[Oxrun Station] The Last Call of Mourning (8 page)

***

Dale and Victor Blake came in behind a huge bouquet of flowers, dragged her off to the luncheonette for something to eat, and never stopped laughing.

"Paul—"

"Miss Yarrow, why don't you take a walk or something?"

By midafternoon the shop was empty again, and she moved slowly past the shelves, rearranging those titles shifted out of place, gathering the inventory cards that had been dropped on the floor. She searched for patterns of sale and rejection, found a few and scribbled on a pad she kept in her hand. As she drifted past the office she saw Iris bending over a low pile of order forms, sorting out the requests that had come her way once she had had the foresight to tack a "Special Orders" sign on a jamb near her desk. The woman sensed her, looked up and smiled curtly, returned to her work as though it were Cyd and not she who constituted the help. Paul was still at the register, smoking thoughtfully and watching the traffic.

I don't believe this, she thought, straightening a low cardboard rack in a far corner. The fear that had assaulted her at the sight of Mrs. Harper had quickly faded to the nervousness that had made Paul irritable; from there she'd sidled into a numbing calm, her smile automatic, her answers to idle questions courteous and sincere but brooking no conversation beyond a few moments. She knew as she spoke that her manner still left much to be desired, but she had been unable to establish a solid contact between the real world, the world of her shop, and the people who inhabited both. By the time it was four, however, she hoped she was normal again. Not once did she head for the sidewalk, nor did she fuss with the displays or count the cash in the drawer. She left Iris alone, stopped staring at the pedestrians trying to will them in like a psychic spider to vulnerable flies, instead picked up a volume of Yeats' poetry and immediately fell into the lyric melancholy that marked his
Easter Rebellion
stanzas and the eulogies they whispered. She barely noticed when someone stepped up behind her and poked a hard thumb at her shoulder.

"Yes?"

"You got any good stuff, lady? Porno, stuff like that?"

She froze, suddenly recognized the voice and shook her head. "You want degradation, mister, you'll have to watch TV." She replaced the book, turned and grinned, instantly felt her eyes brimming and cursed herself roundly.

Ed glanced around the aisles in slow examination. "Looks like a hurricane hit the place. I take it that's a good sign."

"I hope so," she said.

His voice softened. "You look tired."

She was about to play her courage role and deny it as vehemently as she thought Ed would stand it, then sagged against the wall shelf and pushed a hand through her hair. "Tired is not the word for it, sir. I feel like I've been trampled by a herd of elephants, and the doctors left me on the table and forgot to put me back together again. Does that make sense?" She frowned. "I don't care. Yes, Ed, I am tired."

"Then how about some dinner?"

Her eyes widened and her gaze darted about the shop. "Oh, I can't, Ed, really. Do you see this place? I mean, I'm staying open until nine all week, do you know what that means? Really, I don't think I can—" He pressed a palm against her mouth until, playfully, she tried to bite him.

"All right," he said. "Paul isn't stupid, and neither is Iris. They work for you, remember? And you'll only be gone for an hour, I promise. And I also promise the store will still be here when we get back, okay?"

"But Ed—"

He grinned and dropped an arm around her shoulder, led her to the front. "Cyd, I know you, remember? I know your type. You're a fine manager, a great organizer, you'd make one hell of an executive if someone gave you the chance. But you'll be dead before the new year if you don't learn quick to delegate some of the responsibility now and then. Look, today you're tired more because of nerves than anything else. Tomorrow you'll be tired because you're being slightly dumb."

"Slightly . . ." She looked over to Paul, who immediately began refilling his pipe. She knew he was right, especially since he'd shifted her concentration from the shop to her stomach and she discovered the hollow. She knew he was right, yet . . . she watched Paul studying a spot on the register, nodded and hurried back to the office to fetch her coat from the rack. Iris looked up, her glasses perched on her forehead like a second pair of eyes disturbingly transparent.

