They were halfway to the Turret House when he realized he couldn't very well take her there with only a pair of jeans and a T-shirt to her name. Fortunately, they were just coming up on Arrow Shopping Center, the outlet mall in the middle of town that he always thought of as one of Dante's missing circles, and he asked Miranda if she had enough energy to spend an hour in hell with him.
When she looked at him, perplexed, he veered into the sprawling parking lot. She started to protest immediately, saying she didn't have any money, didn't want to burden him or waste his time, but he ignored her. She went on arguing. It was only when they'd parked, gotten out of the van, and were standing outside on the sidewalk that ringed the fifty or so stores that made up the mall that he finally offered a response.
"Look," he said, "you have to have some clothes and whatever else you need. Just pretend you flew in somewhere on vacation and they lost your luggage. It's no big deal."
"I can't—" she began.
"Yes," he said firmly, "you can. You can always pay me back later."
"Garrison—"
"Come on, there's a women's clothing store over there."
He took off for it, Miranda following in his wake, still protesting. Only a smattering of people loaded with shopping bags filled the sidewalks—a far cry from the last time he'd braved the mall, when he'd made the mistake of visiting during August back-to-school season and the hordes of people quickly helped him decide that he really didn't need more socks after all. The afternoon sun brightly illuminated the eastern half of the mall and left the western half in shadow. A cool breeze funneled along the sidewalk, skittering tags, receipts, and gum wrappers over otherwise pristine concrete. He smelled grilling hamburgers and baking pizza. They passed a child carrying an ice cream cone and he told Miranda if she was good he'd buy her one, too.
It took her a while to warm up to the idea of shopping, skimming through the racks with only mild interest, clucking about prices, but when he started picking things out himself, saying that if she didn't start choosing some clothes he would do it for her, she became much more focused. It wasn't long before she was loaded up with shirts, pants, shorts, and shoes, enough loot that they had to deposit the bags in the van before heading out again. She was a bit embarrassed about shopping for panties and bras, saying she could take care of that kind of thing later, but he handed her his credit card and told her to buy what she needed while he waited outside on the bench.
He watched people pass, his cane on his lap. A little boy asked him if he needed help. He thought about giving the kid a good rap on the head, but the mother was right behind him and he doubted she would approve. Instead he smiled and said, no, he was just holding the cane for someone else, and fortunately the mother ushered the kid along before he could ask any more questions. When Miranda came out, another bag in tow, she was crying.
"What is it?" he said.
"You're just being so nice," she said.
"Oh. I'll try not to make a habit of it."
"I don't know why you—why you think I deserve this."
"Why do you think you don't?"
"I don't know."
He stood, his balky knee giving him a bit of trouble, causing him to bobble forward just a step. Maybe he should have taken the kid's help after all. Miranda's tear-streaked face was right there, inches away, and before he could back away, she leaned forward and kissed him. It was just a quick peck, more chaste than passionate, but it was directly on the lips. Her eyes flew wide open in the middle of it and she leaned back suddenly, clutching the black shopping bag to her chest.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"It's all right," he said.
"I shouldn't have done that."
"It's no big deal. Really."
"I'm really sorry."
"Was I that bad of a kisser?" Gage asked.
"What?"
"If you say you're sorry one more time, I'm going to slap you. The stress of this place is getting to me and I need an excuse to hit someone. Come on, let's get some ice cream."
They dropped off her last bag and bought ice cream from the shop on the corner, him with a double scoop of peppermint on a big waffle cone and her with a child's size dollop of fudge chocolate in a paper bowl about the size of the tiny cups that fast food restaurants used for ketchup and other condiments. Still, with him chomping away at his and her nibbling tiny bites with her spoon, they finished about the same time. The tears were long gone and she was smiling and laughing at his jokes, none of which were very funny, almost all of which came at the expense of the various people strolling around on the sidewalks.
