1 Lost Under a Ladder

by Linda O. Johnston

  Yes, the gender was specific, even if my name wasn’t there.

  And the article got worse. Tarzal was, in fact named—a victim of a horrible and as-yet unsolved murder with, of course, superstitious overtones. And how was that heroic newcomer involved?

  Well, she’d not only tried to save that life, too—an exaggeration, since Tarzal was already dead when I found him—but when she realized that the new friend she was trying to help was a suspect, she’d started looking into who else might have done it. Now, she was doing a thorough and intensive job of it—considering friends, relatives, neighbors, officials and more.

  The case was still open. No arrests yet. But the Destiny Star applauded that newcomer and all she was doing, and believed, as wonderful as the Destiny Police Department was, that the newcomer would be critical to solving the crime.

  After all, she was good luck, wasn’t she?

  Plus, she was a superstition pilgrim. She had come here to Destiny to determine if a loss in her own life, when someone dear to her had walked under a ladder and died, was the result of the reality of superstitions—and everyone in town already knew the answer to that.

  Well, damn, I thought. The paper may have deemed me to be good luck—to others, perhaps. But wasn’t an article like this a means of clawing away any good luck I might otherwise be entitled to?

  The citizens of Destiny would figure out who that applauded newcomer was.

  They would even know what had brought me here—undoubtedly thanks to Preston’s big mouth, despite how he and Tarzal hadn’t seemed particularly interested in my revelation about why I’d come to Destiny. Maybe I should have demanded that Preston not tell anyone else when I talked to him after I knew he’d mentioned my story to Justin. But even if he’d kept quiet after that, it might already have been too late.

  I didn’t know who else had heard about me before this story appeared in the paper. And now everyone would know.

  Even worse—well, it wasn’t as if the regular media hadn’t gotten wind of Tarzal’s murder. I’d heard, then seen, that at first, there’d been mentions on even national TV shows, plus local Southern California ones. Daily newspapers had reported about it, too—and the situation had burgeoned on their websites and otherwise online.

  It wasn’t every day that a noted expert on a subject like superstition was murdered, and in a manner that supported the arcane subject he promoted.

  Like the world’s foremost superstition expert being stabbed by a shard of—what else?—a broken mirror.

  And now, would this op-ed piece also go viral? If it did, people everywhere might attempt to figure out who “Ms. Newcomer” really was.

  I never wanted any kind of publicity except for the shops that I managed.

  I certainly didn’t want it now.

  I also wondered what Justin, who’d told me to butt out, would think now.

  Not to mention the thoughts of whoever had actually killed Tarzal …

  twenty-three

  I hurried along the half block back to the Destiny Star offices. In minutes, I was leaning once more against the front counter. I looked around, still holding the edge-crumpled paper in my hands.

  Had both Derek and Celia assumed I’d return? Had they been watching for me from where they sat at their desks? I wasn’t sure, but I thought I caught a glimpse of both heads twisting to look at whatever was so fascinating on their computer screens instead of turning to see who’d just walked into the office’s front door.

  I knew I must look shocked. Was I pale, or had my face gone red? I wasn’t sure.

  All I knew was that I was extremely upset, my breathing uneven.

  I doubted there was anything I could do about what I’d read, but I could at least ask. “Interesting op-ed piece,” I said to neither in particular. “Have any copies of this edition been distributed?”

  “Pretty much everywhere in town.” Derek looked toward me with an expression on his face that looked so innocent that I had no doubt he knew what I was feeling. “We publish our papers on Monday, so this just went out.”

  “We’re already getting emails about it.” Celia’s smile was so broad that I felt certain she’d been the one to write the editorial. “All favorable. Some of them want to know who we’re talking about.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said, closing my eyes. I’d no doubt that whoever didn’t yet know would get the scoop from their friends who’d figure it out.

  Okay, nothing I could do. The black cat was out of the bag. Or at least my smart and adorable black-and-white dog was.

  I’d been handed one heck of a sour lemon. So, it was lemonade time.

  Maybe I could use the notoriety—which I hoped would be short-lived—to bring in even more customers to the Lucky Dog than my anticipated pet-superstition talks would do.

  And although I’d need to be careful, I wasn’t necessarily in any danger from the killer … I hoped.

  “Like I told you before, please let me know if there’s anything else you need for my ad,” I said, forcing myself to smile. “And thanks again for the information about nearby print shops. Oh, and is it okay if I take along a few of these papers?”

  I wasn’t certain, but I thought I saw both Vardoxes heave sighs of relief. Had they anticipated I’d throw a hissy-fit … or worse?

  “Sure,” Derek said heartily. He rose from his chair, as did Celia. “Take as many as you want.”

  “And if you get any further insight into who might have killed Tarzal, let us know,” Celia said.

  I couldn’t help it. I leveled a glare at her. “I thought you media sorts figured that kind of thing out on your own. Aren’t you also trying to solve the murder?” If so, maybe the killer would target them instead of me. Better yet, none of us.

  For now, I didn’t wait for their reactions but stalked back out of the offices.

  Back on the street, I stood there for a minute or more, taking deep breaths to try to calm myself.

