by Mollie Hunt
* * *
The Pearl district of Portland officially runs between West Burnside, Northwest Broadway, Interstate 405, and the Willamette River, but most people think of 23rd Street, eight blocks west, as the heart of the quarter. Eclectic and crowded, 23rd is a trendy mecca of distraction. Sidewalk cafes, brew pubs, fashion boutiques, and specialty shops occupy tiny old houses and storefronts of every flavor. Shade trees that have grown large with age line the avenue, giving it an almost-Parisian atmosphere. It’s far too busy for my taste, but I had to admit there wasn’t a square inch of the neighborhood that didn’t hold something new and tantalizing.
Seleia had stopped to admire a pair of shiny blue and teal pumps in the window of a shoe boutique. Freddie, who decided he needed to accompany us in order to carry our purchases, shifted the seven-pound bag of kibble, the ten-pound bag of litter, and the flat of little cans he had stacked in his arms.
“Come on, Seal. These are heavy.”
“Freddie’s right. We’ll come back and look later if you want, but right now we need to make this a fast trip. Gerrold only gave us twenty minutes.”
“Okay,” she sighed, catching up. “But I want those shoes. Maybe when you pay me for working with you, I’ll be able to get them.”
I very much doubted that her few days’ wages would come anywhere near the cost of those Gianvito Rossi pumps, but I’d let her discover that grim reality for herself if and when the time came.
The street was noisy with conversation and cars, trucks loading, people shouting back and forth, but over the general din, I began to pick up a faint but shrill wail. It grew louder and traffic began pulling to the side wherever they could find a place along the narrow parking. I turned to see a fire truck blasting down upon us. As it approached, it honked its air horn at a mint green Prius that lingered mid-avenue. The Prius angled out of the way and the fire truck barreled by. Once past, cars and people flowed into its wake like water, back to the clamorous routine once more.
“Boy, that truck barely fits down this street,” Freddie remarked as he slipped through the sidewalk crush with the grace of a dancer.
“Here comes another one,” said Seleia, and sure enough, I could hear the whine approaching from the other direction, a different fire station, crossing 23rd a few blocks away.
I had a rush of apprehension. This one was a fire emergency van, and it had gone up Pettygrove Street, up toward Big Pink. I had no reason to assume they were headed for the old apartment house, except that it was ancient, wooden, and had been left derelict for a long time before the film crew rented it. That and a foreboding which had little to do with reality.
I began to walk a little faster, pushing by Freddie and making Seleia follow at a trot.
“What is it, Grandmother?”
“Probably nothing, but I’ve got a bad feeling.”
We made it to the corner just in time to see my bad feeling manifest into a real and true event. The fire truck, two police cars, and the emergency van were skewed across the sidewalk in front of Big Pink. Smoke was billowing from a row of second story windows. What looked to be the entire production crew, actors, extras, and incidentals were mobbed out front. The firemen were going in; hoses were at the ready.
“The cats!” I cried and broke in to a run, Seleia only a half-step behind me.
Freddie quickly stashed our supplies by the stone wall in front of the building and pulled ahead, beating us to the entrance by a good thirty seconds.
“Hold up!” commanded Security Officer Olaf Tourney in a gruff and authoritative tone. “Can’t go in there, sonny.”
Freddie stopped short; I kept right on going. If the building were on fire, no way was I about to leave those poor kitties locked in the trailer, fate unknown.
A strong hand gripped my arm and swung me around, Tourney doing his best imitation of a spring clamp.
“No unauthorized personnel, ma’am.”
“Let me go. My cats are in the basement,” I panted. “I’ve got to get to them.” I tried to pull away but he was too strong. The fingers closed tighter and I knew it would bruise.
I took a deep breath. “Sir, I know you’re only doing your job, but these two cats are very important and extremely valuable. They happen to be the stars of this show as a matter of fact. And right now they are in danger. The trailer is just down at the bottom of those steps,” I added, pleading. “It would only take a moment to get them safe.”
