by Mollie Hunt
There was a lull in the conversation. I was so drowsy I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep it up, but I didn’t want Denny to leave just yet. Besides, even through the fuzz that was my brain, questions loomed. Questions too big to be ignored.
“Who do you think did it, Denny? Put the bomb in my car?”
Denny considered for a minute, then sighed. “I don’t know, Lynley. There’s no way to guess at this point.”
“I told the police everything I could think of, about the murders on the island and Simon’s warning that I was being stalked. I think they thought I was a bit off my game though.”
“Crazy cat lady?” Denny grinned.
“A little. But they wrote it all down and can verify at least the part that’s on record.”
“But those murders were committed with an overdose of drugs. This was a car bomb. Doubtful it’s the same guy.”
I shrugged and eased my aching body into a more comfortable—or at least a less painful—position. It was about time for one of those big pink pills again, but I knew the next one would put me out for the night and I needed to hold off just a little longer.
“Maybe the killer is branching out his technique. Either that, or I’ve got a pair of psychos after me, and I think that’s too much of a coincidence.”
“To say nothing of being a supreme pain in the butt.”
I laughed and nodded, but the mirth didn’t last. “Denny, I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.”
The humane officer reached out and took my hand which felt cold and lifeless in his large, warm ones. “We can’t answer these questions tonight,” he said plainly. “But remember, you have friends who will go the distance for you. You know that, right?”
I nodded again.
“So the best thing you can do, though I know it’s really tough under the circumstances, is to get some sleep so when you are called upon for action, you’ll be refreshed and ready.”
“Logical to the end, Special Agent. But you’re right. I can barely remember my own name right now, let alone solve a mystery. It’s scary though.”
“I know. And that’s why I’m going to sleep on your couch for the night.”
“Oh, Denny,” I demurred. “You don’t have to do that.”
“You think people will talk?” he joked.
“I would hope so,” I shot back with a giggle and a blush I didn’t know I was still capable of. “But I’m a big girl.”
“Of course you are. But I’m going to do it anyway. It’s nearly morning anyhow. By the time I clean the litter boxes and give your guys a late night snack, I’ll be too wasted to go all the way home.”
“Oh, the litter boxes. I hadn’t thought of that.” For a moment, I felt utterly miserable. Even the tiniest chore would be made difficult by the loss of my hand. Then I thought how much worse it would be if I had indeed lost the hand and felt like a weenie for complaining over a little sprain that would heal soon if I took care of it properly. I thought about cats, how stoic they were after losing a limb. A tripod kitty could do just about everything a four-legged cat could do—I’d seen it with my own eyes. And cats never felt sorry for themselves.
“Thank you,” I gave in. “For everything.”
Under my instruction, Denny went about the business of caring for cats. I offered him the spare bedroom if he insisted on spending the night, which I reiterated wasn’t necessary He ignored me like the superhero he was, and asked if he needed to walk me upstairs to my bedroom. I declined, reasonably sure I could put myself to bed since it required no right-handed dexterity or heavy lifting. I pulled myself upstairs and after a comedy act of brushing my teeth and performing other nocturnal chores, fell into bed. I allowed myself one of the prescription painkillers and turned out the light as a clowder of concerned cats fell upon me. While they jostled for position and final pets for the night, I lay staring up at the tiny green light on the fire alarm. It was amazing how much I could see with that one minuscule glimmer. The room looked different in shadow-glow. The dresser loomed hugely; the bed floated like a boat, cat shadows moving, cat eyes reflecting icy emerald. Then my eyes drifted closed. I could still see the boat, my cats and I sailing the seas of dream.
* * *
The first moments of wakening are the worst. All the panic washes across my unguarded consciousness threatening to drown me. I couldn’t let that happen. I sat up fast, remembering too late that every bone in my body hurt, every muscle ached, and my wrist was bound in a compression bandage. I sank back down until the pounding in my head subsided to a dull hammering, then tried again, slowly this time. Getting out of bed, feeling old as the hills, I went to the bathroom and filled the sink with cold water. In a technique taught me by my therapist, I dunked my head, letting it rest as long as I could stand it, then pulled out my dripping mop and wrapped it in a towel. I was wet and cold but no longer on the edge of an anxiety attack.
