by Elise Sax
I clapped my hands together and giggled.
“I don’t think your Auntie Prudence would approve,” Auntie Tilly said. “She was careful not to get the attention of the townsfolk.”
“True. Attention has never been our best friend,” Auntie Ida said. “Maybe you should close up the shop for a few days until this blows over.”
Normally, nothing would make me happier than the idea of closing up the shop for a few days, but I needed to be close to the suspects in order to solve this mystery, even if I didn’t know who the suspects were. If the shop wasn’t open, how would I find out more about Area 38? How would Remington know where to find me?
“I won’t get any attention. I promise,” I said, taking another large bite of a brownie. “I’ll solve the mystery quietly. No one will even know I’m doing it.”
I could tell that they were going to argue with me some more, so I decided to leave. I cut another brownie, put it on a napkin, and left the table with it and my books. I went upstairs and tossed the books and the brownie on my bed. I went to the bathroom to take a shower and wash off the day. After, I slipped on my nightgown and wiped the mirror down with a towel.
I found myself studying my face. I rarely gave my appearance much attention, but I wanted to see what Remington saw when he looked at me. My face hadn’t changed in years. I was still the same Agatha I had always been. Except there was a tinge of excitement in my eyes.
The dread had been replaced with eagerness. Enthusiasm.
Was I happy? Could I be happy because a woman disappeared? Or because a handsome young man with muscles smiled at me and called me Aggie?
Just as I hadn’t dieted for many years, I hadn’t thought about attention from men for many years. Not any live man. Not a man who could touch my arm and make my blood rush through my veins like I was alive. Because that was the thing. I hadn’t felt alive for years, and I just noticed it now that I suddenly felt alive, again.
Life. It could be really good. Imagine that.
Suddenly, I realized that I wasn’t alone in the bathroom. My image in the mirror was joined by another. Behind me was a face I had known my entire life. A beautiful man’s face. A face I hadn’t seen in a year.
I whipped around. John Richards was standing in the small bathroom, looking down at me from his six-foot-four height. A little shorter than Remington, I found myself noticing. His back was ramrod straight. In my whole life, I had never seen him slouch. Not even an inch. He was wearing his usual outfit, the only clothes I had ever seen him wear.
His linen shirt was open at the neck and tucked into black pants with a high waist and pants legs that stopped just below his knees. He was barefoot, as usual, a curse for a man who had always been so formal and well-groomed during his life.
His face, like mine, was frozen in time. His looked about five years older than mine. His beard was dark and neatly trimmed, and his hair, which hung to his shoulders, was pulled back with a leather tie.
He was studying me. But unlike Remington, who was filled with joy and self-confidence, John studied me with a definite sadness in his eyes. He put his hand out, as if he was going to touch me and then as if remembering that such a thing was impossible, put it back down at his side.
“You’re here,” I breathed, not quite believing it. I thought he was gone forever. He had more or less told me he was never coming back a year ago. For my own good, he had said. To avoid heartbreak, he had said.
“I felt a disturbance in the force, and I had to see you,” he said now, a year later. He spoke with an English accent, and his voice was deep and strong. It was my favorite voice in the world.
“A disturbance in the force? Topical humor. Good one, John.”
“I’ve been practicing. Trying to stay current for you.”
A long silence fell between us, while we looked at each other, like we were trying to figure out if the other one was real. As for me, I knew that John was sort of real. Realer than not, but not real enough for a happily ever after.
How could there be a happily ever after with a man who had died over three hundred years ago?
I was in love with a ghost. And let me tell you, ghost love sucks.
“I’m happy you’re back,” I said honestly and wiped a tear from my eye.
“You see? I’ve been back in your presence for less than a minute, and I’ve already made you cry.”
“Don’t do the James Dean thing,” I said. “I hate the James Dean thing.”
“Who’s James Dean?”
I laughed. “You need to work harder on staying current, John. James Dean died in 1955.”
“Well, there you go. I hate dead people,” he said, ironically.
The James Dean thing was John being anguished. John feeling guilty. John doing the “You’re tearing me apart” scene every time we realized that this thing between us could never be realized.
Damned ghost love.
“Don’t leave again,” I whispered, terrified of his response.
“I never actually leave, you know. I can’t ever leave this house or the lighthouse. I just get quiet.”
There was another moment of silence between us, and I watched his chest rise and fall, as if he was still breathing. It was cruel, just how alive he looked.
“Don’t get quiet again,” I said, softly. “I’m not happy when you’re quiet.”
“I’m not happy when I’m quiet, either.”
We moved out of the bathroom. He followed me into my bedroom and I closed the door. I sat cross-legged on my bed, and he stood over me with his hands clasped behind his back. “Auntie Prudence died,” I informed him, taking a bite of my brownie.
“I know.”
“I run the soup shop now.”
“I know.”
“I might go to prison.”
One of John’s eyebrows shot up. I had shocked him. “Excuse me? That can’t be possible. We must do something. You must flee. Run to the Arctic Circle. You’ll be safe there.”
I smiled. I loved when John was protective of me. It proved that he returned my feelings.
