The Tooth of Time

by Sue Henry

  It was encouraging to know that Shirley still had spunk.

  EIGHT

  MUCH LATER THE SUN WAS SETTING IN STRONG, MARVELOUS colors—amber, scarlet, and deep purple blues in contrast to the gilded edges of a few billowy clouds—brighter than what we see in Alaska, though we often have spectacular colors, especially during the summer months, and reflected from the many waters of our state they can be impressive.

  For half an hour Stretch and I had been making our way back to the RV park, having walked a long way toward the eastern mountains. Estes Road had risen just enough as we strolled to allow me to see across Taos to part of the western mesas that were now out of sight as we turned in at the park gate and headed toward the Winnebago, where I had left Shirley asleep, as she had been for hours.

  The park sites were surrounded with vegetation natural to the area—rabbitbrush and sagebrush, which I could smell as I stopped to examine a prickly pear cactus next to the concrete slab of an empty parking space. A magpie was picking at something in the gravel of the drive near the office. I could hear the voices of smaller birds in the trees and brush—twitters and chirps from sparrows, finches, the dee-dee-dee that names the chickadee—and a sudden flash of yellow gave me a quick glimpse of a grosbeak, though I could not identify its call among the conversation of other birds. I had seen ravens elsewhere in town, but was on the lookout for a bluebird, which is not common to Alaska.

  The cottonwoods were shedding the pale, creamy fluff that gives them their name. At the smallest suggestion of a breeze it rolled into small spheres that collected together in waves of white and wafted across any open space to pile up against whatever stood in the way of their passing. I picked up a handful and found it soft as the down in my favorite comforter.

  Stretch sniffed at another pile. Then, as the feathery stuff clung to the dampness of his nostrils, he sneezed and blew half the pile of fluff away.

  “Nice try, but it’s not edible, you silly galah,” I told him—galah, an Aussie word I had picked up from Daniel, referred to someone easily duped. Stretch had been his dog when we met—just a puppy then, now middle-aged in dog years.

  “Come along. I have a drink and some dinner in mind.”

  It appeared to be a slow time of year at the RV park— only three or four other spaces were filled. We walked through to reach ours, which was close to the back. Halfway along the access road and nearest to where I had parked the Winnebago I passed a couple relaxing in the evening shade of their forty-five-foot Class A Fleetwood American Heritage. It was huge and flat-fronted like a bus, and the four slide-outs that extended, two on each side, looked as if they would expand the interior space into what was in effect an apartment, or a small house on wheels. I couldn’t imagine wanting to drive a rig that big—knew I could, but wouldn’t want to. But I reminded myself that some people give up a land-based existence, sell their houses, and buy motor homes large enough to live in year-round. Often they find a park in an area they like and stay there for months at a time. I, on the other hand, have my house in Alaska to drive or fly home to, and usually do for at least part of the summer months. Otherwise, I am happy and comfortable in the thirty-foot Class C Minnie Winnie, which is just the right size for Stretch and me. Everyone to his own tastes and needs. The couple spoke, and I smiled and nodded as we passed.

  The sun disappeared, leaving only a hint of departing pink on the underside of a cloud or two. It was that twilight time of day that the French call l’heure bleu, when artificial lights appear brighter than they really are and the air itself seems to hold a pale lavender-indigo hue. The sweet scent of some blooming flower floated in, but I couldn’t identify it.

  I could hear the sound of classical music on the radio when I arrived at my rig and opened the door to find Shirley sitting at the dinette table, with a half-emptied glass of iced tea in front of her.

  “There you are!” she welcomed me with the first real smile I had seen on her face.

  The sleep had apparently done her good.

  “Here we are,” I agreed. “Feeling better?”

  “Oh yes—much, thanks. And I love this place,” she told me, enthusiastically waving one hand to indicate the whole interior of the Winnebago. “I’ve never been inside one before and it’s fascinating, so I took a look around. I hope you don’t mind. Everything fits together like a puzzle and is so convenient and livable. The kitchen is terrific, and the way the sofa slides out—and the bed. How do they do that? And how does all the plumbing, water, and electricity work? What happens if you can’t find a place like this and have to spend the night in a supermarket parking lot? I’ve seen these things parked at Wal-Mart, but they don’t have connections to power, do they?”

  As her questions piled up faster than I could answer, I thought what a different person this was from the almost haggard woman who had practically fallen onto my bed as directed, been tucked in under a light throw, and gone to sleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

  Stretch, beggar that he is, trotted over to her, tail wagging furiously, and allowed himself his due in pets and pats.

  A dog is not a bad buffer zone in allowing strangers to get to know each other more easily.

  “I’ll feed this mongrel, then make us some dinner,” I suggested. “I’m thinking chops and salad. Is there anything you can’t eat?”

  “No, but let me help.”

  “There’s really just room for one in the galley—its only drawback,” I told her. “What you can do is pour me a shot of the Jameson you’ll find in the fridge, along with a glass of ice water. And help yourself to whatever you want while you’re at it.”

  “I’m fine with iced tea,” she said. “I probably don’t need alcohol after last night’s trauma.”

