A Curious Affair (20 page)

For the final touch of madness at this event, proof that the way to hell is indeed paved with good intentions, the organizers had learning-disabled children there picking up trash in an effort to keep the fairgrounds clean. A nice thought, supposing one thinks ear-damaging music, drugs, booze and public fornication is wholesome entertainment for impressionable minds. As I have said, public ser vice for all citizens is a sound idea in theory, but these kids had their instructions to keep the fairgrounds clean drummed into their brains, and being unable to improvise or adjust to unexpected situations, they tried to take away food and drinks before people were done eating them—and then cried and wailed if there was a fuss. Sheesh. After a couple close calls with these crying kids, the cats had fled entirely.

Exhausted, I fled too. I tried following the ferals down to the creek, calling out questions, but all they said in answer to my questions was:
Food man is dead!
Food man is dead!
I finally lost a sandal heel on the muddy bank overgrown with kiss-me-by-the-gate. No great loss. It was the shoe the stupid drunk had thrown up on;
I was tossing the footwear anyway as soon as I got home. Still, it made walking a difficult affair.

The fairground cats didn’t seem to know anything much, I assured myself as I limped toward home, avoiding the broken glass of discarded beer bottles at the side of the road, tossed by the disdainful visiting litterbugs. And, I added sternly when I heard myself sniff, I should be saying prayers of gratitude that the only thing I had wrong with me was the ability to hear cats talk. I could have ended up a drunken jerk with facial embroidery and mutilated teeth who clearly had massive self-esteem issues and probably a failing liver.

Feeling grumpy and cheated out of a tri-tip sandwich, I stopped off at Pop’s BBQ and Mexican Food, and ordered a sandwich with extra chipotle sauce.

I had barely planted my butt on the duct-taped upholstery of a back booth before a fresh assault on my nerves began. I made an effort to be nice since she was one of our own and probably new on the job, but realized I was suffering from something very close to what I call irritable book syndrome. Realizing that my nerves were overloaded from the festival and that I might actually crack if I stayed much longer, I shouted to Dotty Brighton to please make my order to go.

For those of you who aren’t writers and don’t understand what I mean, irritable book syndrome is the state you achieve when a book is coming to you like a core dump from beyond, and your muse won’t shut up long enough for you to get through a meal without scribbling rough paragraphs on your napkin or the palm of your hand. And then, when your fingers and brain are on fire and you are ready to start typing what will be the masterpiece of the century, the phone begins ringing—and it’s people you thought you’d trained not to call during the day unless they needed an immediate kidney transplant. Or, worse, it’s computerized voices that want you to
switch to MCI, shop the no-tax sale at some department store, or offer you a supposedly free vacation in Cabo San Lucas so you can learn about real estate possibilities.
Congratulations! You’ve been selected to receive a year’s subscription
to
Urine Donors Daily—
just press 2 now! Do you
need to speak to a representative about financing?—Press 8
now! Would you like to disconnect this call? Stay on the line for
our next available representative
.

And then neighbors drop in to visit—though they never have before—and even when you stare pointedly at your watch and tell them you are really busy, they just won’t shut up and go away. They invite themselves to lunch.

Good Lord! I love living in a small town where we know each other, except when I’m wrapped up in my own thoughts and trying to bring order to the chaos in my brain. Which is a lot of the time. Then it just makes me feel guilty for wanting to be left alone. I sometimes wish it was possible to get a meal, a haircut, and grocery shop without everyone you know wanting to chat, because no matter what they are saying—“Look! I’ve cut my throat and I’m bleeding to death.” Or, “My daughter just gave birth to Bigfoot’s baby.” Or “My sister, the crack whore, is out on probation”—it just isn’t as compelling as what’s in my head. And it offends and hurts them when I fail to listen to the details and make the correct response.

Of course, this time it wasn’t a book that had my attention, it was a crime. But the same kinds of feelings were coursing through me and I wanted desperately to be left alone so I could brood.

