No Gun Intended (3 page)

Chapter Four

“Mickey, there's no need for you to come out here. I'm fine. I'm creeped out, but I'm fine.” I took a sip of pinot gris. I was sitting on the back porch with my jacket zipped all the way up, gloves on, and my sock-monkey knit hat covering my ears. It's the warmest hat I own and I think it's cute, no matter what Mickey says. Or my mother. As for Dad, he's mute on the monkey-hat debate.

“Babe, I can tell you're upset. Your voice has a weird vibrato going on.”

“It's cold and I'm outside.”

“Are you wearing your sock-monkey?”

I laughed. “Of course I am. You miss me, right?”

“Especially in that hat. Look, you keep me posted. I want to know what they find out about the girl and the gun. I…” He stopped.

“You what?” I could imagine Mickey running his hand through his dark hair and closing his eyes tight, like he does before he's going to say something he doesn't want to say.

“I'm worried that you're in danger.”

I sighed. “No, Claudia's in danger. Not me. Plus, Mom and Dad and Dusty are taking good care of me. You should have seen Mom with Claudia. She was amazing, of course. Took charge of the situation, told me and Dad what to do, gave the EMTs a detailed report on Claudia's pulse and…”

“See? You're upset. You already told me all of this. I'm coming out.”

I stamped my feet. My toes were going numb. “No. You have a job. An important one. Any progress on the missing boy? The parents must be frantic.”

“Actually, I have a couple of leads.” He paused. “I should follow this through, you're right. Every hour that passes reduces the chances of finding this kid, Matthew. But…”

“Let's take this day by day. If I really need you, I'll let you know. Right now, I need to get warm.”

Mickey exhaled. “Hmm. I should be getting you warm, in bed.”

“That would be nice, but not necessary because I brought…”

“Let me guess: your flannel pajamas?”

“Yup.”

“Are you wearing sock-monkey to bed, too?”

I giggled. “That's a little kinky, Mickey, and no. Just big socks on my feet. So, you see, I'm well taken care of.”

“You don't need me.”

I paused. “I always need you, more than a coach needs his cleats. And I always have you with me, whether you're in bed with me or not.”

“Quarterback, you nut. Love you.”

“Love you.”

We hung up.

***

I didn't like lying to Mickey, but I didn't want to worry him. Fact was, I
could
be in danger. Claudia was still unconscious, in a coma. Whoever wanted that gun was still out there somewhere, and if Claudia told him or her about our conversation, maybe he or she wasn't too happy about a “detective” being involved. But I wasn't going to alarm Mickey. Not yet, anyway. I was going to play it cool, calm, and collected.

Not an easy role for me. It would be like Chelsea Handler playing the lead in a biopic about Mother Teresa.

Mom had picked up pizza from an Italian restaurant a couple of blocks away, and Dad had thrown together a salad. We sat down to eat, with Dusty eyeing us hopefully.

“How's Mick?” asked Dad.

“Fine. Busy with a case.”

“That's good, right?”

“Yup. Good for him. For us. A missing ten-year-old, though, which makes it tough. He said he has some leads, though.”

“Well, if anyone can find him, I bet Mickey can,” Dad said.

I took a bite of pizza. I had never heard of Brussels sprouts on pizza before, but this was delicious. Béchamel sauce, onions…yum. “This is so good!”

Mom nodded. “Our favorite.” She took a swallow of wine. “So, what are we going to do?

“Tomorrow?” I asked.

“No, about the girl.”

Dad put his forkful of salad back on its plate. “Syl, what are you talking about? This is in the hands of the police. There is nothing for us to do. We gave our statements, and that's that.” He eyed me sternly. “You should have told the police right away that Claudia called you.”

“You're right, Dad.” I took another bite, not wanting to continue that conversation. The police had already chastised me. But I had every intention of finding out more about Claudia and what happened to her—without the help of Mom's new Nancy Drew alter ego. I couldn't put my parents through any more trauma.

I swallowed and gulped down some water. “Let's not think about this anymore. How about we go shopping tomorrow, Mom? Boots?”

Mom sighed. “Fine. But not until the afternoon. I'm volunteering at the homeless clinic in the morning, eight to twelve.”