  Reminded of the events of the preceding night, I knew there was a lot I had wanted to ask her, but earlier it had been evident that what she needed was rest, physical and mental, and all the questions would wait. Even now, as I assessed a return of at least part of her energy and enthusiasm, they needn’t be thrown at her all at once, but could be taken one or two at a time, as she was willing to consider and answer them. They could wait again, at least until after we had eaten. Then I would see. So I answered her questions about the Winnebago and, as I cooked, we talked about the places I had visited since obtaining my motor home.

  Shirley herself brought up the subject of her trip to the hospital when we had finished dinner, cleaned up the galley, and put away the dishes—I washed, she dried and put away—and were once again sitting at the table with mugs of Constant Comment.

  “You know,” she said, setting down her tea, “I’m still trying to figure out what happened last night. How the hell did I get from my bed to the car in the garage anyway? That’s where Ann told them she found me. But I don’t remember any of it and none of what they said makes any sense.”

  I said nothing for a minute, giving her room to continue if she liked, but she just shook her head in apparent confusion and discomfort.

  “What do you remember?” I asked simply.

  “Just what I said this afternoon. I was very tired and worried—about my finances. I remember going to bed at just after ten o’clock. Later I woke up once from a bad dream but went right back to sleep. Then—nothing. I woke up in the hospital sometime very early this morning, having no idea where I was, or how I got there. Is it amnesia? Can I possibly have blanked it out? I don’t think so. I know I don’t sleepwalk and that I had no intention of suicide. There’s got to be more to it than that—but what?”

  More to it, indeed. I couldn’t help agreeing.

  As we stared across the table at each other, I suddenly knew that whatever had happened to her, my feelings about Shirley had changed. I didn’t know exactly why, but I had decided that she believed what she was telling me—that she really didn’t know what had happened to her.

  Was there any way to find out?

  NINE

  I HESITATED, NOT WANTING TO FORCE HER TO TALK but wanting to know m
ore about her and her situation, especially that comment she had made in the car about someone—“he”—taking all her money. It seemed a reasonable place to start.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, why do you think your ex-husband took your money?” I questioned.

  She looked up, startled at the subject switch and at my assumption. “Oh no!” she protested sharply. “It wasn’t Ken I was referring to. Our divorce was pretty equitable and fair. Most of my share is invested in solid stocks and bonds, and the interest gives me regular payments for living expenses—rather generous, really. What I did was to stupidly pull a hundred thousand dollars from my savings and make what I thought was a short-term loan to help out a friend. It has now disappeared, along with the guy, leaving me temporarily with a cash flow problem.”

  It was not at all what I had expected to hear. I reminded myself again that making assumptions is never a good idea and wondered why I had been so willing to do so when I knew that neither of the men I had been married to would ever have tried to cheat me out of what we had shared between us in assets. Life with fisherman Joe had been a bit financially precarious at times—we were like almost everyone getting started and raising children when your bankroll depends on and fluctuates with the size of an annual catch. But Daniel, even before we married, had invested wisely and had left me well taken care of, bless him. Without exception he had never presumed me incapable of dealing with finances and trusted me to administer our investments when he was gone, with advice from a dependable counselor as needed.

  Divorces can get ugly, of course. People, even good people, go a little crazy, and money is a way of hitting back at what hurts them. Still, I should not have assumed the worst of someone I knew nothing about.

  “So-o.” I spoke slowly, thinking fast in new directions. “You’re not destitute, just temporarily short? Wouldn’t Ken help out?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t ask,” she said, her expression turning to distress similar to what I had seen from her in the car as we left the hospital. “It’s so embarrassing that I let myself get into this situation—that I was so easily taken in. I couldn’t have him know I was dumb enough to hand that much money to someone I didn’t know well without some kind of formal guarantee that it would be returned. I just couldn’t ...”

  The sentence trailed off. She turned toward the window, staring out into the dark, and I could see the frustration on her face.

  “I feel like such a fool, Maxie. It’s degrading and I’m ashamed that I was so emotionally needy.”

  I was beginning to have more than a glimmer of an idea of what must have happened. Somehow, someone had scammed her, and well.

  “Taken in by who, Shirley? You said this afternoon that he took all your money. I’m sorry I took it for granted it was your ex-husband. Who did you mean? If you want to talk about it to someone, I’m a stranger, which may make it easier.”

  She turned back to me and there was something besides frustration in her eyes—a deep and thoughtful anger.

  “He said his name was Anthony Cole,” she said. “But I imagine that was a lie—like everything else he told me, damn him!”

  Anger’s healthy, I thought, and nodded to encourage her.

  “Who is this man? How and where did you meet him?”

  “At the Adobe Bar in the Taos Inn downtown. One night almost two months ago I went with two other weavers from Pat’s shop to hear a flamenco guitarist. It’s a popular place that’s always crowded, and this is a pretty small town so most people seem to know each other. We sat with a few others and one of the women introduced me to Tony, so I assumed he was part of the local group. He was attractive and easy to talk to. You know—he paid attention to me and I was flattered. It’s been a long time since any man paid that kind of attention. Somehow women of my age are sort of invisible to men, and I had missed the attention—a lot. The divorce may have been equitable, but my ego took an enormous beating. When he offered to drive me home I wound up staying on after the others left. That’s how it started.”