When they were finished and heading back to the van, they passed an art supply store when she stopped suddenly and gazed at an easel and paints on display. The sun had long since dipped behind the buildings, dusk settling into the mall, and the lights from the store cast a soft yellow glow on her face. She leaned closer, her breath fogging the glass. There was something different in her eyes, something less hesitant and fearful.
"Could we—could we look?" she asked.
"Sure. Do you remember something?"
"I don't ... I don't know."
Inside, she wandered through the narrow, brightly lit aisles with her eyes wide and her hands clasped tightly, as if afraid to touch anything. He caught a whiff of a sharp smell, sharp enough to make his nose prickle; it reminded him of gasoline, some kind of aerosol preservative, maybe.
The store bustled with activity, the clerks busy with customers, an excited chatter in the air. What was the best brush to use with acrylics? What kind of colored pencils worked well with watercolors? The conversations brought back memories of some of the parties Gage used to attend in New York with Janet, who'd spent her life working in museums and often surrounded herself with artists even though she'd insisted she didn't have an artistic bone in her body. She just liked the vibe, she used to say. And even though he never quite got comfortable with the pseudo-intellectual mumbo jumbo that seemed to be the primary mode of communication in that crowd, he'd also liked the vibe—the one coming from Janet.
Gage grabbed a shopping basket and tried to hand it to Miranda. "Knock yourself out," he said.
"Oh no," she said, "I couldn't."
"It might help you remember. You're obviously drawn to the place—sorry, bad pun."
She clenched her hands even tighter, too mesmerized by her surroundings to take note of his meager attempts at humor. She tentatively spun a color pinwheel, but otherwise refused to touch anything else. When she said she was ready to go, her eyes watery and bright, Gage shook his head and quickly filled his basket with a drawing pad, colored pencils, gummy erasers, some acrylic paints, and some brushes, all while she pleaded with him not to spend any more money on her.
"Be quiet," he said, "or I'll buy that easel over in the corner, too."
"But I don't even know if I'm an artist!"
"Guess you'll find out."
She was still arguing even when the clerk rang up the items, not even stopping when the transaction was complete and they were headed to the door. He tried to hand her the bag to go with her others, but she refused to take it, telling him he would just have to return it, this was one gift she wasn't going to accept. He told her that the more she protested, the more convinced he was that she needed to at least try these things.
They continued their animated conversation as they stepped outside, into a brisk wind that hit them full in the face. She glanced forward, then turned back to him, mouth open as if to make her next point, when her expression hardened, the flesh growing tight, the color bleaching out of her skin. She clutched his arm, her fingers digging through his jacket into his skin.
Gage peered ahead and saw a tall man dressed in a dark, navy blue suit approaching. Black sunglasses hid his eyes, and his open-collared blue shirt was buttoned low enough to reveal a silver chain. His black hair, slicked back with just a bit of a wave, contained enough gray to make him look distinguished but not old. He was lean, suave, and handsome,
the kind of square-jawed, broad-shouldered man that could have graced the covers of fashion magazines or movie posters.
He was the sort of man that Gage used to see strolling the streets of New York all the time but seldom, if ever, saw in Barnacle Bluffs. He passed without a word.
Miranda peered over her shoulder at him. Gage did too.
"Did you know him?" Gage asked.
"I thought ..." she began. "I don't know. Just something about him."
"He looked familiar?"
"Yes," she said.
The way she swallowed, he knew the man had looked more than familiar to her. He had looked terrifying.
Chapter 5
During the drive across town, Miranda hunkered down in her seat as if she expected mortar fire. She twisted her red hair tight around her finger and glanced repeatedly in the rearview mirror, but when Gage asked her what she expected to see back there, she said she didn't know.