“Wow! That's wonderful. You didn't tell me!”

“Your mother, Bea, is a godsend doctor there. It's a great clinic, offering free medical exams and treatment.” Dad reached over and squeezed Mom's shoulder.

“I mostly take blood pressure and temperatures. But I like it. I've met some great people.”

I smiled. “You rock, Mom.”

After we finished our meals, I cleared the table and did the dishes. Mom and Dad were reading in the living room, and I joined them with my Hepburn biography. Mom soon declared she was going to bed and kissed us each good night.

Dad leaned toward me. “She's a little rattled.”

“I'm sorry, Dad.”

“Not your fault, darling. But I want to help you find out what's going on.”

I laughed. “What about ‘this is in the hands of the police'?”

He smiled. “I'm a good husband.”

“You are indeed. But Dad, I don't want either of you involved. Mickey would agree with me on that point, absolutely. He doesn't want any of us to do anything about this.”

“He's a good boyfriend.” Dad sat back. “But what harm will a little research do?”

We regarded each other for a moment. “Fine,” I said. “But just research.”

“Good. I'll meet you at the dining-room table in the morning at eight-thirty, with my laptop powered up.” He stood up and held out his arms to hug me, and I embraced him.

Chapter Five

I didn't sleep well. Fact was, my flannel PJs and heavy socks weren't very comforting. I missed Mickey more than I thought I would after only a couple of days away from him. I don't like to think that I need him
so
much that I can't function well on my own. But we hadn't been apart since I moved to New York, and the double bed in Portland felt too big, even though it was smaller than our queen-size at home. Joni Mitchell's song about the bed too wide and the frying pan too big rang in my head. I decided to give up on sleep and went downstairs to see if there were any good movies on TV.

It turned out that
The Heat
was just starting, with Melissa McCarthy and Sandra Bullock, and it was just what I needed. I laughed out loud, especially when McCarthy vamps on her captain not having any balls. Dusty slept at my feet, but would wag her tail each time I laughed.

I made my way back to bed at the end and crawled in with a smile on my face. It wasn't long before I was asleep.

It wasn't long before I woke up again, either. Dad was knocking on the door. “Bea, it's eight-thirty.”

I sat up. “Right! Coming!” I got up and pulled the afghan on the bed around my shoulders.

Dad had a cup of coffee waiting for me on the table. He was squinting at his laptop screen, scrolling through some Google search, and slurping his own coffee. “Sleep well?”

“Once I got to sleep.” I sat down, sipped some coffee, and warmed my hands around the mug. “It's chilly this morning.”

Dad didn't look at me. “I can turn up the heat.” I noticed he was wearing a fleece pullover. “I don't know how to do Facebook.”

“Huh?”

“Claudia Bigelow. I Googled her, and it looks like she's on Facebook, but I can't seem to get anywhere without being a member. I'm on some page, but I can't get anywhere else…”

I peered over his shoulder. “Log in with my e-mail.” Dad typed. “Now my password, which is MakeMyDay. Capitalize the first letters and make it all one word.”

Dad laughed. “Eastwood. Even I know that one.
Dirty Harry
.” He typed and hit Enter, and a few options for Claudia Bigelow popped up. We identified her right away through her picture, and clicked through to her “about” page.

“Seattle area, lives with her parents, going to community college, twenty years old.” I swallowed some more coffee. “Go to her Timeline, Dad.”

She had recently posted a few pictures of herself with girlfriends. Dad scrolled down and stopped at the first text entry. It was dated four days ago. “Excited about my trip to Portland. Voodoo donuts and food truck heaven!”

I leaned back. “Translation, Dad?”

“Gourmet doughnuts are a trend here, and the food trucks are known for their quality. Many ethnic varieties. There's a fairly new court of them on Division. We'll treat you while you're here.” He paused, still squinting at the screen. “Do you think these pictures with her friends were taken in Portland?”

I scanned the dates. “No. They're dated the same as her Portland entry, see there?” I pointed.

