Black Cat Blues

by Jo-Ann Carson

  On her last trip to the head, she found she could barely walk. It had been quite a night. She ran a hand through her hair.

  The sharp smell of toast burning made her move.

  Shit! She couldn’t have the fire alarm start. The whole dock would be in her living room in. . .

  The alarm went off with a shrill and deafening noise that would raise the dead.

  “Shit.” She jumped out of bed and pulled on her silk housecoat. “Logan, pull the battery out.” She slid down the ladder. He was trying to dismantle the alarm, but it wouldn’t open. Just her luck. Hell, everyone would come to her aid.

  Fires on the dock pose a great danger because there’s so much gas around. So when a fire happens everyone runs to help. And everyone was hyper-vigilant right now because of their problem with the Rat. Shit. Shit. Double shit. The whole dock would be at her doorstep in seconds. And yes everyone, including Hunter, would know how she spent her time during the storm. Sweet baby Jesus.

  Logan gave the alarm a good yank and it came crashing to the floor, just as the pounding started on the door.

  Hunter burst into the room with Elena running up behind him barefoot. Others were heading in. Shit shit shit. So much for a private affair.

  Hunter’s steely-blue eyes gave her a look that could fry a fish, and then gave Logan one of raw anger. He threw his arms in the air. “What the hell, Maggy?”

  She shrugged. What else could she do? The others were arriving fast. They looked at the two of them and their burnt toast that now sat in the sink doused in water.

  A few laughed; most just nodded their heads, gave her a side-grin and left.

  That took ten minutes. Her whole world knew about her and Logan now. All because of a piece of toast. Damn it.

  She had bad luck when it came to men. The look Hunter gave her sat at the base of her spine heavy and uncomfortable. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she had. This would complicate their relationship further. “Hunter.”

  He looked at her with those eyes, so blue they looked like you could dive into them and he shook his head. “Don’t say anything.” Then he left.

  “Coffee?” offered Logan when the last person left. He smiled weakly as he pulled his pants on. Yeah, all the neighbors had a good look at her new lover’s impressive apparatus, as well. Lord, love a duck.

  Maggy started laughing, even though her heart ached. “I think I earned it.” She ran a hand through her hair.

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Logan, this is crazy. We aren’t meant to be together. I think the god of toast has sent us a message.” She smiled. “We’re complete opposites. You’re all neat, tidy and organized. And I’m. . .”

  “Wild. I love it. And you can’t deny the sex is great.”

  “But life is about more than that.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  40

  The only truth is music. Jack Kerouac

  It was a good thing Maggy didn’t judge a man by the way he made toast. Logan’s second attempt wasn’t much better than his first, but the alarm was no longer functioning so they ate blackened toast without the neighbors. Silence infected their space like worms at a picnic slithering into forbidden places.

  “I’m sorry,” Logan said, breaking the storm of quiet. “I suck at toast.”

  “Really,” Maggy said, lifting her eyebrows.

  His eyes widened.

  “You really think this is about toast?” she asked.

  “Is this one of those man-woman moments I don’t get? I’m a logical man Maggy. Just talk to me; help me understand.”

  Sitting back crunching on her crust she rolled her eyes. “It’s not rocket science, Logan. Last night was wonderful. But the timing sucks. Add to that I like my privacy and in the last fifteen minutes our relationship was telegraphed through my whole community. Almost everyone I care about is chatting about who I’m fucking.” She watched his eyes for a response to her words but he looked catatonic.

  “Talk about being naked,” she continued. “I feel exposed in more ways than one. I don’t know yet how I feel about us. Sex is one thing, but there’s more going on here and it’s all going too fast for me. I don’t want to be burned again.”

  “You’re not toast.” His eyes twinkled.

  She glared at him.

  “I wasn’t trying to be flippant. My point is that you’re a beautiful woman. What happened last night was great. . .”

  She raised her brows. Great? It was mind blowing sex fuelled by an animal chemistry that couldn’t be denied.