I heard movement downstairs, the clattering of cups, the whistle of a kettle. Denny, I thought to myself. At least he didn’t run out in the night like Simon had. I knew I should go down and be sociable, but it could wait a few more minutes. I needed to get my thoughts straight before I did anything else.
I sank into the big easy chair I had installed in my bedroom a la Better Homes and Gardens, and stared out the window. It was a cold, crisp autumn day, red leaves frolicking on a gypsy wind, the whole bit. Frost on the pumpkin and crows in the bare branches of the trees. The sun sparked down like the mother of all prisms, glimmering in mirror shards off the leftover rain.
No matter how I tried, I couldn’t understand what had happened to me. Someone had put a bomb in my car. Who? How? Why?
Adrianna said she had seen a man. Simon? Or the murder who was killing off Simon’s loved ones? Were they one in the same? I still couldn’t believe that Simon was a killer, though I noted that somewhere along the line my resolve at my friend’s innocence had begun to waver just the slightest bit.
Adrianna, herself, was somewhat of an enigma. I had wondered at Nathan Shore’s presence in my home town, yet accepted Adrianna’s without question. I suppose I would have gotten around to questions if my car hadn’t exploded and sent me to the hospital. I certainly was thinking about it now.
Simon, Nathan, and Adrianna, all drawn to Stumptown at the same time. Coincidence? So they claimed. Simon was here to check on me after hearing a rumor that I was in trouble, though as far as checking went, I hadn’t seen much of the man, and what I had seen was more disturbing than helpful. Adrianna was caring for a sick friend, a very Fox-like thing to do, so that made sense too. Nathan was the wildcard. I knew nothing about his motives, and since I hadn’t checked my email when I got home from the hospital, I didn’t know if he’d replied to my reply or not.
I stared at my cell phone which lay inertly on my night table across the room, considered the energy it would take to rise, walk the few steps from here to there, and call up my email. Just thinking about it hurt but I needed to know. Without too much agony, I made it to the bed where I sat, grasping the little device in my hands.
Swinging my legs up and making myself as comfortable as possible, I retrieved my messages. I scrolled through the trivia and found what I was looking for: Nathan Shore. Uneasily I punched it up and read.
“Dear Lynley, It was great to hear from you. Sorry my previous email was so short and sweet. I was on the bus and had just reached my stop—still learning my way around your city—but I was so excited to hear from you I wanted to contact you immediately.
“Funny you should ask about Simon Bird. He is the reason I’m here. He called me a few days ago and asked me to meet him in Portland. He said he’d send me a ticket, which he did. We even set a time and place to get together but he didn’t show. I haven’t been able to contact him at all. Not sure what to do now, but I guess I’ll hang out a while longer, see the sights. I’m staying at the Residence Inn Lloyd Center. (Simon paid for that too, for a week!) How about meeting up for lunch or drinks if
you’re not too busy? This is weird, the deal with Simon, but I’m sure we’ll connect eventually. It’ll be great to catch up.
“Your friend, Nathan.”
He gave his phone number, an unfamiliar area code. Checking when the note was sent, I saw it was yesterday, just about the time I was getting almost blown to smithereens. This email gave off none of the odd vibes I’d got from the previous one, and suddenly I wondered why I had been so paranoid.
Before I could figure it out, the riff of electronic bell tones went off in my hand. I jumped even though the ringer was set to low. I looked at the number, didn’t recognize it, thought about ignoring it, at least until the adrenaline buzz receded from my system, then like a good girl punched the icon and said, “Hello?”
There was a short pause on the other end, then, “Lynley, this is Simon. I need to see you. Now.”
“Simon! I’ve been trying to find you. Where are you?”
“That doesn’t matter. I don’t have much time. Just listen.”
“Wait, Simon,” I began but he cut me off.
“Lynley, this is important. Meet me at—you have a pen?”
I rummaged in the drawer of the night stand, came up with a pencil and a scrap of yellow paper. “Yes.”