Claudia wasn't a big Facebooker, so we didn't find out much more, except that she liked “The Voice” and “So You Think You Can Dance” TV shows. We reviewed her list of friends, but that was disappointing, too. Only thirteen, which included her mother, Nancy; and some cousins; as well as said girlfriends in the pictures. There were no boyfriend pictures.

“Maybe she's a lesbian,” I mused.

Dad scribbled her mother's name on a notepad and then clicked on her picture. There was even less information there. “I bet she joined Facebook just to keep track of her daughter.”

“And I bet that's why her daughter doesn't post much on Facebook.” I finished my coffee and got up to pour myself another mugful. “Let's find their street address in Seattle, just in case we want to contact Claudia's parents.” I gave Dad a couple of sites to try, and he typed away while I slurped. Mickey had started training me in using the Internet to track people down.

“Got it. That is, if Nancy Bigelow is married to Phillip Bigelow.” He wrote down the information and sat back. “Not sure what else we should do. You?”

I shrugged. “Not sure, either. Let's hope Claudia wakes up from that coma soon.”

“Breakfast? Eggs?”

“If you're cooking, I'm eating. I'll take a quick shower.”

And with that, I trotted upstairs, groggy in spite of the coffee, to make myself presentable. Halfway up, Dad's voice stopped me.

“Bea! Come here!”

I scampered back down. Dad was staring at the computer screen with a smile on his face. “Nice photographs!”

I took a look. He was on
my
Facebook page, scrolling through pictures of me and Mickey. “Dad, you've seen some of those before, I e-mail them to you sometimes….”

He frowned. “You don't have very many Friends.”

I sighed. “Dad, it's just Facebook. I don't use it much.”

He was scrolling away. “Aha! So that's Ruby!” He had clicked on a picture of Luis' wife. “She's beautiful. When are they moving to New York?”

“We hope by the end of January.” I rested my hands on his shoulders. “Um, Dad, could we leave Facebook alone?”

He turned to me. “What's the matter, honey? Something here you don't want me to see?” He smiled. “Why don't I join and we can be friends?”

“Cut it out. You're already my best friend.” I leaned over him and closed the browser. “Eggs.” I kissed the top of his head and went back upstairs, making a mental note to change my Facebook password. It's not like I had anything to hide, but I didn't want my parents all over my life, either.

***

The Pearl District in Portland is hip and fun. It used to be the industrial area of downtown, but now it hosts a ton of restaurants, bars, stores, and condos. Mom and I took the bus downtown, and then walked north several blocks to the upscale shoe store where she bought her boots. It was another cold, sunny day, and I was wearing my sock-monkey hat in spite of Mom's objections. A little boy in the store couldn't take his eyes off of me. I smiled at him. He pointed at my head and said, “That hat is for kids.”

Mom nodded. “What a smart boy, you are! Doesn't she look silly?”

He nodded back. “Silly.”

I rolled my eyes and turned to examine a pair of gray suede boots with contrasting blue accents on the toes and around the backs of the heels. “Wow. These would put Katharine Ross to shame.”

“And she is…?” Mom picked up the boot.

“Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”

“Right. Try it on?” She handed it to me.

I peered at the price. “Um, better not.” I showed Mom. “Two hundred and fifty buckaroos. And I'm not even employed.” I put the boot back on the shelf. “Shore is purty, though.”

“That's not a lot for a great pair of boots that will last you a long time.”

“Too much for me right now.”

Mom smiled. “Good to see that you are budget-aware, my darling. How about I buy you lunch?”

Mom took me to the Byways Café, a small retro diner, and we ordered grilled cheese sandwiches and chocolate milkshakes. Mom's a doctor, but she doesn't believe in depriving herself or her family of fatty foods on occasion, thank goodness.

We munched away and she asked me about the gun. “I just don't understand why Mickey bought it for you. Is your new life in New York so dangerous that you need it?”

“He simply believes in guns, Mom. I mean, we do have this detective agency now, which means we might be dealing with some criminals from time to time, and Mickey wants me to be prepared.”

“I suppose they're necessary. We have friends who have guns, but I just don't fucking like them.” Mom grabbed a French fry and stuck it in her mouth, then another, and another.

