Chuckling, I sighed. “I got your back, Livingston. I’m going to drop you guys off at the motel. Coop, you sneak Mouthy McMouth in and I’ll go and see what’s up at the store. Okay?”
The motel didn’t allow pets, so we had to be very careful bringing Livingston in and out. It did force him to be quieter, which was a blessing in disguise sometimes.
Coop frowned as we pulled up to the motel, its exterior sporting splotches of mold along the siding and brick foundation, very common in Oregon with all the rain. She peered out the window. “It’s getting dark. Should you go alone? I don’t mind going with you.”
I pulled into a parking space and flapped a hand at her as Coop climbed out and opened the back door, throwing a garbage bag over Livingston’s cage in order to carry him into the motel. “Nah. I’ll be fine. There are plenty of people all over the place. It’s not that late. Get Mr. Feed-Me-Now-Or-Suffer-My-Wrath fed and settled for the night, and I’ll be back before you know it.”
With a curt nod, she hauled Livingston’s cage from the backseat and sauntered toward the motel with purposeful strides, making me smile. Coop didn’t do anything halfway. If you asked her to do something, she did it with gusto.
I decided to walk to the store, it was only a hop, skip and a jump away, and besides, it was a nice night. The sky was clear, the stars were even out, twinkling bright in the black silk falling over Cobbler Cove. I loved it here. I loved the people and their easygoing ways. I loved the mountains and the water so close by.
I loved the kooky personalities, like the man who drove a van covered in gargoyles. I loved the smells of the food trucks and the heat of the day rising from the pavement to escape into the fresh air of evening.
Despite the problems we were having, I clung to my optimism. The police and forensics would likely clear out in a couple of days. I mean, how long did it take to sweep a crime scene? Maybe we’d be set back a week at most. That wasn’t an eternity, right?
Squaring my shoulders, I almost skipped the rest of the way—until I caught sight of the store and groaned, panic flooding my veins.
No, no, no!
Dashing across the street, I just barely missed running into the front end of an old Volkswagen van that honked at me with piercing anguish.
“Sorry!” I bellowed as I skirted the front bumper and beat feet to the store, stopping short in front of a huge pile of boxes. So many boxes.
Well, our inventory had arrived.
A day early, at a place covered in crime scene tape, but whatever, right?
Clenching my fists, I gritted my teeth to keep from screaming my frustration at the way the universe was treating us these days. Every time we got back up, something else knocked us down.
I did a quick sweep of the store with my eyes, looking to see if anything had been disturbed, but all appeared well.
Except for that noise.
I paused and cocked an ear. What was that noise? A scuffing of some kind. As though someone was digging through something.
I followed it blindly, not giving much thought to the fact that I was heading behind our building and toward the dumpsters in the alleyway.
“Hello?” I called, not really thinking anyone would answer back.
And then I heard it again. Scratch, rustle, scratch. I narrowed my eyes and got a good glance at my surroundings.
There was no way out of the alleyway, no pass-through behind the buildings. Just a brick wall with but a mere two inches between the building and the brick—meaning, whoever or whatever it was had to get past me to make an exit.
Now, listen. I’m not used to being in peril. I mean, I virtually spent half my life in a convent. Peril, at least until I became possessed, didn’t really come into play, so I wasn’t always aware of its existence or how to sense it. Sometimes, fools really do rush in. In fact, once I’d saved a kitten in the sewer by the convent gates by climbing into it without thinking twice about how I was going to get the heck out.
Do you have any idea how much it rains in Oregon and how often cars passed the convent? A lot. Thankfully, Sister Alice Ambrosia happened upon me during one of her commune-with-nature walks, and helped both the kitten and me to safety. But not before I’d spent almost six hours in a stinky, damp drain, screaming for help.
Anyway, this time, the shiver racing along my arms and up my spine did make me think “peril,” which should have made me turn around and hit the bricks.
Did I?
