Follow the Dotted Line

by Nancy Hersage

  “These are eye-boggling!” Andy trumpeted, as Lorna opened the second of the five digital files.

  “That’s not a word,” Lorna pointed out.

  “It is now,” Andy declared. Within moments, three of the five photos were spread across Lorna’s laptop screen, each one a photo of a different passport page. “You can read every one of the entry and exit stamps, even the ones that overlap.”

  The accountant was already fishing for papers in an accordion file folder lying on the table next to the computer. “Here are the obituaries for John Levin and Ernie Pacheco,” she said a minute later, “the two husbands who came before Gus-the-Greek. All we have to do is work backwards from these two dates and see if Tilda was out of the country just prior—and, if so, where.”

  Answers that seemed inaccessible days and weeks earlier were jumping off the page this morning.

  “The Bahamas!” uttered Lorna, excitedly examining the third photo. “She must have taken old Ernie to the Bahamas. And you can bet your keek-stane that’s where we’ll find his death certificate.”

  The fourth file was loading, and Andy was on it like a bloodhound. “Here we go! A stamp dated the month before John Levin’s obituary.”

  “From where?”

  “The Canary Islands,” said Andy, her eyes lighting like a digital billboard with the news. “She killed him in the Canary-friggin’-Islands.”

  So far they had accounted for three out of four husbands. Lorna turned her attention to the final and, presumably, latest passport page. The CPA sat up and restlessly arched her back, as the file began to cycle through the hardware and onto the screen. Andy tensed, too. The elephant in the room was up and dancing.

  Lorna reached over and gently placed her hand over Andy’s. “This should be Mark’s page,” she said. “Hang on.”

  The pixels assembled themselves top to bottom, as the passport watermarks methodically unspooled. The page looked just like the others, except it was completely devoid of stamps.

  “You’re sure you got all the pages with stamps?” Lorna asked, her fingers now slipping off Andy’s and curling in frustration.

  “I think so.”

  “You didn’t skip a page? Turn two over at once?”

  “I don’t know. It was dark. I was rushed. I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Lorna slumped back in her chair, looking equal parts puzzled and deflated.

  Andy wasn’t sure how to feel; she needed clarification. “Does this mean we’ve lost Mark?”

  “I think so.”

  “Oh,” said Andy, quickly losing her short-lived buoyancy. Then she had an idea. “Maybe it means he’s still alive.”

  Lorna wasn’t so optimistic. “It could. Or maybe we just don’t have his page, Andy. What it does mean is that we have to wait and see if Tilda tries to get title to the cabin. She’ll need a death certificate for that. Unless she shows up at the county recorder, we may never know what happened to him.”

  Andy felt sick. Disappointment and uncertainty were wearing her down. “I don’t understand any of this, Lorna. The whole frigging mess is more convoluted than the tax code.”

  All at once, Lorna smiled for no reason Andy could guess. “What? What did I say?”

  “You’re right, Andy. It’s very much like the tax code. In fact, I’m beginning to think that’s the point.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes! Tilda wants things to be complicated. Very complicated. It’s a crime of obfuscation. Exactly the type of thing people do when they try to cheat on their taxes.”

  “You mean, like hiding assets in a foreign country?”

  “Right. Only in this case, she’s hiding far more than assets.”

  “Jesus,” Andy said, with grudging admiration. “The witch hasn’t missed a single detail.”

  Another sphinx-like smile from the CPA. “Except one.”

  Andy turned to the woman who was, once again, light bulbs ahead of her. “Oh my god, Lorna. You’re an accountant. So you know how to do complicated, right?”

  “That’s right,” beamed Lorna. “She’s now on my territory. And we’re smarter than she is, Andrea. Much smarter.”

  “Maybe you. But at this stage of the game, I’m definitely bringing up the rear.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. We each have our gifts. The important thing to remember is that we don’t have to wait to find out what Tilda did with Mark because—”

  “Because we know she killed the other three!” Andy finished.

