Black Current

by Karen Keskinen

  The yard sloped away at the back. The garden house stood below, in the far corner. It was constructed of redwood timbers, screening, and lath. All the materials had weathered to a silvery gray.

  Through the screen door I could see Taryn slouched in an old wicker chair. Strips of sunlight fell through the lath and crossed her body. A small heap of bandages, glowing white in the gloom, lay at her feet.

  I crunched over the decomposed granite, following the path as it zigzagged down the slope through a phalanx of bottlebrush trees. I stopped at the top of the last flight of sandstone steps. The garden house lay directly below.

  “Taryn,” I called. “It’s Jaymie. Just me.” I shaded my eyes from the sun.

  Her still body was slumped sideways. In her lap, the thin edge of a butcher’s knife shone.

  For a long second I feared Taryn Tactacquin had made good on her threat. But then she straightened. I prepared to descend, and looked down at my feet.

  That’s when I saw them.

  My fear was confirmed. Dozens of orange and blue flowers, dead and dying, lay scattered over the steps.

  On the day Cheryl died, John was in jail. And Donna, I knew, was visiting their son up at Avenal Prison.

  That left one possibility. Only one.

  I’d checked Taryn’s alibi for the night Skye died. But I’d never bothered to verify that she’d also babysat on the evening Cheryl drowned. And I’d never asked Taryn if she knew the combination to the aquarium door. I’d slipped.

  I liked Taryn Tactacquin, and maybe I hadn’t wanted her to be guilty. I knew one thing for certain: I would never make that mistake again.

  I tipped back my head and looked up: the rare plumeria, planted beside one of the redwood posts supporting the garden house, arched over the path. All along the branches, flowers blossomed in tongues of flame.

  When I lowered my gaze, Taryn’s eyes met my own. She let out a strangled cry.

  I descended the steps and lifted my hand to the screen door.

  “Stay back!” Taryn raised the knife. “I’ll do it, I swear!”

  “I won’t come in. But please, while we’re talking, just put down the knife.”

  She lowered the weapon, but didn’t let go. “I wanted to be close to Skye after he died, any way I could! So I went to the aquarium. I missed him so bad!”

  “But it was shut. How did you get in?”

  She rested her bare arms on her thighs. I saw the practice cuts—they weren’t as superficial as I’d expected.

  “Skye gave me the code to the back door. We used to meet in there to be alone … usually I got there first.”

  “It was your special place.”

  “Yes. We’d go to the wet deck. There’s a bench with cushions—” Her voice trailed off.

  “So you went there that afternoon to think about Skye. And she was there, right? On the wet deck. Cheryl Kerr.”

  “Yes. Throwing an octopus into the water.” Taryn bent forward, as if she were going to be sick.

  “Releasing it?”

  “I guess. She asked me what I was doing there, and I tried to explain. I said I didn’t want to get into trouble, I just wanted to be there when nobody else was around. I told her I missed Skye so much, and I was his girlfriend. I told her we were in love.”

  “How did Cheryl react?”

  “I thought she’d be nice. But she got real mad. She said horrible stuff. Like Skye deserved to be dead, and she was happy about it! Because Dr. Steinbach killed her own brother.” Taryn jumped to her feet. “An eye for an eye—that’s what she said.”

  “That must have made you furious.”

  “Yes. Yes, and I pushed her!” Her face contorted. “I did it, I killed her. I pushed her over the edge.”

  Taryn raised the knife to her throat. I slammed the door open and launched myself at her, grabbing for the knife. She went down hard: I heard the air puff out of her. The knife clattered, skidding away on the concrete floor.

  Then there was blood, lots of it, sticky and slick. Thank God, it was my own.

  Postscript

  A love ballad, crooned in soulful Spanish, streamed through the open doorway of 101 West Mission, Suite D.

  I could hear Gabi tapping away at the keys behind the computer screen. And I heard something else: laughter, coming from the kitchenette.

  I stepped up to the threshold and looked in.

  A triumphant yellow and pink rose flared in the crystal vase. I knew it was “Peace.”

  I stepped into the room, and Gabi popped up. “Miss Jaymie, our hero!”

  “There’s nothing to celebrate. This time around, nobody won.”

  A purple-haired Claudia appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Come on, you’re the best.” An ear-to-ear grin filled her face.

  “You’re looking very suave, Miss Molina.”

  “Think so?” She pirouetted to show off her hip black jacket and slacks and merlot T-shirt, purchased in the men’s department. No, correct that: at size zero, she’d shopped in the boys’.

  “How about him?” Claudia stepped through the doorway, turned back and presented BJ with a flourish.