“Can’t do it. This is a fire scene. Everyone stays out until the fire chief says otherwise!”
“Then can I ask the firefighters to go get them?”
“You can ask,” he snickered, “but I doubt you’ll get very far.
“Firefighters are supposed to rescue people,” I sulked.
Tourney grunted. “Cats aren’t people, ma’am.”
“That’s what you think,” I muttered under my breath.
Seleia caught my eye, gave a solemn nod, and burst into a sprint, trying for a runaround, but the big security officer was too quick. Now he had us both in his smooth-pawed grasp.
“Everybody stays out. Don’t even think about it, kid,” he growled to Freddie, who was gearing up for a second dash. The boy bristled but complied.
Smoke from the upper floor was glooming the afternoon, acrid and stinging, but the tears that sprung to my eyes had nothing to do with the fire.
* * *
Seleia, Freddie, and I remained as close as allowed to the front entrance, ready to run back in the moment we were cleared.
“Look, something’s happening,” said a man behind us, pointing to the doorway as the bulk of the firefighters began coming out again. “Must not have been much of a fire.”
“Or it’s so bad, they had to fall back,” his companion commented.
“Nah,” said the first man. “If it was that bad, they’d be running around like ants on a stove.”
“Yeah, you’re right, getting more hoses and stuff. So we all came out here for nothing?”
“When do you suppose they’ll let us get back to work?”
I tuned out of their conversation and into the new developments with the firemen. They were conferring with Olaf Tourney. I counted the seconds: one, two, three... twenty-eight, forty-five... Then the fire chief in his white helmet turned to the crowd and announced the all clear.
“So it was a false alarm,” the guy behind me said smugly, “just as I figured.”
“But there must have been something happening. I saw smoke, and you know what they say about that.” The men laughed.
“I wonder,” mused the second man as we began to squeeze back into the building. “Do you think it might have been set deliberately?”
“Deliberate?” the other huffed as we pushed through the door. “And what part of hex don’t you understand?”
The minute I could get free of the constraining jam I bolted for the stairs with Seleia and Freddie rushing behind me like kittens after mom. This time no one stopped us. I was glad to note that, though there were still a few tatters of left-over smoke in the lobby, it hadn’t traveled to the basement. The cool air was dank but clear.
Coming off the stairs, I could see the body of parked cars, equipment trucks, and transport vans. To my right was a line of tables set up for lunch by the catering people and to my left was the trailer. The minute I skirted a blue Mercedes, I knew something was wrong. I rocketed the last few yards, but it was too late. The trailer door was wide open. I peered inside, my apprehensive gaze scanning the small space to no avail. The cats were gone.
“Not again!” I wailed. “Clark Gable? Cary Grant? Where are you? Treat!” I added. Rhonda had taught the cats to come to their names, and failing that, to the word “treat,” which during training was invariably followed by a delectable morsel. “Treat!” I repeated. “You can have the whole darned bag if you just come back now.”
I stood still, waited, listened; all I could hear was my own fast-beating heart.
“Maybe they’re still hiding in the
trailer,” Seleia offered. “You know how cats can be. I’ll check.”
She began for the door but I stopped her. “No, I’ll check,” I said. In case whoever did this is still in there, I didn’t say. “You and Freddie search the lot. They could be under a car or concealed in a dark corner. Call Gerrold. No, call Victoria. Call the police!”
In a very grown up gesture, Seleia put a hand on my arm. “Take a deep breath, Lynley. You’ve got to stay calm, for the cats’ sake.”
“We’ll find ’em,” Freddie put in. “Don’t you worry, Miz C.”
Watching the two begin their fervent search of the cavernous parking basement, I wished I could shed the years of cynicism and believe, like Freddie, that all would be well in the end. I’d seen too many things go bad in my six decades to believe there was always a happily ever after. But I’d seen miracles as well. I took that breath, set my mind to positive, and stepped into the trailer.