No. I foolishly, albeit briefly, thought an animal might be in trouble with all the scratching and rustling around. Which is why I went deeper into the alleyway, beyond where the streetlamp’s thin rays glowed and toward the dumpster.
“Hello?” I whispered, inching forward, peering into the darkness.
Just as I hit the lip of the dumpster, someone exploded from inside, virtually dropping down on top of me, shooting up loose debris and the ripest smell I’ve ever smelled.
In those brief seconds, while I fell to the ground and hit my knees so hard, I almost bit my tongue in half, I wondered, what would Stevie do?
After she was done screaming in pain, that is. Which, I did. I’m not Superman, folks. It hurt like a son of a gun.
Anyway, Stevie’d try to catch whoever had fallen from the sky and grill them about why they were rooting around in a dumpster behind her store, that’s what. She’d also take in as much as she could beyond what was right in front of her. She’d said scent was just as important as sight.
So I did the same as I fell forward, trying to clutch the perpetrator’s ankles, my fingers clamping on to a boot. I’m sure it was a boot because I caught the top of it between my fingers—and definitely made of a suede-ish material.
And I sniffed the air as deeply as I could. Garlic. I smelled garlic. Sure, I know that could have been from any restaurant up and down the street, or even the dumpster itself, but when whoever it was had landed on my head, I’d gotten a huge whiff of garlic, and I smelled it right now as I struggled to latch onto anything I could to keep this person from getting away.
Clinging to the perp’s ankle, I grit my teeth and tried to pull him toward me while my knees stung, my fingernails tore and my heart raced. But I kept my eyes open and tried to take in as much as I could see—naturally, that happened to be mostly nothing. I saw the shadow of an outline of someone who was pretty long and had jeans on, but that was it.
But just as I screamed out, “Stop! I just want to talk to you!” the person escaped, yanking their ankle from my aching grip and rising up to race off out of the alleyway.
And I lay there stunned, covered in wet dirt and gravel.
Forcing myself upward on a heaving breath, I fell toward the dumpster, my hip catching the corner of the metal as I steadied myself. Bracing my hands on my thighs, I backed up against it and breathed in, all the while wondering if this had something to do with Fergus McDuff’s murder or was it just someone dumpster diving.
Though, in the latter case, I had to wonder why they’d make such a big deal about it by running off. And if it wasn’t someone homeless, what could they possibly be digging for?
Rather than do the smart thing and head back to the lighted areas, I looked at the face of the building and remembered the window upstairs, facing the alleyway. Maybe they’d been trying to get up there via the fire escape?
Hmmm.
I had so many questions and very little to go on. But I was determined to at least try. As my head whirled and my knees stung, I gathered my wits—only to remember the boxes.
The boxes!
All alone on a sidewalk where anyone could cart them off. That lit a fire under my behind, making me run around the side of the building to confront my next hurdle despite the ache in my knees and my bleeding fingernail.
Seeing the boxes still safe, I closed my eyes and took deep breaths, one after the other, praying for patience to see me through this ordeal. And I’ll be honest, I fought a tear or two. The hot liquid threatening to seep from my eyes left me angry.
Blowing out a breath, I squared my shoulders. Okay, enough feeling sorry for myself.
Weaving my way through the maze of cardboard boxes almost as tall as me, I was just about to attack my task when someone hacked a phlegmy cough, making me jump.
Did the person from the dumpster want a round two?
My eyes fought to find the spot the cough was coming from when the shadowy figure of a man jumped up from behind the last stack of boxes, his thin frame weaving to and fro. “Who goes there?” he shouted, his voice gravelly and worn. “Identify yourself, intruder! This is my land, thief, and I will not have you pilfering my fields without a fight. Dost thou wish to dual here in the deep of night? Show me your sword and let us fight like men!”
First, I don’t know if I was more insulted about the idea that he thought I was a man, or that he wanted to fight me for some boxes. But I recognized this for what it was. A homeless man staking his claim. Staking it in a very colorful way, but staking it nonetheless.