"Dinner?" she said.

Cyd nodded. "I'll be an hour, no more. Then you and Paul—"

"No matter," Iris said, reaching under the desk to show her a brown shopping bag piled with sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. "We'll eat when we're ready, Missy. We don't have regular hours at home, we don't expect them here for a while."

Cyd smiled, reached out to turn up the bulb in the desk lamp. The switch clicked over twice, once more to turn the light on again. "Nuts. I'll have to stop at the drug store and get a new one. It should be three-way. You can't work in light like this, Iris, it'll ruin your eyes."

"Oh, I don't mind."

"Iris, don't argue."

The old woman glanced up, mildly shocked despite the quivering lips that traced a smile. "You do the boss part very well, Missy."

"Oh, I try, Iris. I try."

But it wasn't until she and Ed had reached the corner on their way to the Cove when suddenly she stopped, a hand on his arm. Looking back over her shoulder, she stared at the storefront.

"What is it, Cyd? You forget something?"

It was already dark, the streetlamps on to add to the neon. Traffic, for Oxrun, was mildly heavy as offices emptied and late shoppers did their chores. A patrol car slipped by, a long and dark taxi. A yellow school bus filled with noise and cheerleaders and the basketball team. The scent of moisture in the air. The promise of a frost.

"Oh my God," she said. "I don't believe it."

"What?" he said.

"I'm not sure yet. Let me think."

They found a small booth near the kitchen door in the Cove's restaurant, a room the same size as the adjoining lounge but twice as crowded with tables for diners. And though there were already several families with children the noise level was low, almost intolerably so. Cyd said nothing, waiting until they had ordered and the order had arrived before she launched into what she knew beforehand was a meaningless prattling about the shop's first day and the fears she had had of somehow offending a customer and not making a dime. Ed listened to her carefully, ate as quickly, make her increasingly uneasy by his too-thoughtful staring, and the muttered comments and compliments that came unerringly in exactly the right places. He knows I'm stalling, she thought in a panic, and she began to speak faster, stumbling over her words and forgetting her place until, finally, he snapped out a hand to lay on her wrist.

"Quiet," he said, and pointed with his fork. "Eat that damned scrod before it gets cold. Then you can tell me what's going on."

"I don't know," she said. "I don't know if anything's going on."

"Yes, you do," he said, disturbingly accurate. "Eat."

"Damned peasants," she muttered as she picked up her knife. "Never know their place."

But she ate nonetheless, mechanically, tasting little as she tried to make sense of what was invading her mind. And when the dishes had been cleared and the sherry served in fragile clear glasses, she leaned back into the booth's corner and stared over his head.

"The lamp," she said. "The car. You ever get the feeling someone's trying to get you?"

Ed lit a cigarette, blew the smoke to one side. "One thing at a time, all right? Yes, I do get that feeling someone's after me, but in my case that's generally true—at least it was when I was a cop around here. The car—if you mean that idiot who nearly squashed you last month, I understand. But what does the lamp have to do with anything?"

"The afternoon of the fire I was in the store," she said, the words coming slowly as she took deep breaths for calming. "I had the lamp on the counter so I could see what I was doing. Ed, I did not move it back to the office. I wasn't back there working that day. And the cartons, they were piled up against the back wall, not by the desk." She held up a hand to stop him from interrupting. "That lamp came from my room at home, and I'll bet a million of Father's dollars that the wire wasn't frayed. How could it be? I just bought it recently." She stared at his cigarette, at the hypnotic amber tip. "It never occurred to me. The excitement, the police, you ... it just went out of my mind I was so worried about the store."

Ed took a slow, deliberate sip of his sherry. "You trying to make a connection between that fool kid and his car, and the fire?" "The fire was set, Ed, I'
l
l swear to it." Slowly he placed his glass in front of him, not looking at her, his fingers lightly tapping the thin stem until she wanted to snatch the glass away. A minute passed in century time before he snapped his fingers for the waitress, handed her a twenty-dollar bill for the check and slid out of the booth. "This is no place to talk about something like that," he said, holding out one hand until she took it and joined hi
m
.
"I think we need to take a long, slow walk. And don't," he said as the double doors hissed closed behind them, "worry about the store. I'll get you back in time."