  The piece was a done deal. All I could do now was wait and see what people’s reactions were.

  Were there any superstitions related to half-baked op-ed pieces that all but pointed to their subject?

  What would the results be from people reading it—and recognizing who that unnamed subject was?

  Endangered or not, I’d no doubt that I would find out.

  _____

  “Oh, good,” Jeri said as I walked back into the Lucky Dog. “We’ve been getting phone calls and emails about some article in the Destiny Star. Glad you brought some copies back with you.”

  Good thing Pluckie was there. I hurried over to where my beloved little dog pulled on her leash attached to the counter. After placing the newspapers on that counter, I knelt and just held my girl for a long minute, glad for the distraction and her loving attention.

  Jeri had already grabbed a copy of the paper and was leafing through it. “It’s an editorial on the next-to-last page,” I told her with a sigh.

  She turned to that page, then leveled a dark-eyed glance at me. “Are you okay?”

  “Read it, and you’ll be able to figure that out.”

  I watched her face as her eyes widened, and then she frowned. Today the clips she wore to hold her long, dark hair back were copper colored, matching her Heads-up Penny Gift Shop T-shirt.

  “Why didn’t they just print your name in bold face and italics right in the article?” she finally burst out. “Everyone around here will know that it’s about you.” She looked at me. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing … is it?”

  “Other than the fact I’ve been told by the police chief to butt out, maybe not.” I’d considered it further on my walk. Surely whoever had killed Tarzal wouldn’t feel threatened to learn that some amateur was poking her nose in where it supposedly didn’t belong. A couple of people had known it already: Justin, of course, and Martha. But neither of them was gui
lty.

  Still, I’d have to be careful. I didn’t dare write a letter of clarification or denial, since if I did that would make it clear to anyone in the entire world who didn’t know it was me that I was the article’s subject.

  “Now, how are our sales doing today?” I asked Jeri. It was definitely time to change the subject. Get my mind off that damned article.

  Except that, just then my cell phone rang. I’d just stuck my purse behind the counter in its usual drawer and had to go retrieve it.

  When I checked the caller ID, I nearly groaned aloud. It was Justin.

  I made myself relax just a little before answering. He could be calling about something entirely different from the article. Like, maybe he was about to let me know that the case was solved and the real killer was under arrest.

  Right.

  I pushed the button to answer, leaning on the counter and crossing my fingers that I wasn’t about to get chewed out.

  The result would have turned me into a non-believer in superstitions if I’d already decided that they came true.

  “Hi, Rory,” Justin said. His tone would have warned me if my own thoughts hadn’t. “Feel like joining me for lunch in a little while? There’s something I want to talk with you about.”

  “Like the op-ed piece in the latest Destiny Star?” I felt my lips curl in anticipation.

  “How did you guess?”

  _____

  Believe it or not, I had a wonderful time for the rest of the morning.

  At least I did after I turned the ringer on my phone off. Before I did, I received another call, this time from Serina at the Rainbow B&B.

  She’d seen the op-ed piece. “That’s about you, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “I’d guess it is,” I said as noncommittally as I could.

  She gushed over it for a while, then said, “Are you really trying to figure out who killed Tarzal?”

  “Parts of the story are exaggerated,” was my only answer. Would she want me to help—or was she the killer?

  I didn’t have an answer.

  That’s when I turned the ringtone off. I kept the phone in the pocket of my slacks, so when it vibrated I knew when I received calls—a couple more. When I checked to see who they were from, they were local.

  Which meant I didn’t want to talk to them. Not now, at least. But one was from Arlen. The other was from Carolyn. I figured I’d call her back, since I liked her and thought we might become friends. She might even commiserate with me over the article. Arlen? Not so much.

  But while that was going on, I waited on several families visiting Destiny with their dogs—one with a pit bull mix, and another with an outgoing shih tzu who made friends immediately with Pluckie. Both groups seemed to enjoy spending money on dog supplies related to superstitions.

  Millie arrived—and Jeri pointed out the article to her, so she read it and gave me a bit of sympathy until Jeri and she took off together for their habitual coffee outing. On their return, I got to work with Jeri in the back room unpacking crates of new inventory that had been ordered specifically for sale at the Lucky Dog.

  That was how I finally decided on which amulet to wear. I’d been pondering it ever since I’d learned from Justin that, because this was Destiny, even cops wore some kind of talisman around their necks. He’d shown me his acorn.

  As it turned out, my choice was obvious. I’d looked at all the amulets and charms sold at the Lucky Dog Boutique before. They all were attractive and portrayed superstitions relating to animals.

  But that was before this latest shipment came in. It contained many charms that looked familiar to me.

  It also contained one I hadn’t seen before. If I were truly superstitious, I’d have figured I was fated to get this amulet. It was about the size of a silver dollar, but it was made out of hematite—which is a type of iron ore, according to the informative description that had been shipped with it. Also included on that sheet was the statement that people who wore hematite were reputed to be brave, motivated, and creative.