  “I can’t believe that it was only for one night. Give us a chance.”

  Could she open her heart up to him? Love and be loved? That would take time and a whole lot of trust. She crunched into her toast. Besides, she had vowed to herself that she wouldn’t get involved with anyone right after Adriano. “Logan, you have to look at the big picture.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about the Black Cat.”

  She raised her brow. When the hell did he have time to do that? “And?” she asked.

  “I don’t know the music world, but I know business. I figure you and your friend Joe can manage the music side and I can handle the books and stuff. The third guy, whoever he is, seems to want to be silent, so he can stay that way.” His chocolate-brown eyes gleamed. Did he really believe that running the Black Cat could be as easy as choosing a play list?

  Maggy looked at her fingernails. Like the rest of her life, they needed work. “I don’t know, Logan. Lovers don’t make good business partners.”

  He tilted his head and looked down at her. “Why not?”

  “’Cause I don’t think. . .” She paused. How could she tell him what she was really thinking without hurting him? “I don’t think we can be as. . .” she searched for the word.

  “Honest with each other?”

  That would do. She nodded.

  Logan ran a hand through her bed-tangled hair. “I’d like to think we’d be more honest.”

  Oh how she wanted to believe that one. “I’d hope so too, Logan, but. . .”

  “But that’s not your experience.” He pulled her back into his arms. Her body quivered in his embrace. It felt like she’d never left, their bodies entwined so damn perfectly.

  “Hell, Logan.”

  He kissed her gently on the lips, but with a yearning that transmitted his intent right through her body.

  “Seriously, Logan.”

  He licked her long, swan neck, his breath tickling her skin.

  “Logan.”

  “We can do it, Maggy. I know we can do it.”

  They stopped talking. He picked her up and laid her gently onto the sun-streaked sofa.

  It would be a sweet dream to not only sing at the Black Cat, but to run it. She didn’t have the contacts—not yet—anyway, but she could make them she wanted to make them. It was like a dream come true—except for the gruesome fact that it had come on the back of three murders. And all that blood. She pushed Logan away. “I can’t.”

  “What the hell?” He panted, lifting his head from her breast.

  “I know we have something. . .”

  “Something?”

  “Something sexy. But I haven’t had time to get over losing Clarence, and you haven’t buried your brother. The ink probably hasn’t dried on your divorce papers. The timing is so wrong. If we do have something real, something that’s meant to last, it can wait. And the fate of the Black Cat has to be separate from that.”

  “Wait?” His eyes were large, ringed with incredulity. “Wait?”

  “There’s too much in my head, not to mention my heart. I need time.”

  He rolled over onto the floor with a loud grunt.

  “Where do you suppose the diary is?” she asked.

  Logan threw a pillow at the wall and growled again. It was amazing how much feeling the man could convey with a pillow.

  41

  The only escape from the miseries of life are music and cats . .. Albert Schweitzer


  Gilbert Harrison’s calico cat, Sly, stretched on his lap, purring louder with each stroke of his hand. Most days, the warmth of the feline’s body comforted Gilbert, but not today. He picked her up and dropped her to the floor. Her paws thudded when she landed. She rotated her head to give him a narrowed cat-eyed glare. Meowing her annoyance with a vengeance, she raised her tail straight into the air and strutted to the other side of the cabin.

  “Fuck you, too,” Gilbert said.

  He picked up his vibrating cell phone. It was his mother. Could the day get any worse?

  “Where the hell are you?” Her scratchy voice bit into him like rancid acid.

  “Taking some time off, Ma,” he said.

  “Time off? In my day no one took time off. Son, aren’t there some fish to catch?”

  He looked at the ceiling of his boat cabin. You’re such afucking fool. You shouldn’t have answered her call.

  His mother knew the answer to her question about fish, so why did she always need to ask it? “Ma, there’s no opening right now. I’m seeing some guys in Vancouver about a job I can fit in between fishing.”

  “Well,” she started, and then her voice broke into a smoker’s cough. “That sounds good.”

