by Mollie Hunt
“What about the sanctuary volunteers?”
I thought for a moment but came up blank. My time at Cloverleaf had been short, and for most of it, I’d been immersed in the retreat, itself. “Wait a minute. This is a long shot, but I have the email addresses of the people in my group, Simon’s other art students.”
“You could reach out to them.”
“I seem to remember one lived in Idaho. Simon said he was visiting Idaho before he came to Portland. I could give it a try.”
“Can’t hurt,” Denny said. “Mean time, keep thinking. Make a list. Write it down.” He rose. “I’ve got to get back to Northwest Humane. We’re checking out a pet store at the coast that we’ve been getting complaints about. Nothing serious, but it’s important to investigate. Give them a wake-up call, at the very least.”
“Thanks for listening. It’s probably a dead end, but I’ll email the group. If nothing else, it will be nice to see how everyone’s doing.”
“Let me know if anything turns up.”
“Sure.”
He reached down and gave Missy a pet on the head. She hissed, then smoothed her sideburn against his hand in a show of affection. He looked at me and laughed. “Go figure.”
“That’s Missy for you. A girl of two minds.”
He straightened and looked me in the eyes. His cat-green gaze was somber. “Be careful, Lynley. It’s my opinion from knowing you as I do that you’re a magnet for trouble, and being stalked is nothing to joke about. I’m going to do a little investigation of my own and I’ll let you know if I find out anything useful. In the meantime, I want to be sure you’re still in one piece.”
“I’ll be careful, Special Agent Paris,” I said, using his formal appellation as I often did, both out of respect and because I liked the sound of it. “Call me?” I added, suddenly uncertain.
“I promise.” He turned and left out the Dutch doors, closing them quickly behind him so as not to let Missy dart out, though at the moment, she didn’t seem inclined to move let alone scamper. As I listened to his boot-steps recede into the distance, I felt that old foreboding shroud settle over me, and like a ghost, take up cold lodging in my soul.
Chapter 23
If you think you smell cat pee, you probably do.
After Denny left, I’d sat for a little while longer with Missy, but she retreated under the television again, a sure sign that the party was over. I returned her to her kennel and gave her my word I would be back soon. I suggested she be nice to potential adopters and maybe she could get out of here for good. She gave me a hiss and a little lick, telling me she was done for the day.
I was also done for the day. It was mid-afternoon and considering my lack of sleep, I was amazed I’d made it this long. Besides, I wanted to email the art retreat group and see what they had to say for themselves. Then a nap. Or maybe the other way around, depending on how I felt once I got home.
As I pulled up in front of my house, all sparkling in the flickering rays of fall sunlight, I had a flash of Simon breaking in again. I quelled it, reminding myself I had been careful to not leave any keys lying around this time. I had also called and changed my alarm code, though I was a little ashamed to admit it. It was like saying I didn’t trust Simon. But fact was, a small part of me didn’t, and a big, practical part of me said better safe than sorry.
The only people waiting inside my house were cats, Little in her place by the door and the others strung out in various states of afternoon repose. I thought that looked like the best idea I’d seen all day but decided to send the email first. Something fast and generic.
Trace Bellows; Sympathy Donnell; Mrs. Adrianna Fox; Nancy French; George Harrison; Crystal Holt; Jane Knot; Marissa Peabody-Jones; Nathan Shore. In alphabetical order as they came on the list. Everyone had given their email address except for George Harrison. I still wondered about him from time to time.
Two names stood out, names I would never forget: Marissa and Crystal. No email for those. I couldn’t help but wonder what happens to email addresses when the owner suddenly dies? Does someone delete them or does the mail just go into eternal electronic oblivion? If I sent a note to either of those people, would I get a message back saying this number no longer in service or would my message just be stored somewhere in internet infinity?