“It’s 2445 S.E. Rainier. Can you find it?”
“I guess, but...”
“Come as soon as you can.”
This time it was my turn to interrupt. “Wait a minute, Simon. I got in an accident yesterday. Someone blew up my car, if you must know. I’m sort of a mess. I can’t drive and have no plans to do anything more strenuous than watch television and pet the cats. It’s doctor’s orders.”
“Oh, Lynley. I’m so sorry. But that’s even more reason. You have to come! I can’t tell you how imperative this is. Take a taxi. I’ll pay you back when I see you. When do you think you can be here?”
I got that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Truth was, I was beginning to succumb to his panic.
I looked at the clock. It was nine-thirty. “Maybe ten-forty-five?”
“Make it ten-fifteen.”
“I don’t know if I can. Denny’s here.”
“Who’s Denny?”
“Special Agent Paris, humane investigator. You met him, I think, after my birthday party. He brought me home from the hospital and stayed the night.”
“Get rid of him. Don’t tell him anything about this.”
“Oh, come on. Denny’s on my side.”
“Lynley,” Simon was nearly shouting now, something I had rarely heard him do. “Come quickly. Do not tell a soul! Just do it, for old times’ sake and for your own safety. You’ll understand when you get here, I promise.”
“Alright, but...”
I heard a click on the other end. Simon had rung off.
* * *
The thought of not telling Denny about Simon’s call wasn’t sitting right with me, but in fact, I never had the chance. By the time I washed up and dressed, the special agent was on his way out the door.
“Cats are fed, boxes cleaned except the one upstairs. I made coffee and tea, wasn’t sure what you drank in the morning. There’s a cinnamon roll in the oven and some scrambled eggs in a microwavable container in the refrigerator. I’ll check back with you in a few hours, but now I’ve got to run.” He came and kissed my cheek, then bounded outside, pulling on his jacket as he went. I noted that in spite of little sleep and what there was of it spent on a not-too-comfortable couch, he looked fresh as a kitten.
I stuffed my purse with extra Kleenex, a granola bar, and my phone, things I might need for an outing on the fly. Then I took a Motrin, gave the cats a second round of kibble just so they knew I was still their main food squeeze, and called the cab. As I waited, nibbling the cinnamon bun and sipping the coffee, I wondered what I was getting myself into.
A sleek black and white Prius slipped up to the curb in front of my house and honked. I grabbed my stuff and started out the door but faltered. Something felt very wrong about this furtive meeting. Simon had said not to tell anyone, but he never said I couldn’t leave a note. I waved to the cabbie to hold on and went back into the house. I scribbled the address Simon had given me on a Humane Society of the United States note pad, added the time I was leaving—ten-oh-two, punctuated it with a huge question mark, and signed my name. Examining my left-handed scribble, I wondered if anyone would be able to read it. Hoping for the best, I placed the note on the cabinet next to the front door where it would be in plain view to the police when they came in to investigate my untimely death.
Chapter 27
Here in Portland, you can’t walk down a street in summer without seeing at least one water bowl set out for passing dogs and cats. Homes and businesses alike put out fresh water for thirsty animals.
The twenty-four-hundred block of Rainier Street turned out to be an older residential district. The houses were post-World War II, tiny homes built for the returning GIs and their brides getting ready to boom. The original owners were long gone, as were the second and probably third. It was hard to tell from the modest lawns, small gardens, and plain painted fronts what sort of folk lived there now.
The cab dropped me at the address Simon had given, and I paid him in cash. When he pulled away, the street was quiet; everyone at work, I assumed. These days, when both partners needed to work just to make ends meet, homes were vacant much of the time.
I looked up at the house, wondering whose it was. Painted a dull gray with green trim, it was actually sort of sweet. A gate in the low fence led into a short walkway. Stepping stone trails ran off to either side. A weathered garden gnome squatted among the brown twigs of spent annuals—interesting how gnomes had come back in style. Someone had hung flower baskets on the eaves of the small front porch. The later-blooming plants—chrysanthemums, fuchsias, and asters—cascaded down the mossy sides.