Fortified with an appetizer of stale chips and salsa, I began mulling over everything I knew and suspected about Irv’s murder. I was deep in thought, doing total eye aversion with everyone, hands over the sides of my face, scribbling on my napkin with my mercifully clean
pencil that hadn’t ended up in someone’s butt. Basically, all body language saying I was busy and to leave me alone—and the stupid waitress wouldn’t go away. Becky, her tag said. She was new and eager.
Here’s an extra fork
for salad. Not having any salad? Well, then, more salsa? Oh,
you have plenty! Let me wipe that table. Your order is to go?
More salsa, then? Perhaps a Coke? Dessert? More of that salsa
you didn’t want five minutes ago? Well, how about some chips
to go with the salsa you don’t want?
I finally turned to ask her point-blank to please give me a few minutes alone. It was after one o’clock by then, and the place was empty. They didn’t need the table for someone else, so this wasn’t an unreasonable request. I guess my face scared her because she backed up and quit smiling. I felt like I had just kicked a kitten, but didn’t apologize in case it encouraged her to come back to try being friendly again.

Dotty, Pop’s widow, came over with my order then, all bagged and ready to go. She is better at reading body language than Becky is, and having seen me in this state before, she didn’t detain me with small talk. I paid the bill, left a tip, and hurried for the door with the regrouped Becky still at my heels. No, I didn’t need extra forks or salsa to go, but thank for asking.

I all but ran home. My hands were shaking as I unlocked the front door of my house. I began to think that I should put myself back in quarantine for the duration of the investigation, but knew that wasn’t reasonable. Maybe Sherlock Holmes could solve crimes from his armchair, but I wasn’t that good. And, little though I liked it, some part of me had woken back up and, if I didn’t get away from the computer occasionally, someone would eventually find me dead, wrists slit, covered in cobwebs and the screen filled with gibberish:

Of course, that might happen anyway if I didn’t get a grip on myself. I couldn’t let normal human contact make me so crazy. I had to be able to deal with chatty waitresses and hot dog vendors and clerks at the grocery store. If I couldn’t, I would end up in a trailer in the middle of the Nevada desert, a hundred miles from the next human being.

Atherton was waiting for me in the kitchen. He didn’t say anything as I dropped the sandwich on the counter and rushed for the shower, and I didn’t volunteer anything except, “People touched me and I have to go wash.” I knew he would understand that. He didn’t care for stranger-stink on his body, either.

After I was scrubbed and my clothes were flung in the washing machine, Atherton and I sat down for some lunch. He liked the tri-tip, but not the soda, which made him sneeze when he sniffed at the can. He told me that he couldn’t taste anything except vague bitterness anyway, and I recalled that cats don’t have the ability to experience sweet flavors. What a loss—life without dessert.

Finally able to relax, I found myself telling him about the festival and confessing to him about my frustration with the lack of physical evidence that Wilkes had killed Irv. Atherton was likewise frustrated but suggested optimistically that perhaps Tyler would bring news with him when he came to Easter dinner. I let this idea calm me further. Tyler had resources and know-how that I didn’t.

Cheered with the possibility of information to come and the soothing and sympathetic company, I asked Atherton if he would like to dye Easter eggs with me. As usual, he agreed to try something new, and climbed into to my herb box to watch me as I boiled eggs in pots of water with onion skins, carrot tops and beets. This is a slower way of dying eggs, since the eggs must sit for a lot longer than they do in commercial food dyes, but the colors are pretty and the veggies infuse the egg whites with a subtle but pleasant flavor. Atherton was especially intrigued with the green eggs, so I set one aside, telling him that would be for his Easter breakfast. I don’t think he cared particularly about Easter, but he could tell that this ritual was making me feel better, so he went along with it.

He was less interested in watching me make a lemon meringue pie, except for the part with the rolling pin whose ancient squeaks attracted him, though not for very long. The sunny window was a nice place to nap, so he stayed in the kitchen while I made lemon curd and whipped egg whites into frothy peaks, occasionally cracking an eye and surveying the messy activity with sleepy approval.

That napping cat, without saying a word, made me feel much better. Soon I forgot about the dust devil and the violent freaks at the fair that I assured myself were neither kin nor kind.