  “We think we know,” Lorna corrected. “Now we have to confirm what we believe. And then we have to prove it.”

  “Keep talking. I’m right behind you.”

  “We start by contacting authorities in the Bahamas and the Canary Islands to see if they have death certificates for Pacheo and Levin.”

  “And if they do?”

  “Then we contact the coroners in those countries and find out the cause of death.”

  “And if it’s drowning?”

  “Then we can make our case. Nobody’s going to turn us away with that kind of evidence.”

  Lorna was right. It was time go get back in the saddle and start following the paper trail. “Just tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it,” Andy pledged.

  “We start with another cup of coffee,” said the accountant, reaching for the pot, “and then I tell you how to work a bureaucracy.” With that, Lorna began her unedited account of precisely how she had retrieved the information about Gus’s death from the authorities in Fiji.

  “Whoa,” said Andy, when Lorna finished. “There’s a helluva lot you didn’t mention the first time you told this tale.”

  “Need to know. And you didn’t then. You do now.”

  “Did you really have to lie about being a relative?” Andy asked.

  “It just makes things easier. Are you telling me you can’t lie?”

  “No, I’m just surprised you can. Well done.”

  “Thank you. Any more questions, Andrea?”

  “Not really.”

  “Would you like your assignment now?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll take the Bahamas, and you take the Canary Islands,” Lorna instructed. “Tell them you want a copy of the death certificate, and see if you can get anything akin to a coroner’s report. Pay to have things expedited, and see if they’ll fax you the documents instead of posting them. If they give you a hard time, contact the nearest U.S. Consulate.”

  “What’s a consulate?” asked an urbane voice from the offstage hallway, as if it were illustrating the importance of being earnest. In unison, the two women turned to catch a momentary glimpse of a bare-chested Harley Davidson passing by the door, a towel clinging provocatively to his pelvis.

  “Ug-h-h-h-h!” rasped Andy. “He’s out of his cocoon again.”

  “And where do you suppose this latest metamorphosis is headed?”

  “God only knows, Lorna. We’re not on speaking terms.”

  On the drive back to Valencia, Andy noticed that her nephew not only looked different, he had an entirely different odor. The smell wafted through the interior of her car, and she was beginning to feel as if it were pissing on the upholstery.

  “What are you wearing?” she finally asked.

  “A new cologne,” he said.

  She couldn’t remember him wearing an old one.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “It was a gift from Melissa. It’s called Boner.”

  Andy’s fingers closed around the steering wheel and squeezed. Hard. “Really? Bless her heart. And where were you two off to last night?”

  “I’m not supposed to say.”

  “Harley, I like Melissa. I really do. But I don’t like all this secrecy.”

  Distracted by a tuft of under-gelled hair, he was examining himself in the passenger side mirror. “She says it’s for your own good, Aunt Andy.”

  The grip became a stranglehold. “I want you to remember this is Los Angeles, Harley. And Melissa is
, well, far more experienced in the ways of the world than you are.”

  “Um hum,” he said, rolling the errant strand of hair between his fingers.

  “I’m not all that sure you’re ready for the kinds of things she might want to introduce you to. You have a lot to learn yet.”

  “That’s exactly what she says,” Harley told her, smiling at his new, improved reflection.

  “Can you look at me, please?”

  He turned. “Sure, but aren’t your eyes supposed to be on the road?”

  This latest transformation might be secular and stylish, but it was as aggravating as the others.

  “Listen to me, okay? I don’t want you doing anything you’re not properly prepared for. It’s a dangerous city. People are going to offer you bad things. You need the right guidance. Do you understand?”

  “Yup.”

  “Do you?!” Andy scowled. Bad cologne and excessive hair product always made her bitter.

  “I get it, Aunt Andy. I do. That’s exactly why Mitch and Melissa asked me to move in with them.”