I hesitated, wondering again about my sanity and hoping Simon would pop out onto the porch with a big smile, saying “Hey, Lynley. Come on in.” When that didn’t happen, I gathered my courage and pushed open the gate.
As I climbed the front steps, I noticed a water bowl on the porch. Cat or dog? Big enough to be either and full of clean water. For a resident pet or the neighborhood strays? Either way, it was a good sign. People who cared for animals were usually kind and friendly. Weren’t they?
I rang the doorbell, a Bakelite button in the center of a much-painted metal ring, and waited.
And waited.
Maybe the bell didn’t work; one could never tell with older houses. I checked the windows to either side of the door, but both were heavily curtained.
I rang again, listening for sounds from within but all I heard was a faint brrring.
I knocked on the painted door panel, once, then louder. “Simon?” I called. “It’s Lynley. If you’re there, open up.”
Still nothing.
Rats! I swore to myself. This was all wrong. My wrist was throbbing all the way down to my toes and I felt faint. I was supposed to be home watching Law and Order reruns and taking naps. Didn’t Simon know that? Didn’t he care?
Pulling my cell phone out of my purse, I called Simon’s number. It went to voicemail.
“Simon, It’s Lynley. I’m here. Uh, at the place on Rainier. Where are you? I’m not waiting.” I paused when I realized I was babbling. “Anyway, you got five minutes to call me back and then I’m going home.”
I clicked off and stood with the instrument in my hand, expecting—or at least hoping for—that little chirp of a ring. One minute; three. Dang! I didn’t feel great about abandoning Simon’s mission, but what good was it to stay for a call that might never come?
I slipped the phone back into my bag and gave a final try, knocking loud enough to wake the neighborhood. If nothing happened this time, I was going to call that cabbie back to take me home. I was mad and getting madder. Then suddenly I felt another emotion: fear. What if something had happened to Simon? What if he couldn’t ans
wer the door? I knew there was evil afoot. There had been too much madness to deny it. If he were hurt and I left him, I’d never forgive myself.
I reached out and tried the brass knob. It was locked, which didn’t surprise me. Retracing my steps down to the front walk, I stared back at the house and made my decision.
Following the gnome trail off to the left, I skirted around the side. A narrow pathway cut between the house and a high wooden fence through a tangle of clematis. I pushed on, the damp from the night’s rain soaking into my jeans, and came out into a tiny back yard, a small fenced square of dead grass and shrubberies. Step-stone paths wove in and out, and more gnomes interspersed with other cement creatures—birds, cats, elephants, gargoyles—dotted the turf like a fantastic Serengeti. I would have liked a closer look at the eclectic assembly but my adrenaline wouldn’t let me. Instead I made a beeline for the enclosed back porch, climbed a set of rickety steps, and found what I was hoping for, an unshielded window.
Peering through the glass, I waited for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. I could make out a mud room with stairs leading up to the kitchen, dark as the universal void.
I knocked, then knocked again, much the same routine as I had practiced at the front, and with the same results. I tried the knob and was so surprised when the door creaked open that I nearly fell off my feet.
“Simon?” I called, but softly. The feeling of wrongness spewed from that open door like bile. Ignoring it, I stepped across the threshold.
The day had warmed in the weak November sun but inside, the temperature plummeted. It wasn’t a neglected chill though; more like no one had bothered to turn on the heat that morning. The crisp air was sweet with a slight scent of air freshener roses. There was something else as well, something not so pleasant, but I couldn’t place it.
I moved silently into the kitchen, pulling my jacket tighter around my shoulders. I felt encumbered by my big purse so I set it on a sideboard next to a bouquet of silk magnolias. Aside from the curtains being drawn, it seemed like a normal room. Actually it was very nice and pristine clean compared with my own farm-style kitchen: not a dirty dish on the counter; not a cupboard door ajar. The linoleum, though older, looked bright and shiny, even in the dim. Again I picked out a bowl of water on the floor at a feeding station under the sink. If there were pets in the house, however, I saw no other sign.