He worried about this sudden change in her, the return of this fearful, timid creature that had thankfully retreated during their visit to the outlet mall, but he wasn't sure what he could do about it. Should he keep pressing, hoping that he could dislodge something loose from her memory? Or would pressing cause her to further unravel? By the time they arrived at the Turret House, though, most of the anxiousness had disappeared—and all of it vanished when they rounded the corner on the last street before the ocean and she gazed upon Alex and Eve's bed and breakfast for the first time.
"Wow, what a beautiful place," she gushed.
"Wait until you see the inside," Gage said.
It was at the end of the road, after dozens of similarly expensive houses, nestled against a grassy dune high enough that it hid the ocean just beyond their sight. The Turret House was the most impressive of the bunch, a three-story, castle-like affair with brown shake siding, a wraparound deck on the second and third floors, and the hexagonal turret atop it all, technically a fourth story even if it wasn't quite so. Gage had spent many wonderful evenings in that turret—Alex's study, well-stocked with books and booze—engaging in philosophical arguments that seemed extremely important until they descended the spiral staircase and forgot everything by the time they got to the bottom.
The wind, strong so close to the ocean, flattened the grass on the top of the dune. Sunlight glared on the turret's windows. He parked the Volkswagen in the gravel parking lot, surprised to find Alex's Toyota van parked next to Zoe's little white Corolla, Eve's Prius, and two other cars he didn't recognize. He would have expected Alex to still be at the bookstore. The other cars were probably guests, which was about right for midday on a Thursday.
Eve greeted them at the door, stepping onto the river rock pathway, her black silky hair rippling around her long neck and the high collar of her denim vest. The daffodils on her apron matched the daffodils in the clay pots that lined the path, the same yellow color to a T. That was so like Eve, so much a part of the Turret House, infusing every bit of the place with her personality and her Greek heritage. She smiled warmly at them as they approached, directing her gaze toward Miranda.
"Hello," she said. Few people could infuse one simple word with such warmth, but Eve was such a person. Gage had long since concluded that anyone who didn't like her was somehow defective. "I'm Eve Cortez, one of the owners. We're so glad you're staying with us, Miranda."
She extended a hand, her skin so richly brown she had the appearance of someone who spent a lot of time in the sun even though it was all natural. When Miranda took it, Eve placed her other hand over the top of both of them.
"I'm so sorry about everything that's happened to you," Eve said. "Anything you need, you let us know. You can stay as long as you like."
"Thank … thank you," Miranda said. "I actually don't know when I'll be able to pay—"
"Not another word about that. There won't be any charge."
"But—"
"No, no, come with me," Eve said, pulling Miranda into the house. "Garrison can get your things. Come, come, I'll show you to your room. Zoe was just changing the sheets on your bed. It's the best room in the house, second floor so it has a nice view of the ocean. We call it the Lavender Room. Do you like lavender? If not, we can put you in a different room."
"I—I love lavender," Miranda said, obviously struggling under the onslaught of kindness. He'd seen Eve's affect on people before and always marveled at it. Some people, when confronted with such pure, overwhelming compassion, even cried.
They disappeared into the house. Gage retrieved the bags from the van and followed them inside. He took the main stairs, the one with a beautiful polished oak banister, and met up with them in the Lavender Room. Zoe was just finishing making the bed and the three women were already chatting like old friends, Zoe and Eve debating about the best time of day to search for seashells on the beach. He smelled lavender mixed with the crisp ocean breeze, flitting in through the cracked-open window. The purple pillows and purple bedspread matched the purple drapes and purple walls; it was so much purple it shouldn't have worked but it somehow did, partly because the ocean that filled the window was so powerful that it required a powerful room decor to give it balance.
Not long after Gage deposited the bags, Alex also showed up—rumpled and wrinkled as always, a coffee stain on the collar of his pinstriped blue shirt. The room, which wasn't all that big to begin with, suddenly seemed a bit crowded.
"Ah, you're here," he said to Miranda. "You like the room? I'm Alex, Eve's assistant, by the way."
"Don't listen to my silly husband," Eve said.