“I'm not crazy about them, either. You know that. Mine is in the closet. It's probably the main disagreement Mickey and I have about anything.” I watched her going at the French fries. “Mom, slow down.”

She swallowed and took a sip of her milkshake. “I'm going to the ladies' room.”

I sat staring out the window onto Glisan Street, thinking about that gun, and wishing it wasn't in the closet at home, when I focused on someone outside and froze, French fry halfway to my mouth.

It was Loren Scranton. He was peering in the window.

He didn't seem to recognize me, or at least he pretended not to.

I still had on the sock-monkey hat. A good disguise.

I threw some money on the table, put on my jacket and grabbed my purse and Mom's coat and made my way back to the restrooms.

Mom was inside, washing her hands. “Ready to go, dear?”

There was no exit out the back that I could see. I didn't want to alarm Mom, but I didn't want to run into Scranton, either. Was he following us? This was too much of a coincidence to believe that it was a coincidence. “The universe is rarely so lazy,” as Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock Holmes once said.

“Not quite. Wait for me here?” I handed her our stuff, went into a stall, and latched the door. My heart was racing. If I could delay our exit for a few minutes, maybe Scranton would be far enough away once we left.

“Annabelle, let's head back into downtown. I want to take you to John Helmer's.”

I flushed the toilet. “What's that?”

“Mostly men's clothes and hats, but they have a great selection of women's hats, too. I want to buy you one. That monkey of yours has to go.”

I came out of the stall. “Okay. Long walk?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“How about a cab?” I figured Scranton would have a hard time tailing us if he was on foot and we weren't.

“For chrissakes, dear, it's a beautiful day and the last I knew, you were running in Central Park every morning. We'll walk. It'll be good for both of us.” She put on her coat and handed me my purse. “Buck up, little missy.”

I smiled at her weakly. “Mom, I have something to tell you.”

She scowled at me. “What?”

“Scranton. He was outside a minute ago. I think he's following us.”

She stared at me. “Should we call the police?”

“Let's call a cab, instead.” I pulled out my phone. “It's probably just a coincidence.”

“Coincidence my ass, Annabelle.” She yanked on the door.

“Mom! Where are you going?”

“Outside. I want to find that dickhead.”

She left me no choice. I followed her.

She was walking fast and muttering to herself. “That fucking creep. I'll show him a thing or two. Tailing us around like some jackshit stalker. He doesn't know what's coming. If I ever…”

“Mom! Slow down and stop talking to yourself! People are staring!”

“That's your hat they're looking at, Annabelle. Not me.”

We were practically jogging. “He's gone, Mom. Slow down, please!” We rounded a corner and Mom came to such a sudden stop that I ran into her. “Jeez!”

She took a deep breath and looked around. “I don't see him. Are you sure it was him?”

“Yes. But running all over Portland isn't going to do us any good, beyond strengthening our calf muscles.” I grabbed her arm. “We'll tell the police, okay? Right now, let's get a cab….”

“A streetcar is coming. Let's catch that. It will take us toward Helmer's.”

“Mom, I really don't want a new hat. I have lots of hats. I'll take this off if it really bothers you that much.”

I reached up to pull off my sock monkey, but she stopped me, planting her palm on top of my head. “Don't move.”

“What.”

“I see him. Over there, in front of that coffee shop.”

I turned around and sure enough, there was Scranton, leaning against a shop window. Mom started off in his direction, but I grabbed her again. “No, Mom. Stop.”

“He doesn't get to stalk us, Annabelle.”

“We don't know that he
is
stalking us. We need a plan before we go after him. I mean, a plan beyond you kicking him with your boots.” I suddenly wished I had bought that gray suede pair that would last me a lifetime. “Why don't I call the police right now, tell them that he's here, and then…?” I stopped short, because in that moment, Loren Scranton stepped out in the street, where an oncoming car hurled him high in the air to land like a brick.

Without another thought we ran toward him, Mom telling me to call an ambulance.

Two emergency calls in two days. This vacation of mine was starting to feel as disastrous as the one Burt Reynolds took in
Deliverance.
At least I was in Portland and not canoeing down the rapids of the Cahulawassee River, hunted by inbreds.