  She wasn’t sure she heard him. “They did what?”

  “Asked me to live with them.”

  She yanked the wheel and pulled the car to the shoulder of the interstate. She was shaking in her seat.

  “You’re not moving in with Mitch and Melissa!”

  “They’re saving my life, Aunt Andy. Don’t you understand that? I’m going to find myself. And besides, his house is a lot bigger than yours.”

  “Your mother would have a fit!”

  “Please, Aunt Andy! I need to be with my peeps.”

  “Your peeps?”

  “Mitch and Melissa.”

  “Absolutely not!” The prohibition came down like Maxwell’s silver hammer. “Mitch is not doing this to me! You are staying right where you are. Because you’re my problem, not his!”

  Even without fully grasping his aunt’s subtext, Harley knew it was time to shut up. He’d never seen her so mad.

  Andy rolled the car windows down to let the noxious odors drift out, as the auto exhaust drifted in. Neither of them spoke. Moments later, she merged back into the traffic and drove home.

  As the car rolled into the garage, Harley opened the door and leapt out, running for the solitude and sanctuary of his room. Andy remained in the driver’s seat, drained from another skirmish with Harley, which was starting to feel like a war with Mitch. Her cell rang, and she picked it up. The screen read ‘unknown.’

  “Hello?” she said.

  The call cut out. Relieved not to have to talk to anybody, she crawled out of the car and made her way into the kitchen. She’d shuttered the patio windows before yesterday’s trip to Big Bear and now crossed the dining room, desperate to let in some sun. The cell rang again. The same ‘unknown’ was on the line.

  “Hello?”

  This time there was a long moment of nothing before the line went dead. Not a bad connection this time. Someone hung up.

  She pushed open the sliding glass doors. She could feel that something was closing in on her. The responsibility of shepherding Harley through late adolescence? The onus of finding a man she’d barely talked to in twenty years? Or just the burden of being herself—whoever that was going to be—as an old person?

  Andy stepped outside into the perfection of a late-August afternoon in LA, that time of day when a cloudless sky meets a three o’clock breeze and it’s impossible not to feel happy. And she would have been happy, except for the four chairs around her patio table. Each one faced outward. It looked very odd. It felt worse. Like something was closing in.

  Instinctively, she turned around, stepped back into the house, and locked the door. She felt clammy. Claustrophobic. Both restive and ridiculous. She crossed the living room on the way to check the front door. ‘Unknown’ rang again.

  “Who is this?” she asked. The unused connection lingered for several seconds and then broke.

  Through the peephole in the large wooden door, Andy could see the sidewalk leading to her front steps and the small porch area just beyond the threshold. Perched on the top step, slightly to the right, was a small, dark, and very glossy object. Andy opened the door and picked it up. With her fingers, she followed the curve of the concave glass in her hand and knew exactly what it was.

  A keek-stane. Probably bought at some occult bookstore on Hollywood Boulevard and delivered, very personally, to her door.

  The phone rang again. This time Andy didn’t bother to answer. Tilda clearly had a way without words. She knew Andy’s number. She knew Andy’s address. And she wanted Andy to know she knew.

  “Harley!” Andy shouted, stashing Tilda’s warning into a drawer in the kitchen. “Harley!”

  When he didn’t respond, Andy charged up the stairs and pounded on his door.

  “Harley, are you in there?”

  A small crack appeared between the door and the frame. “What is it?” he asked dryly, like some bored teenager on the Family Channel.

  “I’ve decided you need a change. From here.”

  “Huh?”

  “I think you should move in with Mitch and Melissa.”

  The crack expanded tentatively.

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “When can I go?”

  “Now would be good, I guess. Okay? I would like you to leave now.”

  Air whooshed from behind him, as the door swung almost joyfully on its hinges.

  “You mean it, Aunt Andy?

  She could see a suitcase on the bed behind him. The little poser was already packing!

