that the name you write under, darling?”

  “Sometimes, yes, but it’s not my real name.”

  “Of course not, kiddo.” She smiled and pushed back a strand of hair behind her ear. “And some day you’ll start calling me Denise.” She sat at her desk. “Is the washer-dryer acting up again?”

  “What?”

  “In your apartment.”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Okay, well, I hope you’re not here to solicit me.” Her voice turned husky.

  “Solicit you?”

  “Advertising. With Mr Chamblis… well, indisposed, I guessed you might be needing someone to fill your back page.”

  “I don’t work for the Chronicle anymore— not really.”

  “Well, that’s news to me. I happen to be reading an editorial you wrote in this week’s issue.” She looked down at her desk. “Rising Sea Levels and Real Estate Prices.”

  “I don’t recall writing that.”

  Mrs Domino smiled politely. “Perhaps it’s by Mr Jardel then… Well, what can I do for you this morning?” She glanced over at my cane. “Did you hurt yourself again, kiddo?”

  “Again?”

  “What was it last year? A jet ski accident?”

  “I’m not sure I remember that.”

  “Whose cane then?”

  “A friend’s. I’m keeping it safe for him.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “I’d love a cup of coffee.”

  “A cup of what? Chicory, did you say?” She rose from her desk. “I only have iced tea. Can I offer you some?”

  “No thanks... I was hoping you could tell me about the house on Dune Road— the abandoned one. I heard it was your listing.”

  “Are you in the market?” she asked and returned to her desk holding a glass of tea.

  “Might be.”

  “Did you win the lottery?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, it’s on the pricey side.”

  “How much?”

  “Three point seven million.”

  “Can you tell me who owns it?’

  “I’d rather keep my clients confidential.”

  “You’d just be saving me a walk up to Village Hall. They have all the records there.”

  “Looks to be a nice day for it.”

  “Okay, well, thanks anyway,” I said and started for the door.

  “Hang on a second, kiddo…” Mrs Domino called out. “I’m just curious about your curiosity. I don’t want to find myself the victim of one of your editorials.” She fingered a string of pearls around her neck.

  “Fair enough…” I replied and sat again. “Promise, no editorial.”

  “Okay then, let me get the file.” Mrs Domino slinked to her cabinets, keeping an eye on me over her shoulder. She pulled out a thick folder, returned to her desk and began reading. “Do you play baseball, Mr Sevens?”

  “No, why do you ask?”

  “It’s one of the stipulations of the sale.”

  “That I play baseball?”

  “No, the very opposite: that you do not play.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “I agree. The other stipulation is that the buyer must be a Sand City resident. You do seem to qualify in that regard.” She gave me a fishy smile.

  “What else can you tell me?”

  “The premises have been vacant for twenty-three years.” She glanced down at the papers. “Let’s put it this way, that particular residence is not a candidate for MLS.”

  “MLS?”

  “Real estate lingo: Multiple Listing Service.”

  “And the owner?”

  “Aldus Kenon Holdings… A Dutch company, I believe.”

  That name rang a dim bell and certainly had something to do with Inspector Fynn. “Do you have the address?”

  “No, it’s confidential,” she replied without looking up. “Quite a sizable escrow account though.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It’s self-perpetuating.”

  “Someone deposits money into it?”

  “Yes, per annum, for property taxes and alike. The landscapers go up twice a year, in the spring and in
the fall. And there’s a handyman on retainer, should anything need fixing.”

  “But it’s all boarded up.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. No squatters though,” she replied vaguely, clearly distracted. “Wait a second, are you saying you were there?”

  “Just this morning.”

  “Why?”

  “I had to borrow the bicycle.”

  “Are the deck chairs still there? All four of them?”

  “Yes, I sat in one.”

  “But, you’re saying you removed a bicycle from the premises?”

  “I just borrowed it.”

  “I might use the word stole.” She glared at me then sifted through the file again. “How odd, I don’t remember seeing this before.” Mrs Domino held up a sealed envelope.

  “What is it?”

  “Addressed to Patrick Jardel. You wouldn’t happen to know who he is— would you, kiddo?”

  “Me, of course.”

  “Is it? Can you show me some identification?”

