Whose Angel Keyring

by Mara Purl

  The reasons she’d come here began to return to her mind in an orderly progression. First, there’d been the call from an anonymous tipster that there might be something strange about the plans for the Clarke House. She’d confirmed this with her own investigation, discovering the house had two sets of plans. She’d needed an explanation, but hadn’t wanted to tip her hand to Sawyer too soon.

  Then my source called me again. He was right about the plans. Chances are he’s right in everything he says about this house. He was an illusive informant—a phone contact she thought of as “Mr. Man,” since he refused to give his namewho called with tantalizing fragments of information. She tried to fit them together like so many shards of broken crystal, clear and sharp-edged.

  He’d said to meet him here, so here she was trying to gather more fragments of this story, and she found herself resenting it. Joseph will be waiting at Calma with a clandestine dinner for two. Tonight’s our make-up date after our little tiff. He planned a midnight supper . . . all the more romantic for the secrecy, the hour . . . and the rapprochement.

  The thought hastened her, and she tried again to focus on the incomplete room. Lifting her flashlight, she began inspecting the spaces framed by raw beams. She stepped through an opening. This will be the kitchen. She could see where the crew had marked identifiable icons for drains and faucets, lines to indicate cabinets and pantry. All of this seems normal enough. Where's the story? I wonder what Mr. Man wants to show me?

  One thing that’d varied between the two sets of plans was something about the steel: different manufacturers, but also different grades. She figured a quick look at exposed steel beams under the house would reveal which steel had actually been used.

  How do I get down there? She walked from the kitchen across the expanse of the living room and discovered a stairwell against the far wall. But at the moment it contained neither stairs nor a plank. She thought back for a moment. Oh . . . there was a ladder in that opening by the fireplace. Cursing again, she began walking carefully toward the gaping hole.

  Just then another sound reached her—closer than the persistent wind and crashing surf. What was that? A scrape . . . a footfall? Or is that Mr. Man? About time he got here. But I didn’t see any headlights. What if it’s not him? Clicking off her flashlight, she pressed her body against the closest beam. I’m alone in a windswept rattletrap of wood beams and metal scraps, and I should’ve been home doing my nails before driving to Santa Barbara to meet Joseph.

  She breathed deeply and tried to picture herself arriving home, refreshing her polish and makeup, locking the door behind her, starting the SUV’s engine. Details. They were always her best defense against fear.

  She listened a moment longer, hearing no further scraping. Just my nerves. She clicked her flashlight back on, then continued toward the hearth-well. The ladder itself seemed to disappear into the depths. “It’s the blackest hole I’ve ever seen,” she muttered. “Blacker than a black cat’s ass—on black velvet.”

  “There’s a quick way down there, Ms. Christian.”

  “Ahh!” She whirled toward the voice that’d burst out of nowhere. “Who—?” That’s not my contact’s voice. Her throat spasmed, and she gulped air, her heart pounding louder than the surf. “Where—?” She gasped. “You just about scared the. . . .” Struggling for calm, she clutched her flashlight and tried to keep its beam from bouncing across the man’s features.

  His seamed face loomed over a hulking physique. Any distinguishing marks? Yes! I thought it was a shadow, but that’s a mole on his left cheek . . . size of a quarter. Can’t really see his eyes. She inhaled. “What . . . what are you doing here?”

  “The question should be what are you doing here, Ms. Christian. I work here.” The voice was steady, self-assured.

  “Of course you do.” Why does he know my name? She struggled for a casual tone. “Good thing you’re here, because I could really use some help.” A laugh erupted from her throat like a burst of static from a malfunctioning radio. “Actually, I wanted to look around in the basement, but it’s so hard to see in the dark.”

  The guy said nothing. Chris wondered how long she could keep producing an uninterrupted stream of words, hoping to use them like a protective force field. Keep talking. Redirect the focus to him. “Say, you didn’t even bring a flashlight.”

  “Very observant.”

  Get a conversation going. “Guess we both counted on moonlight.”

  “Not with these clouds.”