  “Yes, I do, Harley. Until further notice.”

  “I knew I could talk you into it,” he said, triumphantly. He began to close the door in her face and reconsidered. Awkwardly, he stretched out his underdeveloped arms and waited, as if he were only half-programmed for this particular social grace.

  Andy waited as long as she could for him to complete the gesture. When it became unbearable, she stepped into the hug, and he put his arms around her. “Thank you, Aunt Andy. I really mean it. Thank you.”

  He was gone within the hour, at which point, Andy immediately called her CPA.

  “I think Tilda may be onto us,” Andy began.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” asked Lorna.

  “She’s been at my house.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She rearranged my patio furniture.”

  “Very subtle.”

  “Shut up and listen. She keeps calling my cell and hanging up.”

  “How can you be sure it’s her?”

  “I just texted you a picture of what she left on my front step, Lorna. Look at it.”

  “Okay. I’m looking. What the hell is that?”

  “A keek-stane.”

  “You’re kidding. How do you know?”

  “I’m telling you, that is a keek-stane.”

  Such unimpeachable evidence of Tilda’s proximity called for a moment of silence. The two women brooded.

  “I think I should get a restraining order,” Andy finally said.

  “Good luck with that, Andrea. You’re talking about a legal system that uses assault and battery as a baseline. There’s no way that anonymously dumping witch paraphernalia on your front step is harassment.”

  “Thanks for those words of comfort. Do you think I should call the police?”

  “The question is, do I think they’ll care? And the answer is absolutely not.”

  “Goddamn it!” Andy erupted. “She’s wily like a—like a coyote. And now I feel like a freakin’ roadrunner. Do you think this means she’s decided to come after me?”

  “I doubt it. It’s more likely she’s trying to scare you off. Think about it. There’s no way she could know about what we’ve discovered. Right?”

  Andy thought about just that. “Okay, you’re right,” she conceded. “She can’t possibly know how much we know.”

  “And that brings us once again to the question of how much we really know
.” There was a tremor of excitement in Lorna’s statement.

  “You’ve found something more, haven’t you?”

  “I have.”

  “About the Bahamas?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how, exactly, is that possible?” Andy wondered aloud. “It’s still Sunday, as far as I can tell. And the government offices there don’t open until tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, ye of minimal imagination.”

  “That’s a particularly cruel thing to say to a writer, Lorna.” The thrill of the hunt made Andy sit up and press her ear to the receiver. “And yet, I am willing to be humbled. What did you do?”

  “Well, I was rooting around online, getting ready to call in the morning. I thought it might be interesting to check the newspapers to see if there were any articles about people who had drowned on or near the date of Tilda’s passport stamp.”

  “Very out of the box. And?”

  “And there it was. In the archives of the Nassau Guardian. A local news item from the weekday edition. Tourist Drowns Off Bowen Sound.”

  “Ernie Pacheco?” Andy shouted. “Did the story actually mention his name?”

  “Ernest Lyle Pacheco.”

  Andy was on her feet, pacing like a puma. “That’s two out of four, Lorna.”

  “She did it, Andy. She really did it.”

  The gun was smoking now. Even Andy could wrap her mathless mind around the remote odds that two men could drown on vacation with the same woman. Their theory had been a long shot, but it had been right. It was like learning they’d just won something very, very ugly.

  “I don’t know whether we should be jumping for joy, Lorna, or dry heaving in the bathroom,” she said.

  “We shouldn’t do either until you’ve called the Canary Islands. Time for you to do your homework, Andrea.”

  “I wasn’t as good a student as you, Lorna.”

  “That’s why you ended up in Hollywood, my friend. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure we footnote every little step Tilda Trivette took. And let’s get on this as quickly as possible. That woman’s dangerous, with or without a restraining order.”

  “You’re not making me feel any safer, Lorna.”

  “Good. The government offices you need are probably on Tenerife or Las Palmas. Get up early and call them.”