***
She sat on the bed, rubbed her eyes, and stared at the phone. The taste of the wine was still on her tongue, bringing to her mind the look on his face when he told her the name. And such a kind face. She put her hand to her mouth to stifle a shudder and picked up the phone. She knew the number by heart. After three rings a low voice came on the line.
“You have something to report?”
“Yes. He knows.”
A moment passed before the man spoke again. “You thought that before. Are you now absolutely certain?”
When she gave him the name she could hear a sharp intake of breath. More seconds passed.
“You have done well. Your work there is finished.”
“What will you do now?”
The voice was now hurried. “That does not concern you. Return immediately.”
The line went dead.
She got to her feet, walked to the closet, and took out a small suitcase that she opened on the bed. After changing her clothes and packing, she walked slowly around the small apartment, running her hand over the few pieces of furniture. She turned out the lights and opened the door a crack, peering into the dimly lit hallway. Satisfied that it was deserted, she slipped out, closing the door softly behind her. She walked down the steps without looking back, careful that her flat heels made no sound as she descended to the ground floor and opened the door to the street.
It was almost midnight when she turned the corner and walked in the direction of the river. The night had turned cool, but she didn’t feel the temperature. A few people passed her, some smiling when they saw her face. Two carabinieri watched her cross in front of their patrol car while they were stopped at the traffic light near the bridge.
“Don’t nuns always travel in pairs?” said the one in the passenger seat. “Especially at this hour?”
The driver didn’t reply. The light had turned green and he was already shifting into second.
Sage Advice
Kelly Garrett
On a rainy day in Paris, this guy in a fedora and cowboy boots walked up to me and he said “You must submit your work to…” Just kidding. As a lifelong mystery fan, I’d known about Poisoned Pen Press for years. I’d seen their titles in bookstores, and read some of their books over the years. So when they announced in Publisher’s Weekly that they’d started acquiring young adult fiction in addition to their regular fare, I made a note, as I write for both the YA and general mystery market. When I had a young adult manuscript ready, I sent it their way, and just a few short months later had joined the crew at Poisoned Pen Press.
—K.G.
***
Visions of cold brew waltzed through my mind.
Not any cold brew, mind you. The coffee on nitro from the oh-so-hipster shop around the corner. Something in the nitrogen aspect made it all creamy, with small bubbles or something like that. Other thoughts wanted to invade the image of the world’s most perfect drink, but I shoved them aside.
A few people stared as I approached the shop. Maybe ’cause I was wearing a wedding dress. But that can’t be too unusual in a neighborhood that prides itself on being weird. Last week I saw a guy outside the same coffee shop, smoking. The cigarette wasn’t the quirky part, even if people act like nicotine has cooties. It was his bear costume. Yet no one really paid attention to him.
But wear a wedding dress with a sort of Rita Hayworth vibe? Everyone stares. Maybe next time I’ll pick out one that looks more pretty-pretty princess.
“Sage!”
I closed my eyes briefly as my hand reached out for the door to the coffee shop. Two more steps and I would have been free to consume my weight in coffee.
Five feet, three inches of hipster bore down on me. She wore a slouchy cotton beanie in homage to the chilly July weather, but I couldn’t really rip on her for the hat. Mainly ’cause it’s mine. My sister had pilfered my wardrobe once again, snagging my favorite “Unicorn v. T-rex” shirt as well. My eyes narrowed.
“I need your help!” Rose put her hand on my arm and pulled me away from the door.
“Now’s a horrid time. Can it wait for tomorrow? And you agreed you’d stop raiding my closet.”
She stared at me for a second and started to motion to my dress. I shook my head, warning her to keep quiet about it.
“I’m calling in a favor,” she said.
I groaned. Giving my sister three markers for her birthday had been a dumb idea. On the bright side, this was the third and final request. She’d already had me find a lost goat and fill in for her at the coffee cart so she could go surf for a week.
“Lead the way,” I said, sounding as excited as I felt. “And you owe me coffee.”
“That’s not part of the deal,” she countered as I followed her to one of the sidewalk tables. A girl sat there, early twenties, maybe a year or two younger than Rose. Curly blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, big green eyes. Doctor Who tee-shirt. One hundred percent my sister’s type.
“Mila, this is my sister, Sage,” Rose said as she motioned to me. “She…helps people.”
“Helps?”
“Fixes problems. Finds stuff. She’s amazing. Totally trustworthy, too. You can tell her anything, like a priest.”
Mila raised an eyebrow at me. I plopped down in the chair across from her, feeling like this moment was inevitable. “Tell me, child, how long has it been since your last confession?”
“Sage, seriously,” my sister said.
“Mila’s out of coffee. Why don’t you get her a refill, and get me a cold brew, and we’ll talk while you’re in line. One pump of simple syrup.”
“Just black coffee for me,” Mila added.
As Rose walked away, I turned back to Mila. “Really, what’s up?”
Mila’s cheeks turned red as she squirmed in her seat. “It’s embarrassing, but I need you to find a guy for me.”
“Lots of guys in Portland.”
She pulled a sketchbook out of her Emerald City Comic Con tote bag and slid it across the table. “He left this behind.”