  So why didn’t she believe him? He could tell by her voice that she didn’t. Guess he’d given her this line too many times. Still, why couldn’t she give him the fucking benefit of the doubt like other mothers? “Ma.”

  “I’ve got a pile of bills that need to be paid, Gilbert. I’m countin’ on you.”

  “I’ll be home soon.” As soon as he found the gold, that is. But he wouldn’t tell her that. He’d never tell her that. She might wonder why he stopped fishing and all the bills were paid on time, but he figured he’d say he won a small lottery. Everyone dreamed of that and believed it could happen.

  She clicked off without a goodbye and he poured himself a cup of strong Orange Pekoe tea. There had to be some way he could get to Maggy Malone. She knew something. He was sure of it. The way she leaned into Jimmy Daniel’s body at the end.

  “Hey, Gilbert.” He recognized the woman’s voice. Smokey, the café owner who was a Canuck’s fan. She knocked again.

  Opening the door wide, he motioned her to come in giving her his widest smile. She liked him. He always knew when a woman liked him. He could see it their eyes. Wait. An epiphany hit. She could be his way to get close to the target. His smile grew wider.

  “Smokey, great to see you. You’re looking good this morning.”

  “Good, eh?” she scoffed. But a blush rose in her age spotted skin. “It’s our turn to patrol the docks.”

  “You sure about that? I got a hot pot of tea. I’d love to see you sit back on my boat, while I serve you a cup.”

  The muscles in her face relaxed for a moment, as if he’d just offered her a trip to a summer cottage, then her jaw tightened. “Thanks, but we got work to do.”

  Grabbing his jacket, he nodded. Domineering bitch. There’s more than one way to skin a cat. He’d have to get her to talk while they walked.

  Sly gave him an evil cat eye from his perch on top of the bed.

  Sorry, Sly. Gilbert broke out in laughter—wild and unbridled.

  Smokey’s brows rose.

  He leaned forward and kissed her hard on the lips, grabbing her fat ass with his hands and pulling her into him.

  She dropped her clipboard.

  42

  Music is … A higher revelation than all Wisdom & Philosophy. Ludwig van Beethoven

  Peterson looked at the thirteen, neatly packed boxes of stuff Rita had left behind when she went to the pearly gates. A young constable he called Dudley, had stacked them into neat piles in the corner of his office. His real name was Colton Conners, but no one called him that unless they had to. Dudley fit better. He stared at the boxes as if they contained the Holy Grail and then looked at his boss.

  “Sir, I didn’t find the journal you’re looking for.”

  Peterson expected that. Solving murders never got easier. And Maggie Malone’s link to Brother XII smelled of shit. “What did you find?”

  Dudley coughed. “Well,” he said, “stuff, lots and lots of stuff. I cataloged it all here.” He handed him a stack of papers neatly typed and stapled. “I created a database on Excel.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “For example here,” continued the young man, “in what I call box 1, there’s a pair of thirty-year-old oven mitts with stripes on them, a small box with valuable ruby earrings, two envelopes filled with faded photographs and a shoe box full of photographic negatives of people.”

  Peterson cocked an eyebrow.

  “But I’ve also sorted the items under categories: jewelry, mementos, and photos.”

  Dudley handed him his notes and Peterson scanned them. Very thorough. There were exactly 551 negatives. An impressive digital catalogue, but he knew from experience such detail didn’t always catch the bad guys.

  “Each box holds momentoes, some valuable, some not,” the young constable added in a serious tone that would have fit well at a Christie’s auction. “Items the old woman treasured.”

  “The journals?” He flipped through the pages skimming for the word.

  “No, sir. At least not the journal you’re looking for. I found a journal of her married life which talked about baking pies and raising her sons, and a journal from her young childhood which talked about her doll collection. No journal mentioned her life with Brother XII.”

  “Interesting,” the inspector mused. Dudley must have spent hours reading through the woman’s notes about her domestic life. Thorough. He could get used to having him around. He grimaced. On the other hand, the guy’s OCD crap would drive me nuts.