Stopping in the doorway, I looked around. Everything seemed to be just where I’d left it. Whoever had broken in wasn’t a thief or a vandal, thank goodness. On the other hand, why would someone go to the trouble of jacking the lock just to leave empty-handed? The question passed quickly. My only concern was for the cats. Seleia was right—scared by the sound of the break in, they could have secreted themselves in any one of the shelves or cubbies. I would go over every inch.
There weren’t a whole lot of inches in the compact trailer, and most of them were in plain sight. Clark and Cary were by no means small or nondescript, and though I’ve been known to overlook Little sitting on the couch, her black fur blending with the dark woven afghan, those big, bright orange boys would be impossible to miss.
I worked methodically, from right to left, opening every cupboard, every closet.
“Clark? Cary? Treat?” I continued to chant quietly, stopping periodically to listen for the barest sound, the slightest rustle, the tiniest mew. The only thing I heard was the identical chant echoed from outside, Seleia and Freddie carrying on their own search, so far as unsuccessful as mine.
* * *
The letter was in the bedroom. I found it when I moved the pillows aside to see if the cats had crept underneath. I didn’t know my heart could beat any faster, but as I picked up the anonymous white envelope, my pulse kicked up to a moth-wing flutter. I stared at it, unsure what to do. Should I open it? Should I save it for the police? Then panic took me and I ripped clumsily through the flap, both eager and frightened for what was inside.
A piece of off-white faux-parchment was folded in three. Cautiously I spread it flat and read the spidery calligraphic scrawl.
With this hex, I take from thee what thou lovest most. I cast its light into darkness....
It went on that way for three badly-written paragraphs, then was signed with an illegible mark that looked like a mix between a bird in flight and a happy face. My knees gave way and I sat hard on the bed. I couldn’t think. The letter changed everything. No longer could I pass the cats’ disappearance off as an accident, a mistake, a quirk of fate. I must now accept the reality that they had been ruthlessly and intentionally taken.
From my pocket came the brring of an old-fashioned telephone, my cell’s new ringtone. I brought it out and stared at the pulsating unit. Slowly I poked the answer icon.
“Oh, Lynley!” Rhonda’s voice shot down the line. “Is it true?”
“You know?”
“Yes, Victoria called me. Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me the cats are safe.”
“She shouldn’t have called you,” I said with exasperation. “There’s nothing you can do from where you are, and she shouldn’t have worried you.”
“No, Lynley. I need to know. From the beginning, you have to tell me everything!”
Everything. I wished I knew everything. But I didn’t. Someone had kidnaped, or more accurately, catnaped Cary Grant and Clark Gable, most likely the same person who was maliciously perpetrating increasingly desperate acts in the name of the hex. Had they set the false fire as a diversion to make sure the coast was clear? Were the cats the target all along? And if so, how far did they intend to go with this accursed sham?
But who were they? Someone close? Someone no one would suspect? My thoughts again fled to Angela T. Moore. She was such an odd character, such an enigma. Hers was the only motive I had yet gleaned, that of puffery. But it was feeble and I didn’t really believe it. After all, if she were perpetrating the hex hoax, why would she try to enlist my help to find the culprit?
Angela. It was true I hadn’t seen her for a while, not since she came to the trailer before the shoot. Not since she threatened the cats.
Maybe it was she; maybe it was someone else altogether. Someone I’d met? A stranger? My mind spun. Who knew? I didn’t.
I didn’t!
It was in that moment of utter, nauseating, grievous defeat that I saw at last what I had to do.
Chapter 20
In cold temperatures, cats lick themselves to align the hairs in their coat, which helps keep them warm.
“I solemnly swear,” I found myself saying after I’d told Rhonda the whole story, “I will not rest until Clark Gable and Cary Grant are back home safe. Even if I have to bring down this whole hexter bullpucky to do it!”
She listened, then had to ring off for a doctor consult. I promised I would call her the moment I knew something. She hated it, but there wasn’t much she could do.
I sat on the bed for a while longer—no point in searching further; the letter made it clear we would not be seeing the cats any time soon. Then zombie-like, I rose and went to the door.