  “No… but you know who I am…”

  “Says right here.” Mrs Domino pointed to the file. “Identification is required.”

  “You’ve seen my byline in the paper.”

  “I may have read the occasional story by Patrick Jardel… but I can’t really say I’ve got to know him very well.”

  “It could be important.”

  “I’m sure it is, but until you can show me some form of ID, it will remained sealed, Mr Jardel,” she said, draped in sarcasm.

  “Hmm, I left my wallet in the car. Can I come back in about an hour?”

  “If you’d like… but I won’t be here. I’m at the gym by eleven-thirty, and I have an open house at three.” Mrs Domino paused to smile. “Though I might be persuaded by other means.”

  “Such as?”

  “You could take me to dinner,” she offered, “or dancing… at the Beachcomber tonight.”

  ***

  I remembered a conversation with Inspector Fynn:

  “There is a list of permissible anachronisms.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Certain items can be taken back to the past with impunity.”

  “From the future?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who exactly made this list?”

  “Well, it’s a consensus of pragmatism and common sense.” Fynn had smiled. “And I can assure you, stretchy socks are almost always allowed.”

  On the walk back to fetch the bicycle, I made a jingling sound, my pockets still full of leftover Spanish doubloons. I also had the folding knife Fynn had given me as a gift. No wallet, cellphone, nor keys though— I had learned my lesson about bringing modern things to the past. I did feel a little weird about carrying the cane around in broad daylight.

  I tried to gather my thoughts: Fynn was gone or never here, and so far as I could tell, three other things were already very wrong with this timeline: Detective Durbin had been murdered, the Elaine Luis egg sculpture was conspicuously absent, and coffee did not seem to exist… The first and last of these things being most disconcerting. There was nothing to be done about Richard Durbin for now, but I did remember where Elaine lived. That would be my first destination. She was sister to Lorraine, Tractus Fynn’s dear wife, and definitely worth talking to.

  I started back towards the Depot building, to my apartment. Passing the library along the way, I waved to Mrs Lovely. She was plainly confused, startled even, and held her hand to her breast at the sight of me. I took a slight detour and decided to coast by the tavern, Partners. It looked normal on the outside but I hadn’t the courage to go in. Either things would be too different to my liking, or too much the same: the place filled with hapless regulars, sodden in a dark room, the jukebox blaring, and probably Suzy Chandler behind the bar.

  I rode as far as Fourth Street and skidded to a stop. Two identical houses stood as always, sharing the same white picket fence, familiar, but from a long time ago. It’s where I had first met Elsie and her younger sister Daisy; and it seemed to me, lived a completely separate life. I wondered if I might somehow return to those happy, simple days…

  I parked the old Schwinn under the willow tree, near my black Saab. Things looked right, more or less. Underneath my apartment was the repair shop and the Depot Cafe, now called the Depot Grill, predictably perhaps, since the very word cafe was like a persona non grata. I bounded up the wrought iron staircase. It wobbled a bit and made that comforting hollow noise. The sliders were open— I never locked— but the latch was stuck as usual. It was good to be home.

  My cat leapt from the roof and started winding between my legs, meowing softly. My cat… At that moment I could not think of his name. How could I forget? Dimly, I also thought he might be the wrong color, black rather than white. But his name? Maddening. How could I forget my own cat’s name? The harder I tried to remember the further it went from mind… Something with an H… Hoover, Hindenburg, Heisenberg? No, none of those were right.

  On the kitchen table I found my laptop and car keys. My wallet was probably still in the Saab. Odd though, I couldn’t find my cellphone anywhere. And, I had the distinct feeling that someone had been in the apartment— an intruder, someone snooping around. Things just seemed slightly out of place, especially the piles of laundry on the washer-dryer, and some tools strewn there. Funny, I remembered that was fixed in my timeline.

  I headed for the shower and thought maybe I should have locked up after all. I also searched for Edmund’s pocket watch, or traveler’s compass, but with no luck. Had it been stolen?