Tyler isn’t the fashionably self-indulgent type who would show up late just to make a grand entrance and prove how important he is. Nor is he self-destructive. What he has in abundance is an old-fashioned social lubricant: good manners. In our neck of the woods the pleases and thank-yous keep society running smoothly. Though things have changed in other parts of the world, in our town, a bottle of wine or flowers is still an appropriate gift to bring to a dinner party. Tyler played it safe and arrived on time with both.

“How do you like your wine?” I asked. I felt excitement shoot up my body, starting with my semisensible but very fashionable two-inch heels and ending at my deep-conditioned hair.

“In a glass will do,” he said smiling. “I didn’t know the menu and figured we’d end up bending a few rules no matter what I brought.”

I put the tulips in water and the wine on the counter. I didn’t want to drink anything cold that would make my jaw lock and have me sounding like Yosemite Sam.
Tyler hung up his jacket on the wrought-iron tree by the door and we pretended to get comfortable in the living room. Maybe Tyler really was comfortable; I had too much nervous energy. Atherton sensed this and watched us carefully from the top of the wing-backed chair near the fireplace.

It seemed a good time to find out something about Tyler’s musical likes and dislikes. As the first litmus test, I put on Tom Waits’s
Closing Time
and skipped to the second track, “I Hope That I Don’t Fall in Love With You.” Waits’s music is poetry and spins some strong spells with its lyrics. He’s quirky and classic and that out-of-tune piano is both bluesy and dreamy. Not everyone likes him, though. Like the goat cheese appetizers I had on the coffee table, he’s an acquired taste.

“Ah, so you’re a fan of Mr. Waits? Makes sense.” I didn’t ask him to explain this comment. It sounded complimentary, and I let myself enjoy it without analysis. I had already done too much thinking—brooding—that morning, and it had tied my stomach in knots. It was time to begin taking things in at different level, where the emotions were a bit less bright and blinding. It would probably freak Tyler out if I started to sniffle over the last time Cal and I had done everything. It had been years now; he should be safe from such displays.

Of course, it was natural that I had thought a bit about Cal and the Easters we’d had together. Most were very happy; and if I had stopped there, it would have been fine. But I hadn’t kept my thoughts to sweet reminiscences of jelly beans and Easter parades we’d marched in. I thought about the one where he’d been too ill to attend. And then I had actually started thinking about the future, a life where I had other jelly beans and parades with someone else—and kisses like the one Tyler and I shared—and that scared the hell out of me and made me feel disloyal.

Sound crazy? It is. You can’t build a life on loving the dead to the exclusion of all others. Nevertheless, we sometimes do it, because the known loss is better than the unknown. When we love, especially for the first time, we’re giddy and unheeding. We dive headfirst into deep emotional waters and swim without fear because love has given us all the tools we need—and that’s wonderful until someone or something cuts your air hose and you discover just how far you’ve come from safety. Assuming you make it back to shore, your next invitation to take the plunge is going to cause some consternation no matter who you are. Frankly, I’m still not sure if it’s more brave or foolish to consider wading out again. I mean, who in their right mind would ever love more than once?

But then, my Memory Lane has some bad speed bumps that other people don’t have, so I tend to stay on the evenly-paved expressway where things are smooth and impersonal. This morning’s detour to Easters Past had been a mistake.

I considered explaining all these thoughts to Tyler, but I decided that there was no need. First off, it was early days yet. No one was tossing around the L word. And anyway, he was also a survivor of the deep, cruel seas of loss and life’s rocky roads of abandonment. That his marriage ended in divorce rather than death didn’t mean he wasn’t as cautious as I was about trying something again. He would be taking things slowly, too. Or so I told myself.

Still, a part of me despised myself for this fear and hesitation. Fear is the enemy of love. It is the enemy of all happy emotions. It makes us cowards. But I cannot deny that fear exists for a reason. It warns us of danger, and I had not forgotten this detail. I was weaker than I used to be—that was fact. While Cal lived I could always borrow from his determination. It’s how I survived my parents’
deaths. I was reminded of his steel will whenever I looked at the ring around my finger. And later I had found that I could—for a while—borrow the strength to face what was, and still is, an impossible thing. But after the unthinkable actually happened and I was really alone, my golden talisman didn’t work so well. I was often frightened and felt that I lived in a universe that was no longer friendly.