Booting up my computer, I typed: “Hello Cloverleaf friends. How have you been? We said we’d keep in touch, so here I am doing it. Hope all is well with everyone. Also wondering if any of you have heard from our exalted leader, Simon Bird, lately. He’s been traveling and maybe dropped in on some of you. Please let me know. I’m kind of looking for him. Meanwhile, take care, Best, Lynley Cannon.”
I read it over, fixed some typos, took out some words, added some others and called it good. I punched send—no going back now—flopped down on the couch, and pulling a hand-crocheted afghan over my feet, was asleep before the first ping signaled I had return mail.
* * *
When I got up from my nap, I already had three responses. Nancy French sent a link to her blog and told me she’d been accepted to the Rhode Island School of Design, but no, she had not heard from “Dr.” Bird. Jane Knott also replied, a short polite note saying she’d had no contact with anyone from Cloverleaf, but that she’d like to be kept in the loop. Nathan Shore wrote back that he was in Portland and would like to see me.
That last message was a total left turn. It made me nervous; I wasn’t sure why. After all, at the retreat Nathan had been nothing but kind and thoughtful, if maybe a little clingy at times. He’d brought me coffee and a cat when I was locked in the basement. How much more loyal could someone be? Still, I had to wonder what he was doing in my home town. It seemed a little too much of a coincidence: Simon was in Portland; the murderer was in Portland; now Nathan was in Portland, too. I couldn’t off the bat remember where he was from, but it was nowhere near the left coast. Also he hadn’t stated one way or the other whether he’d been in touch with Simon Bird.
Before I could give it any more thought, my doorbell rang. I hadn’t been expecting company but it wasn’t impossible that one of my friends might drop around. I may be sixty, but I still do have friends who are mobile and independent enough to come by on a whim.
I began for the door, checking myself in the hall mirror as I passed. A little rumpled and baggy under the eyes, but passable—no lipstick smears or hair spikes. I noticed I was still wearing my volunteer apron and shook it off as I pulled open the door.
“Mum?”
The little old lady with the wispy white hair and laughing eyes didn’t wait for an invitation but walked inside like she owned the place. “Hello, dear. Thought you might like some company tonight.”
“Well, uh, sure,” I stuttered. “You know you’re always welcome.” I looked around outside before closing the door, just in case there were any more surprises lurking on my threshold. “How did you get here?”
“I took a taxi,” Carol Mackey said as she shrugged off her big wool coat and laid it on the hall chair.
“Uh, really?”
“Yes. I know how to dial a cab, you know.”
“Of course, but... why? You could have called if you wanted to talk.”
I followed her into the living room, where she seated herself on the couch and began to rummage in her suitcase-sized bag. This was a new one, an Anne Fontaine that she had probably purchased on a shopping network for the bargain price of three hundred dollars or so. It was bright burnt orange with large leather flowers decorating one side. I had to admit I liked it—a lot—though never enough to fork over three hundred bucks plus shipping.
“Oh, no reason. I just thought you might like a little visit. We don’t spend enough time together. I’m so busy these days, I felt like I’d been neglecting you, that’s all.”
She dragged a pink paper bag out of her purse and put it on the table. “I brought cookies, your favorite from Cupcake City. Why don’t you go make us some tea and then we can watch a movie or somet
hing.”
“Did you bring one of those too?” I asked.
“A movie? No, don’t you have any?”
I looked at my meager stack of library rentals. “I think I’ve watched them all.”
“No problem. It’s Sunday so there should be a Rockford marathon on channel thirty-five. You like The Rockford Files, don’t you?”
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen one of James Garner’s 1970 detective series, but you gotta love ‘em. “Rockford sounds good. You find the station while I make the tea.” I tossed her the controls and headed for the kitchen. I knew my mother, and when she got in these moods, there was no changing her mind. Strange thing was, she usually picked the perfect time for her mother-daughter-tea-cookies-and-movie sessions. I don’t know how she knew, but she always showed up when I was discouraged, downcast, or depressed. In the present case, it was all three. A night of vintage detective mysteries was just what I needed. At some point we’d usually mute the sound and talk for a while about whatever was bothering me. She would say, “There there,” and suddenly I would feel better. Then we would go back to watching impossible plots and disasters that resolved themselves in forty-eight minutes. And the best part was, if I fell asleep, she would never wake me.