"I didn't say the two were mutually exclusive," Alex said. "Husband, assistant, food tester—I have many roles."
"I love the room," Miranda gushed. "It's so, so … well, I can't think of the word. Wonderful, I guess."
"Wonderful will do," Alex said. "It was kind of a fixer-upper to begin with, but I think we've done well with it. I like fixer-uppers—you know, helping something get back to being whole again. Kind of gives my life purpose. You know what I mean?"
"Oh, yes," Miranda said.
The smug bastard glanced at Gage, an annoying twinkle in his eye. Gage would not give him the satisfaction of even the slightest reaction. Instead, he focused on Miranda.
"Anything else you need for now?" he asked her.
"Um ..." Miranda began.
"You can leave us be," Eve said, shooing him toward the door. "Go on now, you two. Escape to your little hidey place. Zoe and I will help Miranda settle in." She looked at Miranda, suddenly concerned. "That is what you decided to go by for now, isn't it? Miranda?"
"Yes," Miranda said.
"Good, good. Everyone needs something to call you, and I think it's a lovely name."
"Speaking of calling," Zoe said, opening the drawer in the nightstand. "That reminds me, I got you something, Garrison."
"Uh oh," Gage said, "I think I know what's coming."
Sure enough, Zoe had gotten him another cell phone, identical to the first. When she handed it to him, she told him he had to promise not to break this one. He examined the little piece of plastic. Somehow, it seemed even less substantial than the first one.
"What if I don't promise?" Gage said. "Will you take it back?"
"Promise," Zoe said.
"I'll do my best not to break it," Gage said.
Alex chuckled. "Anyone want to take bets on how long this one lasts?"
"I also got one for Miranda," Zoe said. "It's in the nightstand here. All of our numbers are already programmed into both phones."
Miranda also protested, but Zoe wouldn't hear of it. While Zoe showed Miranda how to use it, Gage and Alex left them and headed to the far end of the hall, the old hardwood creaking. He heard classical music playing softly behind one of the doors, a couple talking softly behind another. Only when they passed through the door that led to the metal staircase, the only one that led to the turret, did Gage release his pent-up irritation.
"Aren't you supposed to be at the store?"
"Clos
ed early," Alex said. "Nobody there."
"Your commitment to customer service never ceases to amaze me."
"Still smarting from that fixer-upper comment, huh?"
"She's not a fixer-upper."
"She's very nice. Pretty, too. It seems about time for a redhead, huh?"
"Alex—"
"Come on, let's go to the study. There is something I wanted to talk to you about, but not in front of Miranda. And half the stores in this town close on a whim. It's the coastal way!"
They ascended to the turret, footsteps echoing in the enclosed space, Gage's right knee throbbing. The stairwell smelled slightly dank, but once they passed through the top door, he was greeted by the intoxicating aroma of old leather books. The room was dark, the blinds drawn to protect the books lining the shelves between each of the windows in the little hexagonal room. Alex flicked on the beaded lamp on the end table between the two leather wing-backed chairs, then opened the blinds of the front three windows. When they settled into the chairs, the view was nothing short of sublime, a sweeping vista of bright blue ocean outside, while inside, they were surrounded by pleasant creature comforts and fine literature finely presented.
Gage wasn't sure he believed in heaven. If he did, however, he was pretty sure it would look something like this.
"Shot of bourbon?" Alex offered, gesturing to the liquor cabinet behind them.
"Too early," Gage said.
"You're probably right. I'll drink wine instead. Half a glass, even."
"That's very responsible of you. What's this about, Alex?"
Gage patiently waited while Alex opened a bottle of a California Chardonnay and poured himself a glass. It looked suspiciously like three-quarters of a glass, rather than half, but it was already down to half by the time Alex eased back into his chair.
"Had a few friends in the FBI do some checking on both Marcus and Omar Koura," Alex said.
A Shroud of Tattered Sails: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 4) Page 5