The sketchbook had a spiral ring across the top, and scuff marks on the plain black front cover. I flipped through it. Lots of sketches of the St. Johns Bridge, all drawn from the Cathedral Park side of the river, although there were also a few of a stained-glass window. Sadly there weren’t any “if lost, return to so-and-so” notes written inside.
“He knows how to draw,” I said. “So why do you want to find him?”
Mila looked at the table for a second before looking back up at me. She struggled to meet my eyes. “This is so embarrassing, but my then-girlfriend picked him up one night. I came home and found them…you know.”
A small sliver of sympathy snaked through me. “And then?”
“I freaked. Started yelling. Threw both of their stuff around. My ex always carries books like this, ’cause she writes, and I thought I was grabbing her notebook when I stormed out. But when I looked at it later, it wasn’t hers.”
“Can your girlfriend help you return it?”
“Ex-girlfriend. She can’t even remember the guy’s name. I just know he has dark hair, is kinda skinny, and about six feet tall. I thought about just recycling it, but I’d feel guilty if I didn’t make a solid effort to return it. He didn’t know he was getting into the middle of a lover’s spat.”
Mila smiled at someone over my shoulder. Rose was back. She handed Mila a coffee, and said as she turned to me, “They’re having some sort of problem with coffee on draft, so I got you an iced Americano.”
I wanted to bang my head against the table. “The thought of that coffee was the only thing that got me through today,” I said.
Mila excused herself to use the bathroom, and Rose stared at me. Her eyes flicked back down to my dress and returned to my face. “Care to talk about why you’re dressed like a cake topper?”
> I shook my head. I glanced to make sure Mila really had gone inside, then looked at my sister. “You sure about this? Do you really want to involve yourself in someone else’s relationship drama?”
“I have a good feeling about this,” Rose said. Her eyes took on a faraway look, like she was daydreaming about the perfect relationship with Mila unfolding in front of her.
I stopped myself from reminding my sister that her intuition is as stable as a toddler on a tricycle in a glass shop.
Instead, I sighed, picked up my stupid iced Americano, and said, “I’m going to the office. I should have something in a little bit.”
***
I’d lied when I told Rose I was going to the office. That’s usually code for the coffee cart we own and operate in downtown Portland. But I’d seen something in the drawings. The frequent drawings of the St. Johns Bridge meant the guy had to either live or work in that neighborhood. But I was going to start with the second repeated image in the notebook. I knew a guy, so I headed farther into Southeast Portland.
The Tav probably has, or at least had, some sort of unique name. A few decades of neglect had caused the “ern” to burn out of the sign over the door, and they rolled with it instead of fixing it. Unlike some of the faux-dive bars sprinkled around town, The Tav’s grit has been earned. Want an on-trend drink of the moment? Go someplace else. But if you want a drink that’s strong enough to peel all of the paint off your soul, the Tav is for you. In a neighborhood where gentrification is the name of the game, the Tav’s continuing existence defied all sorts of odds.
The bartender nodded at me when I came in, and poured a Maker’s Mark without asking. He put it in front of me as I slid up next to a silver-haired guy at the corner of the bar. In a few hours, he’d be holding court amongst the regulars, but for now he was staring at a baseball game.
“Hey, Uncle Jimmy,” I said.
“Hi, Pumpkin. So how is my favorite niece?”
“When I left Rose a few minutes ago, she was just fine.”
“If I’d wanted to ask about my little Rosemary, I would have,” he grunted. “Your face is awfully shellacked today.”
“I’m trying a new look.” The makeup caked on my face made it itch, like I was wearing a mask that was sucking all the life out of my skin.
As I took a sip, my eyes strayed over to the far wall. At some point in time, the Tav had been classy. Someone had commissioned custom stained-glass windows. But these weren’t your usual depictions of saints and martyrs. The center window is the largest, and shows two doors. A woman with hair like a lion’s mane stands between them. She holds out her hands like she’s asking a question. Something about her draws the eye.
The artist had drawn the center window several times, like he was trying to figure out what makes her so compelling.
I pulled the sketchbook out of my bag and looked at a few of the illustrations before putting it down on the bar. “Recognize this?”
Jimmy spared it a quick glance before going back to the game on TV. “Looks like the window over there.”
“I’m looking for the guy who owns the notebook. You seen anyone who likes to draw the chick in the center window?”
“There’s a lot of hidden meaning in that window, you know. She’s not just a ‘chick’…” His voice trailed off as he watched the screen. “Go for a double, you dumbass.”
I swallowed my groan. I knew how to get Jimmy’s attention, and not just ’cause he favored alternate runlines. “You got money on a five-inning line? Should I drop fifty cents on the action?” I asked.
“No. You don’t bet. Don’t even think about starting unless you want to answer to me.”
“Answer my questions about this sketchbook and I’ll leave you to watch the game in peace,” I said.
Jimmy pulled the sketchbook to him and flipped through it. “Oh, yeah, I know who you’re looking for.”
“I’ll buy you a drink if you cut to the chase.”