“Don’t worry. I won’t go to prison because I’m going to solve the mystery myself. Look at these.” I showed John the four mystery novels. “I’m learning how to be a detective.”
“This is very exciting,” John noted. “You are flush with happiness about becoming a detective. What mystery are you going to solve?”
“A woman’s missing. Felicia White. I met her at the soup shop. She’s mean, so all kinds of people would possibly want to do her harm. And then there’s the glowing man.”
I told John about Area 38, Frances, and Amy. “Those are my only suspects,” I said. “That’s what Dashiell Hammett does. He lines up suspects.”
“That seems like a smart strategy,” John said. “In my line of work, I was given the guilty party and only had to prosecute.”
Another silence descended between us. John’s previous career was a sore subject in the Bright household. Let’s just say that John and the Brights were on the opposite sides of the law at one time, and the result was tragedy for both of us.
“Maybe Amy the cat walker has got Felicia locked up somewhere,” I said, changing the subject from John’s past.
“Maybe in a dungeon,” John guessed.
“You’re right. A dungeon would be ideal for locking up a woman. I’ll have to search all of the dungeons in Sea Breeze. I wonder if there are any dungeons in Sea Breeze.”
“What about the Frances woman?”
“She has a fudge shop. Maybe Felicia’s locked up in the fudge shop. And then there’s the Area 38 thing. That’s a secret government operation. It made a man glow blue, so I bet it could disappear a woman pretty easily.”
John’s face grew serious. “Don’t mess with the government, Agatha. The government is powerful. You could wind up in prison. Or worse.”
We locked eyes at his last words. John was intimately aware of how governments worked, and we both knew how bad “worse” could get.
“I’ll be careful,” I promised. “I don’t think Remington would put me in prison, and he’s probably already looked into Area 38. I could ask him about it.”
“Who’s Remington?”
“He’s the new detective in town.” Heaven help me, my face grew hot. I willed myself not to blush, but I was on fire. I must have turned beet red. I was blinking, too. A lot of blinking. I turned my head away from John so he couldn’t see, but of course, he had already seen.
“Ah,” John said, softly. “Remington.” He drew out the syllables of the name, as if each one gave him much needed information about the hot cop. “Tell me more about Remington.”
I opened one of the books, pretending that I suddenly found it fascinating. “Well, you know. He’s a policeman,” I said, speaking into the book so that I wouldn’t have to look directly at John. “He asks a lot of questions. He suspects everyone. And he has muscles.”
“What kind of muscles?”
“Big ones all over his body,” I said before I could stop myself.
“You’ve looked at his body?” John asked, pained. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his inner fight playing out on his face. He wanted me to be happy. In fact, he had told me many times that he wanted me to be happy. He went quiet for a year because he wanted me to be happy. But on the other hand, I didn’t think he was prepared for me to look at other men’s muscles.
“No. It’s just that I could tell he had muscles under his suit. He’s big. He’s also a fighter in his spare time,” I said.
John’s body tensed, and he stood even straighter, something I thought was impossible. “This man sounds dangerous, Agatha. Perhaps you should stay clear of him.”
John was right. Remington was dangerous. I could tell he was. But thinking about that gave me a thrill that went up and down my body. I couldn’t stop smiling.
“Yes. There’s indeed been a change in the force,” John commented, softly. “Tell me more about your Remington.”
I took a deep breath. “He calls me Aggie instead of Agatha. No one’s ever done that before.”
“That’s very rude.”
“I sort of like it,” I said and regretted it instantly.
“You do?”
“Yes.” It was impossible for me to be dishonest to John. It would be like wearing my skin on the inside of my body. Painful and physically impossible.
“I’m happy that you’re happy,” John said after a long moment. His body was still tense, his hands still clasped behind his back. Our relationship was complicated but simple. The simple part was the desire, the attraction, the undying affection, and the whole soulmate thing. The complicated part was that the simple part was flat out impossible.
“Tell me more about your investigation,” John urged me, falling on a safer subject than Remington’s muscles. “Teach me about Dashiell Hammett.”
We spoke late into the night, and I read most of one of the Dashiell Hammett books out loud to John. He was fascinated at the open violence of it, riveted by the page by page breaking of taboos and the frank openness about personal matters that were anathema to John’s time when he lived. My fascination came from a totally different aspect of the book. I was fascinated with the procedural nature of the investigation and how Dashiell Hammett let his character break it in order to solve the mystery. Breaking the rules was actually part of his rules.
It not only fascinated me. It excited me. I couldn’t wait to get started on my own investigation.
“You are tired, Agatha. You need to sleep,” John told me after midnight when I yawned. “Slip under the covers and pull them up under your chin.”
I turned off the light and slipped under the covers. “And pretend that you’re tucking me in,” I added, sleepily.
“Yes. Pretend that I’m tucking you in.” John’s velvety voice came to me through the dark room, and for the first time in a year, I knew that I would sleep well.
“John,” I said, as I began to drift off to sleep. “Don’t go quiet again. I need you here.”
“But…”
“No. Promise me.”