  But most important is that the talisman I chose just happened to be in the shape of a dog’s head. A black spaniel’s head, to be precise. Pluckie’s tail and feet were white, but her face was black. The face on the amulet looked exactly like hers.

  “See this, Pluckie?” I crowed, holding out the charm so she could sniff it. Of course I bought a chain, too.

  “It’s perfect!” Jeri confirmed as I put on my new necklace.

  “Absolutely,” Millie agreed.

  I didn’t have to say anything. I already knew it was perfect.

  Did I feel braver, more motivated or more creative? Who knew?

  And had this been part of the inventory received that day because I was looking for the right choice?

  I couldn’t say it hadn’t.

  I’d already made a quick trip upstairs to say good morning to Martha … and, yes, bring her a paper. I called her before I left to meet Justin and told her about my new acquisition.

  “That’s wonderful, Rory,” she said. “Especially since—well, you know it’s bad luck, don’t you, to have too much said about you that’s complimentary?”

  I knew she was referring to the article. “If it truly is complimentary, maybe,” I said. “But good compliments are what lots of people like movie stars and politicians want all the time, and they don’t suffer bad luck for it.” Or did they? Very few stayed at the top of their professions forever, let alone very long.

  “Well, just be sure to knock on wood often, especially today,” Martha said. “And have fun at lunch.”

  I figured I’d also squeeze my new talisman.

  _____

  On our way walking toward the Apple-a-Day Café, where Pluckie and I were to meet Justin, I saw Preston Kunningham entering the Broken Mirror Bookstore with a couple of people from the typically crowded sidewalk. Customers?

  He saw me, too, and stopped. “Hello, Rory,” he said, then slipped away from his customers and walked toward Pluckie and me.

  “Hi, Preston.” I felt my back stiffen since his expression looked both sympathetic and worried.

  My assumption? He, too, had read the Destiny Star article.

  Which proved to be true. He took me aside on the sidewalk, both of us avoiding a group of young men who could have been basketball players here to enhance their luck. Some were as tall as Tarzal had been. After stooping to greet Pluckie, Preston said solemnly, “I assume you know about the opinion piece in the local newspaper.” He was dressed in his obligatory suit, and I thought his face appeared a little less strained than the last time I’d seen him—right after Tarzal’s murder.

  “Yes, I’ve seen it,” I admitted, waiting for his reaction.

  “Are you really trying to determine who killed my poor Tarzal?” He chewed at his bottom lip as if attempting not to cry.

  “I’m just trying to help Martha,” I said without exactly answering. “I’m sure she’s innocent.”

  “I hope so,” he said. “But if she is—well, you need to be careful, Rory. Maybe even make it clear that you’re backing off anything that resembles conducting your own investigation. What if it’s not Martha but someone else who … who …” He inhaled deeply, then continued. “Well, you know. But if whoever did that horrible deed gets worried about you—well, you just need to be careful. The best thing would be just to retreat and let the police do their job.”

  I laughed ironically. “Guess who I’m about to have lunch with now.”

  “Chief Halbertson?”

  Guess my friendship with the police chief wasn’t exactly a secret, either, around here.

  “That’s right. And I think he’s going to bawl me out for what’s in that story.”

  “Then you will stop?”

  “Don’t worry about me, Preston. I won’t do anything I shouldn’t. And right now, I’m eve
n wearing a new good luck talisman.” I showed him my new dog charm. “But thanks for your advice.”

  _____

  Justin was waiting for us on the patio at the Apple-a-Day Café. I wasn’t sure how long he had been at the busy restaurant, where all the other tables were filled both inside and here, or if he’d again been given special dispensation as the police chief. In any event, we had the most private location possible among the crowd.

  “Hi, Rory,” he said, rising to pull out my chair at the small corner table. He also bent down to give Pluckie a quick head rub.

  I sat. He took his own chair across from me.

  Outside, I couldn’t look at the artwork on the walls as a diversion. And the seat I took faced only Justin. Everyone else was behind me.

  Almost as an impulse, my hand went up to stroke my new dog charm as if for luck.

  “Hey,” Justin said, noticing it right away. His blue eyes locked on it, and then rose to meet my gaze. “I like it.” He pulled his own acorn amulet from beneath his blue button-down shirt and squeezed it slightly. “Now we should both be full of luck for the afternoon.”

  “Good or bad?” I asked dryly.

  “Good, of course.”

  I wished the look he gave me then wasn’t so intense. It was midday, so his face only hinted of the dark beard beneath the skin. He’d have made a wonderful actor playing the role of the handsome, no-nonsense police chief of some small town, but he was real. Very real. And I braced myself for the conversation I knew was upcoming.

  A server came over and took our drink orders. I decided on spark-ling water, and Justin asked for coffee. Great. As if he wasn’t already wired to give me a hard time, he’d also have more caffeine in his system to make him even edgier.

  Heck. I didn’t have to be here. I could have refused to meet him.

  But since Pluckie and I were here, I decided I would take control of this conversation before Justin did.

  I first studied the menu briefly. I wasn’t very hungry but decided on a burger and a salad. A good- and bad-for-you meal. Just like this conversation was likely to be both good and bad for me.