  Ten minutes later I rummaged through the fridge and found some leftover lobster rolls that I don’t recall buying. There was a six pack of Yoo-hoos at the bottom as well. I looked across to the kitchen counter. The coffee maker said “Mr T” on it and I wondered for a moment why it didn’t say “Mr Coco.” Okay, this is getting strange. I grabbed a Yoo-hoo and started in on the lobster rolls as I sat at the laptop. My nameless cat ran to the corner of the kitchen and crunched his kibble, stopping occasionally to stare up at me with an accusing expression.

  A cursory search of recent history seemed to indicate everything was pretty normal. I first tried FDR. Good, the longest serving president… Alexander Graham Bell had indeed invented the telephone after all… World War Two had been over for some time. History seemed correct and intact. Even today’s headlines were plausible. Nothing else was glaringly different at least.

  Next I searched for coffee:

  Showing results for toffee, the screen replied.

  What? No… I found little more when I typed Mocha:

  A port city in Yemen

  I tried typing arabica.

  Species, coffea arabica… A bitter black syrup used by Ethiopian holy men as a ritual elixir… Tea derived from the berries of Jasminum arabicum…

  A memory came to me: Somehow, Inspector Fynn had been instrumental in bringing coffee to the Western world. Sheik Abbas and Madeline had said so… something about convincing the Grand Mufti to write a fatwa in the 1500s. Had Fynn missed this appointment? Had he been gone for five hundred years? That didn’t seem possible and I felt very panicky. I was here just yesterday, how could this be?

  I got a bit side-tracked and started to research the difference between coca, cacao, cocoa, chocolate. Even the word caffeine didn’t seem to exist. I downed the rest of the Yoo-hoo and searched for Tractus Fynn. He didn’t seem to exist either, virtually at least. I found some place in the midwest willing to sell me used farm equipment at a good price: Tractor Maximus.

  It did not escape my attention that the world was right side up, as in, not upside down again. I saw it on a news logo at first, then checked all the maps. One thing was sure, Antarctica was not on top and Europe was not at the bottom. At least I could easily say, up north and down south with impunity. A small comfort.

  My email dinged: Looking for Tractus Fynn? Click here. A not very helpful website offered to find him, but I was suspicious as his name appeared in a slightly
different typeface; and when I clicked, it asked for my credit card number.

  I considered my limited options; best if I stay local. First, I’d find Elaine Luis. It made perfect sense, as she was my only connection to Fynn. Elaine was sister to the inspector’s wife, and her sculpture that should be in the center of Spooky Park was conspicuously absent. It was my only clue for now.

  chapter three

  garysville

  It was raining pretty hard when I set out for Elaine’s house. Tucked under the windshield wipers I spotted another tarot card: the Queen of Wands, and it was a bit soggy. This was getting weird and I felt spooked. I threw the cane into the backseat and found my wallet where it always was: on the center console, safely locked in the car. Still no cell phone though.

  The engine started right up and I pulled out towards Longneck Road. It felt good to be back in the Saab. As I left, I glimpsed a man in the misty rearview. He was some ways away, but it looked as if he had just run out of a nearby building and was shaking his fist. He seemed vaguely familiar. Maybe he was waving at me.

  I was driving down Route Sixteen in less time than I can remember passing. A few minutes later I pulled into a sandy parking lot surrounded by one room beach shacks in Garysville— all with a water view. I guess they were cottages, but I wouldn’t want to spend a winter in any of them. At the back was 45 Cove Lane. It seemed a little bigger than the rest and had a large attached garage, a studio of some sort.

  I parked near the open door and stepped onto the crunchy driveway of sand and shells, then walked closer to the studio and peered inside. It was pretty dark but I could hear a loud whirling noise. A shadowy figure was hunched over a large shape, polishing it, I thought. Against one wall I saw a work bench strewn with tools, a small kitchen with a stove and a fridge, a ratty old couch, and a writing desk with a laptop. The room went silent and a woman emerged into the light. It was Elaine Luis, though she could have just as easily been Lorraine, Fynn’s wife. They were almost identical, both attractive women just near sixty.

  “We’re all booked up for Memorial Day Weekend, if that’s why you’re here,” she called out and gave me a once over, then urged me inside from the rain. “Hey, I know you. You’re from the Chronicle. Here about my sculpture, eh?”