“I promise, Agatha. No matter the consequences.”
Chapter 5
“Going so soon? I wouldn’t hear of it. Why, my little party’s just beginning!”
–The Wicked Witch of the West
I yawned again. I couldn’t stop yawning. After precious little sleep, I could barely keep my eyes open while I served customers. And in the soup business, a server with her eyes closed is a dangerous thing.
The house had been different when I woke at four this morning. Even though it was quiet and dark, there was a palpable feeling of hope in the spaces between the walls. Perhaps it was John’s reappearance. Maybe it was my new goal of finding Felicia. Either way, the new feeling of optimism and positivity gave me a burst of energy.
That’s why I bounded up from my bed before the alarm went off. There was no sign of John when I woke, but I knew that he was giving me my privacy. Sure enough, as soon as I was dressed—and I dressed in a hurry—he had returned.
“You will remember to be careful, I trust,” John said, gently, as he followed me through the hallway and down the stairs. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he stood ramrod straight, as usual.
“Oh, I hope not,” I answered. “I want a lot of excitement. I’m going to grill the suspects today. That’s what Dashiell Hammett calls it. Grilling.”
“Can you not grill and be careful at the same time?” John asked with a slightly irritated tone in his voice.
“John, how lovely to see you,” Auntie Ida gushed, coming out of the darkness with a basket of baked goods in her hands when we arrived downstairs. She was wearing her overalls and her hair was tied up in a bandana again. “The house has been quiet without you. Not that you’re loud. You’re pleasantly not loud, in fact.”
“She means that the house has been sad without you,” Auntie Tilly said, appearing down the stairs in her housedress and slippers. “I’ve missed you, John. How are you?”
“I suppose I am the same, except that I’m concerned about Agatha. I fear that she’s in danger.”
“Do you think so?” I asked him hopefully.
“She is very excited,” John told my aunts. “Perhaps she should stay home.”
“She can’t,” Auntie Ida insisted. “It’s matza ball soup day. It’s the bestselling soup. If she doesn’t open the shop today, she’ll bring down the town.”
And that was that. John didn’t have an argument against matza ball soup, and he was far too kind to want to bring down the town. Saying goodbye to John and my aunts, I slipped on my shoes, took the basket from Auntie Ida, and left the house.
My morning turned out to be tame, much to my disappointment. The Area 38 guys didn’t show up. Even Doris and Irving were quiet. Doris was reading a book, and Irving had his nose in a Popular Mechanics magazine. There wasn’t a mention of Felicia and her disappearance in any of the other diners’ conversations. But there was a general buzz about Remington and his marital status.
I overheard Mouse talking to a table of four women about him. “I didn’t see a wedding ring, and I checked,” Mouse told the women, much to their delight.
One of them clapped her hands together. “Finally, fresh meat in this Podunk town. Did he smell good? I heard he smelled good.”
“I smelled him when he walked by me on the street,” another of the women announced, like she was Veruca Salt and had just been handed her golden ticket. “He smelled real good. Like he was single and rockin’ in bed.”
There was a general murmur of approval around the table. “That’s a good smell,” Mouse agreed.
“And he has a job. He’s a detective. How much do detectives make?” another woman asked.
It was more or less like that all morning. Nothing about Felicia. Everything about Remington.
I was just about losing hope when Frances walked in around noon and took a seat at the table next to Irving and Doris. My first suspect h
ad finally arrived. My heart beat in my chest like it was going to war. I felt giddy all over, and I hoped John was right about being in danger. I skipped over to her, ready to grill her just like in a Dashiell Hammett book.
“Today’s soups are matza ball, broccoli and cheddar, vegan paradise, and beans, beans, beans,” I told her. Drat. My professional self had pushed my mystery-solver self out of the way. When faced with my first suspect, I froze and couldn’t figure out how to grill her.
So, I was talking about soup. John would be so happy. Dashiell Hammett would be so ashamed of me.
“What’s in the beans, beans, beans soup?” Frances asked me.
“Beans.”
Frances adjusted her hair, which had been hairsprayed enough to put another hole in the ozone layer. “That makes sense. I’ll take a bowl of the matza ball soup.”
“Mouse made challah to go with it. You want a few slices?” Damn it. My soup self was getting in the way, again. Honestly, I was nervous about grilling her. Hesitant. Shy. And I couldn’t figure out how to broach the subject in a nice way about Felicia and the possibility that Frances had killed her.
“Sure,” she said. I turned to walk away in cowardly retreat, but Frances called me back. “Hey, I heard that new detective was in here, asking you questions.”
Sheesh. Everyone only wanted to talk about Remington. I understood the attraction, but a woman was missing. “He’s single, and he smells good,” I told her.
“I know that, but what did he say about Felicia?”
My ears pricked up. I hadn’t managed to broach the subject of Felicia with Frances, but she had broached it with me. I pulled out a chair at her table and sat across from her. “Are you asking me about Felicia?”
“She’s missing. You know that, right?” she asked, and I nodded. “I know something about them, Felicia and Donald.”
“Her husband Donald?”
“That’s the one. I’m their real estate agent.”