“Seleia, Freddie,” I called. “Come on back now.”
“Did you find them?” Seleia cried, running toward me.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
“What? What’s happened?”
I sank down and sat on the stoop. I held the letter out to her. She stared at it as if it were a black, hairy spider, then looked back at me with the same kitten eyes she’d had as a child when the night monsters came and she didn’t know why.
“It’s a ransom note. Clark Gable and Cary Grant have been catnapped, and they won’t be returned until the catnaper’s demands are met.”
“You’re kidding,” said Freddie.
I shook my head. “I’m afraid I don’t have that kind of sense of humor.”
“Oh, no,” cried Seleia. “What are we going to do?”
Good question. The obvious answer was to get off my rear end and start working on it. I rose, locked the trailer door, and started for the stairs. “First thing, we have to find Ms. Moore.”
“Good idea!” Seleia said, coming to my side. “She’s rich. If we can convince her to pay the ransom, everything will be okay.”
“Do you think she’ll do it?” Freddie asked, making it a threesome.
“She has to,” said Seleia. “We can always pay her back, somehow. She has to help get the cats as soon as possible. Oh, I can’t stand the thought of them being in the clutches of some nefarious catnaper!”
“Aunt Grace has a little savings,” Freddie offered, “And so do I. If Miz Moore won’t foot the bill, we can pass the hat. I know everybody here would kick in. Maybe Gerrold has some kind of insurance...”
I stopped and turned to the well-meaning pair. “That’s not going to work.”
“Why not?” asked Seleia. “Is it some great amount?”
“Is it a million?” Freddie’s eyes filled with wonder.
“It’s not money the catnaper is after,” I said bluntly.
“Then what?” they both chimed together.
I sighed. “They want to shut down the show.”
* * *
The scene in Big Pink’s lobby was all-out chaos. Jason, Gerrold, and Bear had been cornered by a man and a woman dressed in off-the-rack business suits, investigators come about the fire. Gerrold looked frantic, trying to appease the insistent detectives and salvage what he could of the day’s shoot at the same time. The elevator was sti
ll out of order, automatically shut off when the alarm sounded, and crew was lugging heavy equipment down the wide staircase from the second floor, all their fancy carts and dollies temporarily useless.
We’d run into Grace who pulled us aside and quickly brought us up to speed. There had been an actual fire of sorts, an obvious case of arson, in the McCaffrey office set. According to the rumor mill, cardboard boxes filled with wet leaves and newspaper drenched with lighter fluid had been put alight in the center of the room. It had made a lot of smoke, which was what we saw billowing out the open windows, but there was actually very little flame. The consensus was that the arsonist’s intention had been harassment rather than destruction.
In other words, one more incident to add to the ever-more creative hexter list. A slash of red graffiti, probably more damaging than the smoky fire, had been spray painted across the wall. A single word: Hexed.
Grace had been on her way to the craft truck for a snack and a cup of coffee, and I’d sent Freddie and Seleia out with her to get something for themselves and to pick up an energy bar for me. I couldn’t imagine eating anything, but for Seleia’s sake, I was trying to put on a normal front. My plan was to find Angela and confront her about the catnaping. She may not be the hexter, but she knew more than she was telling. The plan was half-baked to say the least, but it was a place to start.
I searched the busy crowd and picked out Roger overseeing the stacking of equipment along one wall.
“No, that has to go down last,” he was saying. “We’re going to need it for the next shot, if there is one,” he grumbled in a very un-Roger-like manner.
I touched the young man’s shoulder. He spun around as if shocked. “Whoa, Lynley, you startled me.”
“Sorry. Do you know where Ms. Moore might be?”
“No, ma’am, I haven’t seen her. Maybe Gerrold knows. Hey, any news about the cats?”
“Not yet.” I didn’t mention the ransom note, keeping that bit of information on a need to know basis for now.
“What a pile of rotten luck,” he said with a sympathetic smile.