  It seemed a pretty ordinary start, though I understood what she meant about being invisible, having noticed or experienced the attitude myself a time or two. I remembered one evening after Joe was killed and before I met Daniel, when I was sitting in a bar in Homer talking to a friend of about my age who from his attentiveness I had assumed was interested in me. I was enjoying our comfortable, lively conversation when the door opened and in sashayed a tall, long-legged blonde in her mid-thirties, dressed in a short skirt and a tight knit top, clearly chosen to accentuate her obvious physical attributes.

  My friend somewhat absently finished his sentence to me as his eyes followed the younger woman all the way across the room to where she paused hipshot beside a distant table. Then he sighed, turned back to me, and asked a little wistfully, “Do you think I’m too old for her?”

  It took a few seconds, but for once in my life I came up with the precisely right and appropriately timed answer—“I certainly hope not!”—and terminated the conversation.

  At the memory I once again gave myself a mental high five as I nodded encouragement to Shirley, which was all it took for the whole story to come tumbling out, along with her hurt feelings, embarrassment, and more of that spark of anger I had recognized earlier—slowly growing icy in tone. As she talked I could tell she was watching closely for my reaction, which I took for discomfiture at her own humiliation, so I was careful to maintain a sympathetic, nonjudgmental expression.

  To Shirley, Tony had seemed the perfect escort for an older woman newly divorced and unaccustomed to dating—nonthreatening, undemanding, considerate, and respectful. He had done everything right—took her to dinner, brought her flowers and small gifts, listened with interest and understanding to the tale of her divorce, cuddled and comforted. Within a week they had been intimate, in two he had all but moved in, even charming the landlady, Ann Barnes, out of any reservation or disapproval at his presence next door. In fact, Shirley told me, Ann had practically simpered at his attention, though in private he had expressed condescension for her gullibility.

  “Why couldn’t I see that he was playing the same game with me?” she asked. “How could I have fallen for it? I was just so damn hungry for validation and approval.”

  Tony had spun another appealing lie about himself, painting a picture designed to put her at ease with his circumstances. He was, he said, a senior vice president of a large Chicago-based contracting business that designed and built facilities for a variety of industrial corporations—manufacturing plants, warehouses, airports, and shipping plants. As an example, he had told her that his company had built an international routing facility for FedEx in some southern state she couldn’t remember.

  “What was he doing in Taos?” I asked her, for it seemed an odd place to find someone like the person she had described.

  “He said it was a sort of working vacation—that he went back and forth to Santa Fe, where he was engaged in a series of meetings to finalize a new project. And he was gone, several times overnight, once for two days. He called me from there—or at least he said that’s where he was. I had no reason to think otherwise.”

  When he came back from these trips, besides the usual flowers, he brought her other thoughtful—or, I thought, perhaps carefully calculated to seem thoughtful—presents: books on weaving, a musical jewelry box, lingerie, along with cards to make her laugh or feel cared for.

  “He even gave me an antique ring that he said was a diamond that had belonged to his mother. I’m good with jewelry, so I knew right off that it wasn’t real—that it was a cubic zirconium. But I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so I didn’t say anything. That vanished along with Tony. And along with several valuable pieces of my own jewelry, I might add. So I guess he could tell the difference all right.”

  Shirley frowned and took a sip of her tea before continuing.

  He had, she said, come back from his last trip to Santa Fe in a distressed mood. The negotiations on the new project had hit a
snag, he told her. To top it off, he had become aware of a piece of property that was perfect for what they wanted to build, but he couldn’t get the earnest money fast enough, before it was picked off by another interested buyer, so he was about to lose it.

  “He said that corporate wheels ground slowly in the head office, that they were in the process of another purchase and it would be a week before anything could be done. In three days the property would be gone for lack of nothing but the basic earnest money and he would be blamed when the whole project self-destructed. I thought he was really upset.

  “When I found out it was a hundred thousand I was uneasy, but I knew that I had it, or could have it in hours. I trusted him, Maxie. He had been so good to me and I knew it would only be a week before I had it back. He played me just right, didn’t he? Like a fool, I had my California bank arrange the transaction with a Taos branch and gave him a check a day and a half later. He left for Santa Fe the next morning and that was the last I saw of him—and my hundred thousand. The check was cashed immediately, and that was two weeks ago. What the hell could I have been thinking? The bastard!”

  She buried her face in her hands and burst into tears again.

  I sat staring across the table at her and thought about how we sometimes fool ourselves—justify the errors we make—often with purpose. This was an intelligent woman who should have known better, who actually did know better. She had simply ignored what she knew for what she wanted to believe. But there are all kinds of reasons why we don’t follow our best judgment when we should. Then, sometimes, when we are forced to face the reality of our mistakes, we have to do the best we can with whatever we have left.

  I handed Shirley a box of tissues and made her another cup of tea.

  When the tears stopped she sat back, giving me a tentative look or two to see if I was appalled at her folly or had believed her. I couldn’t really tell which. I leaned forward on my elbows, cup between my hands, and asked mildly, “What are you going to do about it?”