  “Sir?”

  “A woman who’s in the habit of writing about her life, doesn’t stop and pick it up again. Especially in those days. I bet Rita wrote diaries her whole life. The question is, where is the journal with Brother XII in it?”

  A jingle played on his desk computer indicating a Skype message. Peterson pushed buttons and his receptionist’s face appeared on the screen, a big, gruff guy who drove a restored classic 1973 silver Thunderbird.

  “Sir, Mr. John is ready to talk to you. He’s anchored off Vancouver Island, near Ladysmith.”

  Finally. He’d been trying to reach the Decourcy fisherman for hours, leaving messages all over his islands to get his attention. He’d even tried hailing him on the marine radio. His pulse quickened as the video feed brought him a picture of a middle aged man with warm brown eyes and chubby cheeks. He wore a gray, wool sweater and a navy-blue toque.

  “Hello. I’m Inspector Peterson.”

  “Heard you were looking for me,” the man answered. His slow cadence had a melodic tone. He had the distinct accent of coastal First Nations people.

  “Mr. John. I’m looking for the man that Edgar Whitley hired a little while back.”

  The fisherman broke into a rumbling laughter that sounded like waves rolling on shore. “That would be me. He was looking for Brother XII, ya know.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  The man laughed again. Had to like that laugh, genuine and deep. “Well, not really anyone’s brother. Ya know, that cult guy took everyone’s money and ran.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  “Edgar wanted me to look for an area where the con man might have buried the treasure.” He pushed up his hat. “It’s not the first time I’ve had someone ask me where the gold might be hidden.”

  “Did you look?”

  “Oh yeah. He was paying me well enough. I looked.”

  “And?”

  “The coast is large and varied.” John leaned back in his chair. “I didn’t find a place that fit his description perfectly, but I found three that were close. I let him know.”

  “And?”

  “That was it. But he seemed spooked the last time I talked to him. Like he was scared of me or something.”

  “Mr. John, we have it on
record that he said you threatened him.”

  “Me? Why would I do that?”

  “Gold?” Peterson said.

  “Nah. That gold legend’s a pile of shit. I’ll go looking for a rainbow if someone’s gonna pay me to do it, but Brother XII’s gold is not out there. My people have lived in these parts since long before Brother XII. We know what goes on and I can tell you there’s no gold left here.” He snickered. “But it hasn’t stopped people from lookin’.”

  Peterson tapped his pen on his desk. “Gold pulls all sorts of people out from under the rocks.”

  John nodded. “You know the story, eh? One guy who thought he’d found the treasure. He got to the bottom of one of Brother XII’s burial sites and found a message from the brother: ‘For fools and traitors—Nothing.’” John broke into his hearty laughter again. “The cult-guy got away with the gold, I tell ya, and he laughed at everyone he left behind.”

  Pain nudged between Peterson’s eyes. “So you didn’t follow Jimmy Daniels?”

  “Nah. Edgar told me he thought that guy was close, but I didn’t care. I don’t’ believe any of the shit. I was just working for a few extra bucks. Nothing against the law in that.” The softness in his eyes hardened. “I’m not your man, Inspector.”

  Peterson massaged his temple. The room fell silent for a minute.

  “Mr. John, did you happen to mention your business with Edgar Whitley to anyone?”

  “Oh yeah, lots. We have a good time laughing at the bar about the gold diggers. There’s a new sucker every season—no end to the line-up of fools hunting for the almighty dollar. They hear the story and they gotta look for themselves.”

  Peterson smiled. Maybe there was a lead here after all. “Could you name the people you told?”

  Mr. John’s laughter rolled through cyber-space and echoed into his office. “’Bout, half the country.” He leaned forward with a big smile on his chubby face. “No way could I give you all their names.”

  “And I bet they all have marlin spikes.”

  The old fisherman narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, of course.”

  “Thank you, Mr. John. Constable Conners will take your complete statement. If it’s thorough enough, I probably won’t have to bother you again.”