"Ed, we're going to freeze!" she protested as he steered them across the street and right, heading for the park. With one hand she bunched her camel's-hair coat at the throat while the other fisted in her pocket.

"You'll also think more clearly," he said. "Come on, step it out, Cyd. Think for a while more, then talk. Say one word before you're ready, and you'll only confuse yourself."

The park was enclosed by a tall, spike-topped fence of black iron; the sidewalk broadened into a concrete apron in front of the matching gates, and Ed scowled when he saw the thick-linked chain woven through the fence and around the lock.

Beyond, there was nothing but still, winter black.

"Good idea," she said when he shook the gates in frustration. "What do you do now, climb over and haul me up by the hair?"

"I never said I was perfect," he growled.

"You," she said, "must have been one heck of a cop."

He darted a playful hand toward the shock swept over her forehead. "Too short," he said. "You'd make a lousy Rapunzel."

A van sped past them, honked once, and a young girl's laugh hung coldly in the air.,

"Oh well," he said, waited until she had linked her arm with his, then began walking slowly down Park Street, back toward Chancellor. They kept their heads down, watching their breath vanish as fast as it puffed white. Oxrun was silent then, and Cyd stayed off her heels so not to disturb it.

"I don't  know," she  said finally.  "I don't think I know."

"Know what?"

"I don't know if they're connected, the fire and the car. But they must be, Ed. That fire was deliberate, and the limousine was no accident, no matter what you and Father say." She stopped, pulling him around to face her; her limbs grew colder, and the December night grew as if ready to swallow her. "Tell me I'm crazy, but it sounds like someone's trying to kill me."

"No," he said immediately. "No, not quite."

"But Ed—"

He forced her to walk again, to listen to the crack of his shoes on the sidewalk, the cars whispering past as they angled away from the park and its black iron teeth. A nightbird called, was answered and called again; a pair of buff cats sped out from beneath a hedge, spotted them, veered sharply to retrace their flight; a radio, muffled; and Cyd began to debate on what the store had done to her mind, and her thinking, and her perception of what was real.

Two blocks later they were at the corner, standing beneath an ornamental steetlamp whose two globes were crackling dim. They saw a group of men and women leave the Mariner Cove, huddle on the sidewalk before heading off toward the Inn; probably, she thought, to take advantage of the music featured five nights a week.

Ed coughed, and she jumped. She did not smile.

"Listen, Cyd," he said with his chin tucked into his dark coat, "if someone was trying to kill you, it would have been done already. By that car if nothing else, but it didn't happen again, did it? You were brushed back—"

"You call that brushed back?"

"—and you were chased. Not a damn thing else. The fire, too, was very carefully set—
if,
mind you,
if
that's true. And if it is, then whoever set it made sure it would be a smoldering one, not something akin to an explosive spreading. If it's true, whoever did it wanted damage, not death. Remember, it happened when you weren't even there, so late at night that nobody possibly could have been there.

"I don't know. It's a lot of conjecture, obviously, but I really think, Cyd, you've made a connection over two things that happened nearly three weeks apart." His smile, then, was gentle. "No offense, but I think you're reaching."

"Ed, the lamp . . . was not in the back room."

"Are you sure?"

"I just said so, didn't I?"

The smile grew and his hands took her elbows. "My dear lady, if you think hard enough you'll probably remember that you were rather excited at the time, planning the ads and the opening, getting the Lennons to work for you, things like that. It would have been very easy for you to stop work, for instance, and just pick up the lamp and carry it back into the office out of the way. An automatic thing, see? Something you might not remember even if you were shown a picture of it."