  “You must know the house real well if you work here.” Burly muscles, heavy work boots. “One of the construction crew, huh?”

  “Right again.”

  “Well, listen, I’m running late for an appointment and someone’s waiting for me. He tends to get upset when I’m not on time. I’ll come back in the daylight when I can see better.” She made a move away from the hearth-well, but it only brought her closer to him. As she took another step, her foot caught on something, pitching her forward.

  The worker’s arm shot out in front of her, his large hand capturing hers as she regained her balance. He couldn’t stop the impulse to catch me. She stood toe-to-toe with him now, and could smell alcohol on his breath as he exhaled. Probably a bourbon drinker, she noted, unable to stop cataloguing details.

  His hand opened suddenly. She slipped hers free and stepped back. Has his brief moment of gallantry put him enough off balance that I can appeal to him? Don’t I always reach people with my authenticity and with my words? She looked up into the weathered face, trying to make eye contact, but could see nothing more than a glint. “Thanks so much for taking care of me.”

  He paused, then smiled. “Oh, I haven’t taken care of you yet.”

  Damn! “But you’re about to, am I right?”

  A chuckle rumbled in his barrel chest. “Too right.”

  Good! Maybe I did reach him this time . . . I made him laugh. How many times have I talked my way out of a tight spot? How many times have I played out this kind of scenario in my head?

  Time seemed to slow, and her perspective shifted until she watched the stand-off between herself and burly-guy from a slight distance, as though she were discussing the angle with her television camera crew. It’s an over-the-shoulder two-shot, like one of my interviews. Then we cut to a close-up that shows the mole, the craggy face—trying to give the audience a chance to read his expression.

  Now her view altered and the setting was a Western: a black-hatted hulk blocked the path of a red-dressed spit-fire. Whose story is this? When did it happen? Why are we in the Old West? She almost seemed to recognize the scene . . . from a story by her favorite writer, Louis L’Amour. Never let the opponent gain the advantage, his narration advised. Don’t wait. Make the first move.

  The scene shifted again, and now she saw herself as Emma Peel in The Avengers. Skilled in martial arts, undaunted by her precarious predicament, the heroine faces her adversary. Emma kicks out with those long legs, takes her man by surprise.

  Suddenly, Chris found herself standing in her own shoes, opposite her own bad guy. He might be bigger, stronger, more massive, but maneuverability was on her side. It’s now or never!

  She clicked off her flashlight and hurled it at his head. She’d already chosen exactly what direction she would run—past him, not away, because that would be unexpected. In the sudden blackness she knew she’d have a second’s worth of advantage. It was just the second she needed.

  She leapt forward, and saw his fist too late. It impacted her temple with the force of an explosion, hurtling her backward into the gaping hearth-well. Her body seemed to hang for a moment, suspended in space—until it smashed against the dirt, forcing the last molecule of air from her lungs. I can’t breathe. I can’t move.

  Her eyes blinked in the dark, her mind searched for options. She saw his huge feet land on the dirt near her, and kept her eyes still. If he thinks I’m already dead he’ll just leave me. Don’t breathe!

  He was carrying something . . . a shovel.
No! He stepped on its edge, forcing it into the big pile of soft earth, lifting a load of it, moving it toward her head.

  Just before the dirt hit her face, she closed her eyes. I’m covered enough now that he can’t see me. I’ll breathe soon.

  Another shovelful landed on her chest, its weight sodden. Now another was flung over her face.

  It’d been too many seconds since air had found its way into her lungs, and with a sudden clarity, she realized she had never taken that breath.

  Desperately, she inhaled, but she found no oxygen. Only the wet, sandy home-soil of the Central Coast.

  Chapter 1

  The autumn storm tore at the clouds covering MilfordHaven, revealing a swollen moon that hung over a coastline frothy with agitated surf.

  Miranda Jones watched the distant flash of the lighthouse for a moment, then looked away from her window to focus on a narrow band of thick paper scrolled across her studio floor. Inhaling deeply, she dipped the tapered fibers of her immense paintbrush and struggled to lift its wet mass from the inky bucket, then swept a black streak across the white paper.

