Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island (30 page)

“Uh, Peter, could I ask you something? Some help?”

A direction things did not usually go, thought Peter. At least not so quickly. “Depends on what it is.”

“So there's this girl—uh, young woman, this friend. The one who gave me the critique on the novella?”

“Yes?”

“Well, I haven't heard from her in nearly three weeks, or seen her. Since when we first met, there'd never been a time when we weren't in touch at least twice a week, an email or phone call, even meeting. Now it's been three weeks and it just isn't like her.”

“So what are you saying, that your girlfriend's disappeared?”

“Yeah but, see, she's not my girlfriend; she's just a friend, and I like her a lot but we've never gone out or anything. She's just graduated from Reed College and I figured maybe one day I'd ask her out, but right now I'm just worried about her. I know where she lives and I've called a couple of times and even left a message, but she hasn't answered.”

“Where does she live?”

“Here. On San Juan. At her father's house. On campus.”

“And the help you'd like from me?”

“Would you—would you go with me to her house? And ask her father if he knows where she is? If she's in some kind of trouble, I'd like to help her.”

“You can't talk to him about this yourself?”

“I don't know him. Except I know he's very important on campus. He—he sort of intimidates me. By reputation, I mean. I've never met him.”

The key slid into the lock and the tumblers turned. “He wouldn't intimidate me?”

“No sir—Peter. Susanna says he's your friend.”

They agreed to meet in the morning. Peter finished his drink and left.

All the gliding, leaping images on the inside of Noel's eyelids that might have been electronically transported onto a Visualizer's monitor were hacked away as Noel opened his lids to the dying sound of grating explosion, crashing glass, the acrid smell of thick smoke. He was in bed. Dreaming? No, still in the kitchen! He leapt to his feet, knocking the vodka glass and deflecting it before it fell, and stumbled. His bedroom door! Smoke underneath—open it? Danger! Don't let the fire into the rest of the house!

HE STOPPED OUTSIDE
the door and stared at the opaque windows. From the voices and music inside, he knew the bar was still open. Half disappointed, half now having to prepare himself. Maybe he really should go back to the house. But he needed to know more about her. But this way? He didn't have a lot of acting experience, midsize parts in a couple of mid-level plays, and the commedia stuff—he could hardly come into Thor's as Arlechino, servant, trickster, clown. Had to find a better way. Susanna was remarkable. How did she feel about him? Even if the situation was crazy. Kidnapping. No getting around that. And going into Thor's now, asking questions about Susanna—no, talking to her friends, learning about them to get a better sense of her.

He could just talk to Susanna in the morning. He'd ask her . . . He suddenly discovered he was afraid. Of Susanna? No, of Susanna and him. How deeply she electrified him. He'd had his share of fuck-buddies and three of them had been serious affairs; they wanted him in the forever way. He'd had the good sense to back off—he didn't want any of them outside the sex. And he'd heard sex, no matter how good at the start, deteriorated after a few hundred times with the same woman. Deteriorated. What a notion. It disgusted him.

But this with Susanna, whom he barely knew, this felt different. One kiss and he knew. By giving her that dress, he'd shot their—whatever it was, relationship?—way out of the stratosphere. He had to know more about her, and not just from her. Where she fit into the world. If he knew what surrounded her normally, he'd have a better sense of this woman he—admit it, Fredric—was falling in love with. Maybe going to jail for kidnapping. Which could not be undone. If he just released her, went with her to the Sheriff, explained? He'd have to talk to her first. He'd have to give up Raoul. Their years of real camaraderie, dumped.

Okay, go into this place or go home. But home was a rented house chosen only because it had a basement room that could be locked up. Bit of construction work and they'd created a cell in the cellar. Raoul's joke, shit. He pushed open the door to Thor's.

A warm feel to the place. Lights low. At the back of the room, the bar with some stools. One occupied by a woman in jeans talking to the bartender. A dozen tables, some for two, some for a group. Candles on each. Only one table in use, a bunch of noisy drinkers sitting around, four candles. Fredric walked to the bar and sat on a stool two away from the woman. Late twenties, Fredric guessed. The bartender said to the woman, “Excuse me,” and sidled over to Fredric. “What'll it be, sir?”

“Stoli on the rocks, please. You got peppercorns?”

The bartender smiled. “Only for the cognoscenti.”

“Can you put six out? I'll choose the four I want.”

“At last someone comes in who knows how to drink vodka.”

The woman looked over. “'At shounds good, make me 'un too.”

“Janey, you've had it for tonight. I'll call you a cab.”

“Aw, c'mon, Thor, ownee wun.”

Thor's hands were working, ice in glass, vodka over. A little plate, a jar of peppercorns, a spoon, eight corns on the plate which he slid to Fredric. “A larger choice for a true gentleman.”

“Hey, t'ue gennemun, buy me a vodka.”

Fredric smiled at her, then selected the four—make it the five—largest peppercorns and dropped them into his glass. Lots of laughter from the table behind him. He watched Thor press a coded number on his cell and a moment later say, “One, a lady, ready to go.”

“Aw, Thor—”

Thor watched Fredric sip his vodka. “Where'd you learn about peppercorns?”

Fredric remembered. Raoul. “A friend. Who picked up the taste for it from a woman who'd lived in Vladivostock.” He raised his glass. “
Dasvedanya
, Thor.”

Thor glanced at his watch and said to Fredric, “I guess it's late enough.” He reached for another glass, more ice, the Stolichnaya bottle, poured a healthy double, dumped a dozen peppercorns into his palm, chose eight, into the glass, the other corns back into the jar. “
Dasvedanya
. What's your name?” He sipped. “Good.”

Janey said, “Be good guy, a teensy 'un f'me.”

Must've been a really good joke back there, from the roar. “Name's Frank.”