* * *
The trouble with the Rockford Files marathon was that the station that ran it also ran an equivalent amount of commercials. For the first hour or so, Carol and I sat in silence through the muted ads for adult diapers, medic-alert pendants, and lawyers specializing in prescription drugs gone wrong. Sometime into the second episode, I began to talk.
I had a lot on my mind, but the thing that burst through the other chaos was my ambivalence about seeing Nathan Shore.
“I just don’t understand what he’s doing here, Mum. He told me he was from out east somewhere. Chicago area, if I remember correctly.”
“People do travel, dear. And Portland isn’t the boon docks any more. We even have a famous national television show about our wonderful town.”
I wasn’t sure how famous IFC’s Portlandia was to people outside the area, but she was right—there was a plethora of reasons Nathan could have come besides to do mischief on me.
“Did he say why he was here?”
“No, just that he wanted to see me. It was short. Maybe that’s what’s got me wondering. His absence of the usual chit chat made it sound so serious.”
“Is there a reason you wouldn’t want to see this young man?”
It struck me that boy talk between senior citizens seemed a bit silly, but on the other hand, there’s nothing like a heart-to-heart with mum to make you feel fifteen again. And boys of any age can be an enigma.
“He was really nice to me at the retreat. We became, uh, friends. He said his mother had died recently and I think I sort of reminded him of her.”
“Well, there you have it. A young man—how old would you say Nathan is?”
“Oh, must still be in his twenties.”
“A young man in his twenties loses his mother and is grieving. He meets a sweet, smart older woman who’s found herself in a bit of a jam. He helps her and they bond. Then they part and don’t see each other for a few months. Maybe he gets through his grieving process and wants to see you for old times’ sake. Maybe he’s still in the process and could use a little assurance from a mentor. Strikes me that you’ll never know what he wants unless you get more information. Why don’t you email him back? Just a polite note: ‘Hi, good to hear from you, what’s up?’ Maybe even a subtle, ‘What brings you to my neck of the woods?’ See what he says. Then when he replies, you should be better able to gauge his intentions.”
I laughed. On the television, Jim Rockford was soundlessly chasing a man with a gun through the streets of Los Angeles, circa 1972. “So you’re saying I’m worrying over nothing.”
“I’m saying that you don’t have enough information to worry. See what he has to say for himself. If he responds that he’s here for nefarious purposes, you can worry then. But it sounds like you really haven’t any reason to assume the worst. Unless being nice to you is a crime.”
Back to commercial now, a man was trying his best to sell us a miracle cleaner. The advertiser had caught on to the mute button, and everything the announcer said was streamed across the screen in big, bold, unavoidable letters.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Mum knew me too well. But this time I wasn’t going to alarm her with half-baked tales of murder, mayhem, and stalkers in the night. “No, just worn-out, I guess. I don’t think well when I’m sleep-deprived.” This was true, I’m a basket case unless I’ve had sufficient rest. I ignored the fact that I’d just awakened from a three-hour nap.
“Okay, sweetheart. But you know you can tell me anything.”
“I know. And you’re absolutely right about getting more information about Nathan’s visit. Think I’ll go do that right now. Be right back?” I added as I rose.
“You just go ahead, dear. Jim and I will be just fine.” She winked at me and switched the sound back on. I left her to the thunder of gunfire and the scream of police sirens.
* * *
I had recently moved my computer from an upstairs catch-all room to a downstairs catch-all room off the kitchen. My old house had seven rooms besides kitchen, living, dining, and front hall, and since I lived alone except for the cats, I could make them into anything I desired. I had a storage room with floor-to-ceiling shelves for the antiques and collectibles I used to and someday may sell again; a spare bedroom-slash-workroom with a drafting table and all my art supplies; an office where I did my bills; another storage room with a cat kennel and accouterments for foster cats from the shelter; and of course my own bedroom, way in the top back of the house. There is also an attic and a basement, but we won’t talk about those.