  BJ’s hair was also purple, though of a more subdued shade than his partner’s. He also wore a black suit. A pantsuit, actually—he’d crossed the department store aisle too, heading in the opposite direction from Claudia. His russet-colored top had a silky sheen. “For the homecoming dance,” he announced. “What do you think?”

  “I think maybe you should trade those outfits,” Gabi began. “See, Claudia should wear yours, and you—”

  “What do you know about clothes?” Claudia started up. “You’re gonna bust outta those sweatpants any day now, and all that pink and purple shit—”

  Ah, back to normal. I raised my hands, calming the waters. “Claudia, you and BJ look amazing together.”

  “Not bad, huh?” She beamed.

  “And Gabi? I adore your new rose.”

  “Me too. Oh Miss Jaymie, it’s so good you are home!”

  “I’m glad to be back. Did you pick up some pastries?”

  “Naturalmente. They’re right here in my bag.”

  “I’ll make the coffee,” BJ volunteered.

  As I headed for the kitchenette, Gabi called after me. “Miss Jaymie? There’s just one more thing I gotta say.”

  I turned back to look at her.

  “If you wanna use one of my pencils, sure, I got no problem with that.” A corner of her mouth twitched. “But don’t forget to put it back where you found it, OK?”

  * * *

  An hour later I climbed into Mike’s pickup for the ride up to San Luis Obispo. I’d argued a lift wasn’t necessary, I could drive myself up to Bill’s funeral just fine. But he’d insisted on coming down from San Luis to get me.

  “Jaymie? Those scrapes on your face don’t look so good.” Then he nodded at the bulky bandage wrapped around my upper arm. “How about that, is it healing?”

  “Sure. The scrapes got infected, they’re nothing. The stab wound is going to take awhile. Twenty-eight stitches in all.”

  “You’re lucky the knife missed an artery.”

  As Mike pulled onto the freeway heading north, I rested a hand on his knee. “It’s going to be a tough day.”

  “Yeah. Everybody keeps telling me Dad had a good long life, like that should make it OK. Somehow it doesn’t.”

  “I know what you mean.” On our left, the wide-open ocean flashed under the ascending sun.

  “Another hot one. Too hot for the cattle. Dad would have cursed this weather.”

  “Those monsoon clouds.” I pointed to the big fluffy masses skimming the nearby mountaintops. “They look full of rain, but all they ever do is tease.”

  “Uh-huh. What we really need never comes.”

  “I need Brodie back,” I blurted out. “I feel like I’ve lost him all over again. Always chasing revenge—somehow that helped me keep him alive.”

  “But did it?” Mike reached over and took my hand in his own. />
  “Seemed to. Sometimes—” I stared straight ahead through the windshield.

  “Sometimes?”

  “Sometimes I can’t remember my brother’s face.”

  We entered the Nojoque rocks. The contorted columns towered over us. Mike turned in to the rest stop and pulled up beside a stand of California sycamore trees.

  “Jaymie, there’s something I want to say to you.” He switched off the engine. “You may never know what happened to Brodie.”

  “No. I can’t accept that.” I unclipped my seat belt and faced him. “I don’t feel like I’ve got to get revenge, not anymore. But now that I know Chief Wheeler was involved in Brodie’s death, I can’t give up.”

  “How is that going to help Brodie now? I think it’s time for you to let it all go.”

  Mike was being absurd. Did he really think I was going to just walk away? “Don’t forget, there’s the note. Somebody sent it—somebody out there wants to talk.”

  “About that note.” Mike cleared his throat. “I wasn’t going to tell you, but I think maybe I should. All that stuff I was spouting, about the note being a joke? I was just trying to point you in the wrong direction.”

  “What?” Shocked, I pulled back. “You did that? But why?”

  “I’m sorry, Jaymie. See, I found out who sent it. And I didn’t want you to know.”

  “You have to tell me!” I clamped a hand on his arm. “I have a right.”

  “Yeah, you do. It was Mandy, actually. Mandy Blaine.”

  Mandy? No, this was impossible. “I don’t believe it. If Mandy knew something, why didn’t she just—”

  “That’s the thing. She knows nothing, all right? Mandy heard you were trying to find out what happened to Brodie, that’s all.”

  “I still don’t get it. Why send the note?” I stared hard at him: there had to be more.

  “She just wanted to—aw, shit.” He cleared his throat. “Mandy knew you and I were talking again. What she wanted was to throw a monkey wrench between us. She figured the note would sidetrack you, and she figured right.”

  I was speechless. Almost. “You’ve got to be kidding me. How did you figure out it was her?”

  “Hey. You’re not the only one who can do some detecting. When you showed me the note I recognized the paper, that thick fluffy stuff?” He covered my hand with his own again. “Don’t get mad, but she sent me a few love letters on that paper.”