“Welcome, Frank.” And to Janey, “Look, kiddo, here's your cab.” He came around from behind the bar, took the woman's arm, led her to the door, opened it.

The woman cabbie was already up the steps to help her away. Fredric heard her say, “Easy does it, Janey—” The door closed. Thor locked it. He came and sat on a stool beside Fredric. “You new here? Haven't seen you before.”

“Just arrived.”

“What brings you to Friday Harbor?”

“A month to myself. I'll be painting.” Fredric had known he'd be getting questions like this. “Maybe some salmon fishing too.”

“Come to the right place, Frank.”

“Recommend a skipper who'd take me out?”

“Sure, couple of guys are real good. I've got their cards behind the bar.”

“Great.” Fredric raised his glass, touched it to Thor's. “Wonder if there's somebody you might know; my cousin's friend told me to look her up. Susanna Rossini.”

“Susanna.”

“Yeah. Trent told me she comes in here sometimes.”

“That's right. She does.”

“Was she in tonight?”

“Nope. Haven't seen her in a while. But she's a regular.”

“Well, I'll try some other time. Know where she lives?”

Thor's face twisted, one eye squinting, as if in explorative thought. He shook his head. “Can't say I do.”

But Fredric had seen—and done—enough bad acting to recognize a lie. Better stop pushing. He sipped again.

A man in his late twenties got up from the raucous table and stood across from Thor. “You looking for Susanna Rossini?”

“Yeah. Know where I could find her?”

“Who're you?”

“Name's Frank Leger. Who're you?”

“Jordan Beck. You know Susanna?”

“Nope. Know her cousin's friend Trent. He went to the same school she did, told me if I got to San Juan Island, I should look her up. I'm here, and I'm looking.”

“Hey, if you know her cousin, then you're practically a member of Thor's family. Come have a drink with us. We're celebrating.”

Thor shook his head. “I'm closing up, Jordan.”

“Hey, it's not every day that I find out I got my master's degree. Come on man, have a drink with us.”

Thor scowled, as fake a grimace as Fredric's sense of his head twisting moments earlier. All good natured but so transparent. “Okay, guys, but it's the last round.” He headed for the bar.

“Two pitchers!” called Jordan. “On my tab!”

Thor turned. “Another Stoli?”

Fredric nodded, and followed Jordan to the table. Beck introduced Frank Leger to Tom, a tall man about Fredric's age with lank blond hair, his arm around a beauty with long brown hair, in a halter top, Sara. “Good to meetcha, Frank, yer cute.” Then Spider Jester, “Really my name, man, no jokes, and this is Raina; anything you need in town, she can find it for you. She's with the Chamber and knows this place better'n anybody.” Raina's short black hair glowed in the steady candlelight. Jordan said, “Frank's been asking about Susanna, because he's a friend of Susanna's cousin Trent, and Trent was at Reed with Susanna.”

“Hey, Frank,” said Spider, “welcome to the party. Jordan's just passed his last hurdle, gonna be a real writer.”

“Congrats, Jordan.” He raised his near-empty glass and sipped. Jordan pulled a chair up to the table between Sara and Raina. They made room for it.

Fredric sat. “Actually, I'm a friend of Susanna's cousin's friend, Trent. All of you know Susanna?”

“Yep,” said Tom, “except Sara.”

“Hey, I met her.”

“Did you?”

“Bit too snooty f'me,” said Sara.

“C'mon,” said Spider, “Susanna's great. Bee-yu-ti-full, and real smart, and funny.”

“What he says,” said Tom, his arm pulling Sara tighter to him.

Thor arrived with two pitchers of beer, another Stoli, twelve peppercorns, and set the lot on the table.

Jordan grabbed another chair. “Thor, join us, you gotta!”

Thor sighed as if in mental anguish and said, “Yeah, okay. But we're closed.”

Raina gave a little squeal. “A private party!” They all laughed.

Is this what I wanted to learn, thought Fredric.

Jordan started telling “Frank” the story of having come across his thesis director, Peter Langley, here at the bar about an hour ago.

“Third time around?” asked Tom, and Raina said, “I've heard this one,” and from Sara, “Could tell it m'self,” and the women went to the washroom.

Jordan continued to Frank, “So it was only this evening that I learned I'd passed and with high honors. And it was your friend Trent's cousin Susanna who helped me, did a lot of critiquing and got me onto the right path. She's really smart.”

Fredric believed Jordan. Yet she hangs out with these people. Except she'd called them boring, said she was going to stop spending time with them. He sipped his vodka and glanced around the table. Actually they didn't seem too bad—just too much beer all around. Except for the beauty, Sara. She seemed severely powder-brained.

Jordan was still speaking about Susanna: “. . . knows a lot about a lot. She reads all the time, makes notes, remembers. She's really wonderful.”

Fredric watched Jordan's lips curve up in a private smile. He sipped his vodka.

“I like her a lot,” said Jordan. “Too bad.”

“What's too bad?” His vodka was draining. Time to go.

“She's a little young for me.”

And what did he mean by that? But before he could ask, he realized Raina was back beside him. “Don't I know you from somewhere, Frank?”

Think, think! He made his face look like he was thinking: lips squeezed together, brow furling. Ah! “You're at the Chamber of Commerce, right?”

“Right.”

“I was in a few days ago. To get some brochures. You gave me a bunch of stuff about the island. The American Camp. The English Camp.”

Raina nodded slowly. “That must have been it.”

Just what she handed out to everybody, Fredric figured. He finished his vodka. Where could she know him from? Probably didn't. Just making conversation, trying to save him from Jordan's puffery. He turned to Thor and started to stand. “Gotta go, Thor. Want to settle up.”

Jordan grabbed “Frank” by the elbow. “Never mind. Thor, put it on my tab.”