Thus, I took a gentle approach as I inched my way closer to him to get a clearer view while keeping my tone friendly. “Aw, c’mon now. You don’t want to dual with me, do you? Me? I’m harmless as a newborn kitten. Plus, I don’t have a sword. Come and stand under the streetlight and you’ll see I’m incapable of harming anyone. I’ll meet you there, okay?” I coaxed as soothingly as possible.
I took a couple of steps out of the intricate path of boxes and into the light and held up both my hands, hoping he’d reveal himself. “See? It’s just me. Do I look like a girl who’d pilfer your fields? I’m no pilferer. Honest.”
He huffed as he came into view, clinging to a cart from a supermarket with one hand, a scruffy army blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
He adjusted his gold Viking hat with his free hand and peered at me with suspicious eyes. “Who art thou, and what dost thou want?” he groused then coughed again, the residual effects making his shoulders shake as he wheezed an inward breath.
“My name is Trixie Lavender, and I come in peace, my liege.” I curtsied, hoping the term “liege” came from the proper era. I’m a little lost when it comes to medieval-speak (at least I think that’s what he was shooting for), but then, he wore a plastic Viking hat. So I’m not sure he knew the proper era, either. In fact, let me be blunt. History wasn’t my thing. I don’t know anything about eras except my own, and even that has some blank spots.
“Speak!” He shouted the demand, pulling the blanket tighter. “State your reasons for trespassing or it’s off with your head!”
Keeping my tone even, I proceeded carefully, as though there were nothing unusual about our interaction. “I’m getting ready to move into the store here.” I hitched my bloody index finger over my shoulder at the door covered in crime scene tape. “And these are my boxes of things for my tattoo parlor. But I don’t mind if you sit by them at all. In fact, please make yourself comfortable, sire.” I pulled one of the boxes down and patted it to indicate he could sit with me, cursing my aching knees as I did.
As he came closer—warily, mind you—I saw the dirt streaking his gnarled face, and his wrists were so thin, I could wrap one hand around both of them. Rather than assess him further, I went about my business.
Yet, he didn’t appear at all interested in the shop or tattoos—only the boxes, which made for good shelter, I suppose.
Hopping up on the box, I began to chat—the goal being to get him to trust I wouldn’t take anything from him or, worse, harm him. “And how shall I address you, kind sir?” I asked finally, letting my legs swing while I pretended to look at my nails in indifference—even though they surely needed looking at after my incident in the alleyway.
Now he became bashful, his tired eyes downcast as he rubbed his nose with the side of his hand, his reply quite 2018. “I’m Solomon.”
“Nice to meet you, Solomon.”
And then he did a one-eighty as though he’d forgotten to stay in character, and bellowed, “That’s Solomon, King of Hawthorne to you, peasant!”
He announced his title in such a way that I expected trumpets to blare.
Instantly, I sat up straight and gave him my full attention. “Of course, your majesty. What brings you out on an eve as fine as this?”
He shrugged his shoulders, the greasy tangles of his hair poking out from beneath his Viking hat blowing in the cool night air. “I was just looking for a place to take a nap.”
Peering at him from the corner of my eye, I nodded, guessing our time travel game was over. “Well then, Solomon. You’re welcome to take a nap on my boxes any day of the week.”
“Really?”
I smiled as he inched ever closer to the box I’d pulled down for him to sit on. “Really-really.” Pausing for a moment, I decided to inquire about his general well being. “Might I ask, have you supped this day, sire?”
I couldn’t smell any alcohol on him, and I usually have a good nose for these things, but I also couldn’t tell if he was a drug user. His arms were essentially covered by his blanket and his feet were dressed in some tattered, matted fuzzy slippers.
“Maybe… Why do you care?” He gripped the rusty handle of the cart, filled with black bags and two stained pillows.
So he wouldn’t bolt, I shrugged as if indifferent. “I was just making conversation, that’s all. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
He rolled his tongue around the interior of his mouth, and it was then I saw he had only a few teeth. “You a social worker?”