  “Me? I’m not mad, don’t flatter yourself.”

  Mike smiled. “Anyway, I went back to the office and looked through her desk. Sure enough, I found a box of the paper. That’s when Mandy and I had a talk.”

  He took my chin in his hand. “So that’s it then, right? You can let it all go.”

  But something in his tone caught my attention. Something a shade too urgent, maybe, something I couldn’t quite name.

  “They killed him, Mike. I know that now. They dragged Brodie out of his cell—”

  “Jaymie, please.” Mike pulled me close and held me tight. “I only want what’s best for you. Trust me on that.”

  I was pretty sure Mike knew more than he was saying. But I gave in and stopped talking. Because at that moment, I needed to trust him. I needed his arms around me, more than anything in the world.

  “This is ridiculous,” I blubbered. “We’re on our way to your dad’s funeral. I should be comforting you.”

  “You are.” He squeezed me harder and didn’t let go.

  We sat like that in the cab for five minutes or more. Then three things happened, in quick succession.

  First, the sky darkened.

  Next, a wind sprang up, twisting the leaves on the sycamores.

  And then a few fat drops of water plopped in the hood.

  The few drops became many. “I’ll be damned.” Mike’s voice was almost a whisper. “August rain.”

  A van pulled up next to us, and two little kids piled out. They began to dance in the rain shower, their faces tipped to the sky.

  “Look at them,” I said wistfully. “Not a care in the world.”

  “Come on.” Mike opened his door and stepped out. He reached in, caught me by my good arm, and pulled me across the seat.

  “Hey!”

  “Protest all you want.” He grabbed me around the waist and half lifted, half dragged me out of the truck.

  I laughed in spite of myself. I couldn’t stop laughing. And then I was crying, then laughing again. We held each other and started dancing, right there in the mud.

  I closed my eyes, and Mike disappeared. Brodie was there.

  I held my brother effortlessly. We were so light and easy together: one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three.

  When I opened my arms he smiled at me, and danced away.

  Acknowledgments

  This story rose to the surface in a hard and painful time in my life, and was carried to shore on the blackest of currents. I am grateful to all my family and friends for their caring support through the course of the voyage. I especially want to thank Kat Brzozowski, my talented, skilled, and buoyant editor; Becca Stumpf, my wise and generous agent; Doug Reich, the good doc in the Bronx, NYC; and De Anna Dellabarca, steady center of the whirlwinds. Thanks as well to Jan Luc and to Diana Kennett, for their staunch friendship.

  I also wish to thank Sea Center Manager Richard Smalldon for guiding me on a tour of our aquarium in Santa Barbara. Rich is an agreeable guy who most certainly bears no resemblance to any character in this book! My gratitude to Shelly Lowenkopf for his discerning critique of the manuscript at a critical stage, and to Corinne Contreras for her perceptive comments and advice. Thanks also to Clare Reich, bright young woman-about-town; Margot Reich, kid-wrangler and mystery maven; and Phuong-Cac Nguyen, for her warm introduction to Mission & State.

  Most of all, I want to acknowledge those who rode through the storm with me: my partner, Salvi Dellabarca, and Casey Dellabarca, our son. To you both, as always, my deepest thanks and love.

  A portion of the proceeds from the sale of Black Current will be donated to Mission & State, the brave new investigative news service Santa Barbara so sorely needs—and all big little cities deserve. Visit then at www.missionandstate.org.

  Also by Karen Keskinen

  Blood Orange

  About the Author

  Karen Keskinen was born in Salinas, California. She has also lived in California’s San Joaquin Valley and in Wellington, New Zealand. She now resides in Santa Barbara, California, where she is a full-time writer. Keskinen is the author of Blood Orange, the first book in the Jaymie Zarlin mystery series.

  Follow Karen on Twitter at @Karen_Keskinen and visit her Web site at www.KarenKeskinen.com.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.

  BLACK CURRENT. Copyright © 2014 by Karen Keskinen. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.thomasdunnebooks.com

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Cover design by David Baldeosing Rotstein

  Cover photograph © David Eustace/Gallerystock

  eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Keskinen, Karen

  Black current: a mystery / Karen Keskinen.—First edition.

  p. cm.

  “A Thomas Dunne book.”

  ISBN 978-1-250-01271-5 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-250-02834-1 (e-book)

  1. Women private investigators—Fiction. 2. Teenage boys—Crimes against—Fiction. 3. Drowning victims—Fiction. 4. Brothers—Death—Fiction.
I. Title.

  PS3611.E834B57 2014

  813'.6—dc23

  2014008160

  e-ISBN 9781250028341

  First Edition: June 2014