  She held the three-inch diameter brush handle upright—its top reaching to her waist—and resumed her bent-knee, widefooted stance. Hoisting the fully saturated brush, she began the dance that would drag it rhythmically along the paper, creating a vertical image.

  Placing her bare feet on the sheet, she stepped backwards, the weight of the sodden brush causing her arms to shake. Yet each motion synchronized with both the soft shakuhachi flute music that played over her stereo, and with the call the paper itself seemed to be whispering in her ear.

  When she reached the end of the sheet, she walked back to her starting point, replaced the brush in its bucket, and stood entranced, her soul soaking up the experience even as the image soaked into the paper.

  By now her studio was permeated with the distinct aroma of the sumi ink. Concocted of palm ash and glue, it also contained traces of camphor and musk oil. She inhaled again, agreeing with the legend that promised the ink’s special odor helped to induce the perfect meditative state.

  She’d placed four black stones—smoothed and rounded from tumbling for years through the nearby surf—as weights to hold the scroll in place. Now they almost blended into the image, as though she’d added four extra smudges of ink. But, in fact, the stones would be removed and weren’t part of what she’d painted. She scrutinized the piece. When the stones are removed, will the piece look incomplete? Yes . . . it needs something more.

  She felt the idea, more than she thought it. Focusing on an unfilled portion of the paper, she reached for a smaller brush that stood ready in its own bucket. She lifted it, then let her hand sweep through a series of motions. When she’d replaced the smaller brush, she closed her eyes and bowed over the paper, signaling the completion of the current scroll. My teacher would add a touch of vermillion . . . but I’m not ready for that yet.

  During art school a few years earlier, she’d completed a course on sumi-e, and since then she’d occasionally used the ancient Japanese ink-wash painting as both a meditation and a discipline. Traditionally, it was both, from the almost ritualistic grinding of the ink stone into water, to the careful handling of brushes whose hairs were trimmed to a delicate point.

  But more recently she’d been accepted into a workshop by the eminent American calligrapher Barbara Bash, who’d shared her unique approach of pouring sumi ink from half-gallon bottles and using an oversized brush to create her huge scrolls. I’ll never master this the way Barbara has, but I love how it centers my mind. It’s all about flow.

  Is this a “head” or a “heart” process? If “head” was the answer, it wouldn’t be in an intellectual sense, because the ink almost seemed to be “thought-projected” onto the paper, the marks capturing a flow of movement uninterrupted by editorializing.

  Though the actual painting of the ink-wash was necessarily quick, preparing for each piece was a lengthier process. At least it is for a relatively inexperienced calligrapher like me. The ink had to be poured, the paper laid, and the artist had to summon both energy and vision.

  Miranda appreciated that this big-brush technique worked on three levels. As physical exercise, it felt similar to Tai Chi and to Yoga, both of which she enjoyed. As mental discipline, its immediacy permitted no distraction, no procrastination. A brush pressed a moment too long would cause ink to soak through and ruin both the paper and the image. She carried these lessons into her own watercolor work.

  And though technically big-brush sumi-e was certainly a form of fine art, it was far enough away from her core practices of watercolor and acrylics, that it left her free from internal judgment. She could float above the brush, the paper and the image, allowing thoughts and feelings to surface freely. I know why I love it so much. It lets my heart speak.

  The CD she was listening to came to an end, and a gust of wind rattled the windows. How many images have I done tonight? The new one makes four. And how long have I been at this? I’ve lost track of time again. She glanced out at the moon, noting it was lower now, its color beginning to shift from silver to gold as it sank toward the ocean. It’ll set soon, and we’ll have some black sky before dawn, so I’ll have a chance to sleep a little. I think I’m finished work for tonight.

  Stepping to her worktable, she picked up her X-acto knife and carefully sliced below the end of the painted image, separating it from the heavy roll. She lifted the top edge enough to drag the long sheet parallel to the others, which were laid out on the studio floor to dry. Tomorrow she’d mount the stepladder and tack the vertical images to the wall. For now, she stared down at the new work and its three companion pieces, finished earlier that evening.