“There’s an art student who used to work here on Wednesday nights. Three-to-one odds, he’s your guy. He was always drawing on the napkins.”
“Got a name?”
But Jimmy was looking at the TV screen again. He tore a napkin in half.
“C’mon, focus, please,” I said.
Jimmy kept his eyes on the screen as he said, “Bax. He went by the name Bax when he worked here. He lived by a brewery over in NoPo somewhere. He showed me some sketches he was doing for them. This was almost a year ago, mind you. Maybe longer. I’m surprised you don’t remember him.”
“That’s all you got?”
“One of the beers was named after a whale.”
“That helps. Here, have this and I’ll leave enough to buy your next one,” I said as I slid my mostly untouched drink over to him. I slid a couple of bills under the salt shaker.
I put Cinderella’s slipper, err, the sketchbook, back into my bag, and headed for North Portland.
***
I texted Rose that I was borrowing her car, although I cast a sad glance at my bicycle as I slid into her beat-up Honda. But the trip to St. Johns would take me a few hours by bike.
Uncle Jimmy’s reference to the beer named after a whale was the clincher. The oh-so-cleverly named St. Johns Brewing had released “The White Whale” maybe a year and a half ago, to the combined joy and disdain of craft beer-lovers. It had been the Queen Bee beer of its time, with a long list of people wanting to brag they’d drank it. I’d been dating someone who’d acquired a few bottles, and we’d broken up when I’d said it was just an IPA.
But the logo on the bottle had been damn fine.
The sun was starting to set as I turned off of Highway 30 to cross the Willamette, noting the black SUV that had been just within eyeshot behind me since I left Southeast. The St. Johns Bridge looked like a painted scene from a Road Runner cartoon as I crossed the river, trying not to be distracted by either the gothic towers above or view back toward downtown Portland. The SUV turned onto the bridge as well. It was still too far away for me to be able to read the license plate number.
I left Rose’s car in Cathedral Park, under the shadow of the bridge, pausing to look at the cathedral-like arches in its base. They looked especially regal in the setting sun.
The drawings had focused on a specific angle. I worked my way up North Baltimore Avenue from the park, keeping an eye on which aspects of the bridge stayed in sight as I passed by a row of orange buildings, a chocolatier, and some assorted housing.
I had to go in two blocks to the left, and then I had it. A newish-looking building faced downhill, looking out toward the river. The apartment units facing the bridge would have million-dollar views.
The front door had an automated system, and I scrolled through it. After a few I hit pay dirt.
C. Baxter.
I hit the call button.
After a few rings, a dude answered. “Bax?” I said.
“Nah, he’s down at the pub.”
Great. Of course a student would have a roommate or two. Maybe ten.
“Which one? I have something of his to return.”
After a moment, I had my answer, so I turned and limped back the way I’d come. I should have switched out of these white sandals before taking the case. The pearls on the straps were cute, but the exactly two-and-three-fourths-inch heels were driving me crazy. Scratch that. Next time I wear a wedding dress, I’m going with ballet slippers. Or flip-flops, as long as they have rhinestones to keep them fancy.
There was a black Toyota 4Runner parked on Baltimore, and I pretended not to notice as I clomped past, trying to walk smoothly on those stupid heels, subtly clocking the guy sitting deep in the shadows of his SUV. It was too dark to make out his features, or even the color of his hair. Only his white tee-shirt was faintly visible.
As far as I could tell, I’d been shadowed since the Tav, maybe
earlier, since I’d been too out of it to pay attention. Was it someone from the fake wedding this morning? Or one of my mom’s so-called friends? Even after fifteen years in the slammer, people show up a little too regularly, wanting something from her, and expecting I’ll be able to get it for them. Except I’m a barista. Officially, at least. The grifter gene skipped my generation. My half-sister was too sweet, my half-brother was too principled, and I was too much my father’s daughter to follow in her footsteps.
No one exited the car, and the street behind me was silent as I turned and walked up the driveway of a three-story building built around a small surface parking lot. The brewery was on the second floor, facing the bridge.
After climbing a flight of stairs, I was there. St. Johns Brewing took advantage of the bridge view by incorporating a rendering of it into their logo, which they’d splashed up everywhere, including the brewery tee-shirt of the guy behind the bar. I paused. Dark hair. Even good looks. Could this be the guy? Hopefully yes, ’cause the room was otherwise empty and I was tired of looking for Bax.
“Hey, there,” he said as I slid to a stop about a foot away from him at the bar. He eyed my dress and tilted his head to the side. “You meeting anyone here?”
“So, well, long story, but…” I pulled the sketchbook out of my bag. “A girl asked me to return this to you, and say she was sorry.” Actually Mila hadn’t said that, but it sounded better.
He jumped back from the bar, bumping into the counter behind him. A stack of glasses rattled. “Who are you?” His hand balled into a fist. Great. Just what I needed after a long, stupid day. I held up my hands. “Relax. I’m just doing a favor for a friend. Long story, but my sister met this girl, and she asked me to return the sketchbook on her behalf.”
“That sketchbook? The one I lost breaking up a mugging in the park blocks downtown? According to the news, the old guy I helped is still in a coma.”
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