A homeless soul’s biggest nightmare, I suspect. Looking up at the stars, I pretended to gaze at them. “Nope. I told you, Solomon, I’m leasing this shop. It’s going to be a tattoo shop called Inkerbelle’s. My friend Coop is the tattoo artist and I do some sketching. Mostly, I’ll just be managing things. If you’re around here sometime, I’ll introduce you to her if you want. I think you’ll like her.”
Now he lifted his chin, giving me a full view of his craggy face and wrinkling neck. He was too thin, and his cough worried me. “I don’t like people.”
Sighing, I smiled at him. “Sometimes I don’t either, Solomon. But sometimes they’re not so bad. You just have to give them a chance and find out which way they’re gonna go.”
Suddenly, he made a confession. I was certain I hadn’t earned his trust yet, but for whatever reason, he’d lost sight of his medieval play and decided to switch topics. “You know who I don’t like?”
“Who don’t you like, Solomon?”
He stuck a knobby finger featuring a cracked nail out at me and pointed with aimless abandon. “I don’t like that mad guy. He was really mad.”
My ears went hot, but I wasn’t sure why. This likely gentle soul talked like an actor from the Medieval Times. To give any credence to what he said could be just this shy of madness. But what if he knew something he’d been too afraid to share? It could all be street melodrama, there was plenty of that to go around even among the homeless. They had bullies and social butterflies just like every community did. Sometimes it was like a Telenovela with the shenanigans.
Still, I asked, “Who’s the mad guy? Do you know his name, Solomon?”
Shaking his head, Solomon flicked his hand and hiked the blanket over his shoulder. “He’s been here. He’s been right here. Right here, all the time. Nobody listens, nobody listens to Solomon,” he repeated, almost like a parrot. “Nobody believes Solomon. Nope, nope, nope. Nobody believes him.”
His words were starting to pick up speed, worrying me. He was becoming agitated, and the last thing I wanted to do was upset him. But I had to proceed, even if it was with caution.
“Hey, Solomon?” I asked, using a quiet tone. “Do you like soup?”
He stopped al
l motion, the flicking twitch of his hand slowing as he held it in midair, applying his fingers. “What kind?”
I tilted my head so he could see my face. So he’d see I was genuinely interested—and make no mistake. I was.
“My specialty is chicken noodle with teeny-tiny ground chicken meatballs. Sounds crazy, right? But it’s really good. I’m not much of a cook, but it was my mother’s recipe.”
“I like soup.”
“Then promise me this, when the store’s finally open, you’ll drop by for a bowl, okay? I make it all the time for our lunch. I’m happy to share.”
That stopped him cold for a second, and it was then he finally looked at me. Really, truly looked at me—lucid and aware, making my heart tighten.
“Will the mad guy be there?”
“I don’t know who the mad guy is, Solomon. I’d like to think I won’t have any mad guys here, but I can’t know for sure unless you tell me who he is.”
“He gives me the goose bumps. Scares me right out of my pants. He was here last night. I saw him. He was mad. Mad, mad, mad.”
Who was the mad bad guy, and why was he scaring Solomon? And did this involve Fergus McDuff’s murder? That was the real question.
“I promise I won’t let any mad guys come around if you come for soup. But,” I nudged, “it sure would help if you told me who the mad guy is. Or even if you just tell me what he looks like. Then there’d be no mad guys period. You can trust that.”
Leaning into his cart, he began to grip the handle so hard, his dirty, weathered knuckles went white. “He has a tattoo. Maybe he’ll get more at your shop. I don’t like the mad guy. Solomon doesn’t like the mad guy and the mad guy doesn’t like laundry.”
Laundry? Somehow, I guessed there were several things going on in Solomon’s head and he’d mixed them up.
But clearly, the mad guy frightened Solomon enough to make him speak about himself in third person, and I didn’t want him frightened. “Nobody likes a mad guy, Solomon. But he’s not here now, is he?”
Then There Were Nun Page 8