  She stood back to examine the four scrolls. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “It’s the four seasons!” Amazed this hadn’t occurred to her before, she now saw clearly that the four six-foot-high water paintings described the subtle elements of California’s coastal seasons: a pine for winter; a blooming crape myrtle for spring; an olive tree for summer; and a persimmon tree for autumn. Maybe I didn’t notice at first because the images are black-and-white.

  The piece she’d just finished was of the persimmon, its signature drooping-leaves and multi-stemmed trunk so reminiscent of Asia. Yet she learned they’d been imported to California in the 1800s, and they were now as much a part of the Central Coast as any native tree. The bright orange color of the fruit came into her mind, highlighting the fall season when it ripened.

  She glanced down at the bottom corner, where she’d added that final swirl of paint. What is it? It looks like . . . a kitten! Kneeling, she inspected the small image more carefully. I know I had no particular definition in mind when I created it. She remembered laying the wet brush sideways, then dotting it here and there as she lifted it off the page. But now, there they were, the distinct feline features—head and whiskers, tail and feet.

  “Hello,” she said to the impish picture. “Thanks for the visit!”

  Tired to the bone, Miranda stood, stretched and sighed. Now for the cleanup. It took her a good half hour to wash the brushes, empty the buckets, and secure anything else she might’ve left open in her workspace. By the time she flipped the light switch and headed downstairs to her bedroom, she was already half asleep.

  I’ll shower in the morning, she thought. But it’s already morning! Too tired to make sense of the chronology, she washed her face, brushed her teeth and collapsed under her comforter. It’d be nice to cuddle up with that little kitty I drew. She smiled at the fantasy and imagined the kitty tiptoeing across the covers.

  Those four scrolls . . . they’re great, but I’d love to do them in full color. Maybe I can take the four seasons idea and incorporate it into my miniature watercolor postcards. . . .

  As she reached to turn out the light on her nightstand, something caused her to choke. Gasping, she reached for the water bottle she kept handy by the bed, sputtering as she took a gulp. What in the world? It wasn’t as though she’d ga
gged on a morsel of food, or swallowed down the wrong pipe. She’d been choking before she took the swig of water.

  She shuddered, trying to sense the source of whatever she might be feeling. Is something bad about to happen?

  No, not in Milford-Haven, she reassured herself. Bad things don’t happen here.

  Jack Sawyer’s alarm clock stuttered into life, its plastic frame cracked from abuse. A heavy hand swept down and banged the “snooze” button, then retreated under the covers.

  Jack hadn’t slept well. Keeping one step ahead of town, county, and state regulations didn’t usually keep him up at night. But now he had to contend with Samantha. No matter what he did, he could never seem to get away from that woman.

  He swung his legs out from under the blanket and didn’t notice its long-forgotten coffee stains. He focused for a moment on the clock’s digital display. The last digit no longer illumnated, so it was always a guess. He hoped it was still within a minute or two of 7 a.m.

  Jack headed down the hall, his bare feet leaving an occasional imprint in the dusty floor. An hour-and-a-half from now, he’d be in his office and the irritating phone calls would start: from contractors trying to pick his brains; from prospects who said other contractors could outbid him; from incompetent workers with idiotic questions; from inspectors with nasty notices. But at least his home phone wouldn’t ring, and he wouldn’t turn on his cell till later. Plus—today held the promise of a new client.

  He reached the bathroom and scowled at himself in the mirror. The fierce blue eyes were still clear. The hair had gone salt-and-pepper, the face a little jowly. Chest and arms remained firm, thanks to the fact he spent about as much time on his job sites as behind his desk. Jack’s gaze trailed down the rest of his six-foot frame—solidly packed with muscle, but with a little too much gut. Not bad for over fifty. Besides, only one thing really matters. Everything still functions.

  Just then, his home phone did begin to ring. Damn! Who the hell would be calling me now? A sudden fit of coughing seized him, loud enough that he missed the next two rings of his phone, and on the fourth one his answering machine picked up.