I sat down in my leopard plush office chair and wiggled the mouse. The screen went from black to a scene of my cats in a big pile on their windowsill bed. I clicked up my email, noting that I had some new ones. Single-minded, I passed over them and went straight to Nathan’s note.
“I’m in Portland. Like to see you. Let me know where we can meet. Nathan.”
No “Hi, Lynley, how’s it hangin’?” No “Good to hear from you, what pleasant surprise.” Just “Here I am and let’s get together.” Still, there was nothing inherently suspicious about it. I took a deep breath and hit reply.
Following my mother’s advice, I didn’t even address the request to meet. I asked him what he was up to and told him a little generic info about what I’d been doing of late. Punching send, I figured any response would give me a clue to the young man’s motives.
Then I began reading my other mail. There were the usual announcements from the shelter and Facebook friends; notices of sales for things I both wanted and didn’t want; an invitation to a homeless pets conference in Dallas. There were also two more messages from the Cloverleaf group—Trace Bellows and Sympathy Donnell, leaving only Mrs. Fox in absentia. Maybe the Fox didn’t email; maybe she still hated me.
Trace had cut through the banalities and answered my question about hearing from Simon, but it was a negative. That, and a haiku with a drawing of the Buddha—likely his own work, was all he sent. Sympathy was more talkative, telling me about a new job and some pottery classes she was taking, but again no word on Simon. I still didn’t know which one lived in Idaho.
I could hear the dramatic music, the crashing and smashing on the TV. Jim Rockford would have many miles to go before he was done. I rejoined my mother after making a detour to the kitchen to grab two glasses of milk and some shortbread cookies since we’d eaten all the ones Carol had brought. The rest of the evening was peacefully spent consuming calories and vintage senseless violence of someone else’s making.
Chapter 24
When a cat hisses, he’s trying to tell you something. It’s important to discern whether he is being defensive, aggressive, or frightened. A defensive or aggressive cat ma
y attack; a frightened cat, unless cornered, would prefer to run away.
The next morning, I was six out of six. No more from Nathan Shore but Mrs. Fox had replied. I was actually surprised and amazed at the one hundred percent response, and reset my natural bent toward cynicism back a few notches.
The Fox had been extremely chatty in her email, telling me all about people I didn’t know, places I’d never been, and things I would rather not be bothered with. Not that she was rude or strange; it was all very polite, but Fox had an arrogance that rankled. Still, the fact that she had chosen to share with me must have meant something.
I got to the end of the sixth twenty-seven-line paragraph and paused. Here was what I was looking for—news of Simon. And not just a little bit either. Fox seemed to have his life story from the time we left the island on through the recent weeks. She knew he had gone on extended sabbatical, knew he had traveled, knew he was in Portland, though how she didn’t say. I skipped to the last sentence and my heart fell. Bottom line, in spite of the history, she had no more knowledge than I did about what he might be up to now.
She did leave a phone number and asked that I call her later in the day. She didn’t say why—maybe she was expecting a development. Again I wondered where she had got her information, but some people are just a gossip magnet. Maybe she and Simon’s assistant, Tulsa, were friends. I found her note as frustrating as it had been enlightening and briefly considered deleting it, but that wouldn’t help anything in the long run and I might want to refer back at a later date. If she really did have some private insight into Simon’s activities, I would do better to swallow my pride and keep in touch. I jotted the phone number on a Felix the Cat note pad, ripped off the page, and went to put it in my purse. I was heading to the shelter for my shift at eleven and would try calling at my lunch time, around three. I did a quick scroll down my Facebook page, taking in multiple photos of travel, funny sayings, and a mega-abundance of cute cats, then clicked out of all programs and went to rustle up something to eat besides cookies.