But, as the saying goes, sometimes the only way out is through. I couldn’t stay where I was, and going back wasn’t an option. I decided it was time to tell Tyler a bit—just the tiniest amount—about what had happened to me last autumn and to see how he reacted to my story while we were only knee-deep in emotional tidewater.

“I was hit by lightning last October…on Halloween,” I said, getting up to open the wine. I felt the need of a bracer. Also, I wanted to check on the ham. I wasn’t trusting that ornery-tempered stove with an expensive piece of meat. Murphy’s Law applies to ovens, too.

I felt Tyler’s gaze settle on me. Atherton’s as well. It was hard to know which was more surprised.

“I take it that you don’t mean that metaphorically. You didn’t have some emotional epiphany like Paul on the road to Damascus.” Tyler joined me in the kitchen, taking the corkscrew from my hand to open the wine. I watched him deal efficiently with the cork and realized how much I missed this ritual of opening a bottle of wine and then sharing a home-cooked meal.

“Nope, I mean that literally. I even saw it coming. The world changed color right before the bolt struck, and I knew something bad was about to happen. The warning wasn’t a help, though, since there was no way to avoid it. Lightning actually has a color. For me,” I added hurriedly. “I know other people don’t see it as anything but light, but I guess because of all those extra hues the orange cone in my eye gives me, I did see it—and
believe me, it isn’t a color you find even in the largest box of crayons. If I had to describe it…I’d call it neon bile. It should have flash-fried me, too, but for some reason it didn’t. I got tossed backward about five feet into a tree and blacked out for a moment, but was fine otherwise. No burns. In fact, when I came round a couple moments later I got right up and started walking home. I was feeling fine except for”—
that outraged orange
cat jabbering at me all the way to my door
—“the ringing in my ears. And the lockjaw. I guess my muscles must have spasmed. I couldn’t open my mouth for a week. And I still have problems when it’s cold or stormy, or anytime there is a rapid atmospheric change. I guess, though I didn’t die, it also altered the way I look at the world. Having something like that happen out of the blue…well, it made me feel unsafe—put on some endangered species list. It’s paranoid, but you start thinking that even nature has it in for you. I was already a bit of a recluse, anyway, and my sounding like a cartoon character every time it gets cold just made me worse. Weird, huh?”

“More than weird. You were damned lucky.” Tyler’s voice was mild enough, but there was buried feeling in it. “There could have been all kinds of terrible consequences. I knew a fireman who got hit by lightning down in LA. He was way up in a canyon when this storm moved in. It cooked his brain. There was nothing his buddies could do except call for a rescue helicopter. He was only one degree away from being a root vegetable when he arrived at the hospital.”

“Poor guy. I know it can be bad. The only other person I know who survived a hit was Irving. I think it made him a bit weird, too.” I left the topic for the time being. Turning from Tyler’s concerned stare, I opened the oven door a crack and, when no fireball whooshed out at me, I bent down and peered at the ham and scalloped
potatoes. The merlot and brown sugar glaze looked perfect and the potatoes had a lovely brown crust. A few more minutes and it would be ready. I muttered, “You just have to control yourself ten minutes more.”

“What?” Tyler asked.

“Not you. I talk to the stove sometimes,” I explained. “It’s old and cranky and has to be coaxed along. If you don’t say the magic word and plead sufficiently, it spits fireballs at you. I had it actually blow the door open when I tried to bake Christmas cookies last year. The repairman said it was a bunch of bad propane, but this thing has been trouble from the day we moved in. I’ve been considering having a shaman in to see if he can drive out the evil spirit that must live in its metal guts.”

“I am all for the power of prayer, but I think maybe I better have a look at thing later and we’ll save the shaman as a last resort,” Tyler said, his brow knitting. “It probably isn’t calibrated right. There is a difference between settings for gas and propane. Don’t use it again until I have a look.”

“Is there a difference?” I asked, pleased. “Makes sense. Oh, that reminds me, there is something I’ve been meaning to show you.” I’d suddenly recalled Irv’s nugget stashed away with the clove and nutmeg. I closed the oven door and accepted a glass of wine. Tyler must have looked in the cupboard while my back was turned and fetched the goblets. He was making himself at home and I didn’t mind. I am not territorial about the kitchen.

“What is it? A leaky faucet?” he asked. “I’m good at plumbing things. Not so great with electrical.” I could smell his aftershave and still really liked it, but tried not to be obvious about my sniffing.

“It’s something of Irv’s.” I opened the spice cupboard and took out an empty baking powder tin where I had been keeping Irv’s nugget wrapped in some cheesecloth.
I showed the gold lump to Tyler and told him how I had gotten it, though I was a bit hazy about when. The last thing I showed him were the pictures I had taken from Irv’s hole in the wall.

“You think this came from one of the old mine shafts on Irv’s property?” Tyler asked, turning the uneven lump over in his palm.

“No, you get ore out of mines. Irv had more what you would call coyote holes. Those are shafts that go down twenty or thirty feet until you hit bedrock. That’s where the gold is because it’s heavier than the other kinds of stone and accumulates at the bottom,” I said, simplifying. “But lumps like this are usually found in stream beds. The thing is, like you, most people are kind of hazy about the difference between the mining and panning parts of the operation, and Irv’s nephew might well have seen this—or other nuggets Irv had—and come to the same conclusion about them coming from a mine or some kind of a dry dig on the property.”

“And this is why you believe that Wilkes killed Irv? Because he doesn’t know the difference between nuggets from a stream and ore from a mine?” Tyler didn’t seem impressed with the thumb-size nugget. I decided it was a good thing he didn’t suffer from gold fever, but I couldn’t quite comprehend how one could hold that much gold and not be a little excited.

“It’s a lot prettier when it’s shined up,” I said. “And, yes, I think Wilkes killed Irv for some played-out coyote hole that won’t yield up anything because it was picked clean decades ago. Look at the hanky. He had more nuggets in here. A lot more.”

Tyler had a faraway look on his face.

“What?” I asked. “You’re thinking something.”

“I’m just thinking that it might be interesting to inform Wilkes about this fact. Just to see if the disappointment runs deep.”

“And I would love to be there to see it.” This wasn’t a subtle hint.

“I’m sure.” Tyler sipped his wine but made no promises about catering to my vengeful whims. I took the nugget and put the pretty lump back in the tin. Tyler didn’t suggest I hand it over to Wilkes. He picked up the two photographs I had taken from Irv’s hidey-hole.

“I can’t tell what’s in this pan. It might be nuggets but it might not.”

“No, I can’t tell for sure, either,” I admitted. “The pictures are bad. But why would Irv shoot film of plain old dirt and rocks? And look, he only exposed two frames on this roll before he took it in for developing. Something in these photos is significant—or was to him. Otherwise, he’d have waited until he used the whole roll. Irv wasn’t profligate.”

“It’s damned suggestive,” Tyler admitted. “I’ll keep these, okay? Maybe we can blow them up and get a better look at what’s in them.”

“Sure.” I appreciated that he’d asked. We both knew that he didn’t have to.

The timer gave a soft chime and I reached for the pot holders beside the stove. I lifted the small pot of baby artichokes and carried them to the sink, where I poured off the garlic water. I had found that a clove of garlic and a drizzle of olive oil made even the toughest ’choke soft and tasty. I had hesitated briefly over making my creamy salsa dip, since it has pepper fangs and claws and isn’t to everyone’s taste. But Tyler had stood up well both to garlic and gorgonzola cheese—not to mention really bad coffee at Don’s place—so I figured he could handle it. Or would fake it like a good macho man and do his panting later when I wasn’t looking.

“That smells delicious,” Tyler said. “I never seem to find time for cooking these days. This is a real treat.”

“For me, too. It’s been a long time since I did anything
other than survival cooking.” Like, since Cal got really sick. And I had missed it. I nodded at the pot holders beside the oven and said, “Would you turn the oven off? Give it a twenty count, and if there’s no fireball rushing at you then pull out the ham, okay?”

“Sure. Do you want me to give it a last basting?”