Thrown (7 page)

‘Cute? Really?’ I start the car for a third time and push the stick into first gear, willing myself to do it right this time. I let up the clutch and we move forward slowly. The revs increase and the engine starts to whine.

‘Time for second,’ Stoker says, ‘but this time pull the stick back gently.’ He puts his hand in mine and suddenly I can’t concentrate on anything except the warm touch and comforting feeling of having his hand there. ‘Put the clutch in,’ he says calmly. How can he act so calmly while he’s making me lose my mind?

I press my left foot on the clutch and Stoker pulls back smoothly on the gear shift, his hand feeling so good on mine. So right. I can’t think about anything else and I take my foot off the clutch. The Volvo jack rabbits to a stop.

‘When you’re ready, start the car again.’ He doesn’t remove his hand from where it sits on top of mine.

I feel tears springing from my eyes and I can’t believe I’m doing this, can’t believe I’m going to break down in front of this boy who I hardly even know and he’s going to see me crying. A sob escapes me and I wipe at my face with the hand he isn’t touching.

‘Hey, hey, it’s OK, Amy. You’re doing great.’

‘It isn’t that,’ I say and I hate how my voice is cracking, ‘it’s the police. They came to the book store today and they said they’re investigating…investigating…’ I feel a sudden sadness rip through me and I start to sob uncontrollably.

Stoker takes his hand off mine and removes his seat belt then shifts in his seat so he’ facing me. He puts his arm around me and pulls me toward him so my face is pressed against his chest. He smells of oil and gas with an underlying masculine scent. I grab his overalls in my fists and cry against him, feeling protected in his embrace . ‘They think…she might…

have been…murdered,’ I sob. My eyes sting from the tears and I need to blow my nose. I hate that I’ve broken down like this in front of him.

What must he think of me?

He opens the glove box and finds a box of Kleenex. He pulls three out and passes them to me.

‘Thanks.’ I blow my nose as quietly as I can and wipe my eyes. Get a grip, Amy. This guy is really going to think you’re psycho. I sit up again, already missing his strong arms around me but embarrassed that he felt the need to comfort me because I’m such a stupid mess. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s fine,’ he says reassuringly. ‘Did they really say that? Murder?’

’Not that actual word but he said foul play. And they have to investigate Aunt B’s death because it was strange that she’d fall on a clear summer evening when she was used to walking around there in all seasons and weathers.’

He looks out through the windshield but I’m pretty sure he isn’t looking at the road ahead. He seems lost in his thoughts. I guess if he knew my aunt as well as the evidence suggests - like how did he know there was a box of Kleenex in the glove compartment - then the fact that the police are investigating her death will be a shock to him as it was to me. I want to ask him how well he knew Aunt B but a part of me is actually afraid to hear the answer. I don’t know why I’m being so ridiculous about this whole situation. If he was involved with my aunt, it really isn’t any of my business. But if he was involved with her, why didn’t he turn up to her funeral? Maybe I’m reading too much into this.

The problem is I really do like him and that’s getting in the way of just getting to know him.

I have no idea what he’s thinking. He stares out of the car, his strong features unreadable.

‘We should probably get going,’ I say, ‘we’re in the middle of the road.’

‘Err, yeah. Luckily this is a quiet road. OK, start the car when you’re ready. Put her into neutral first.’

I do as he says. ‘OK, she’s in neutral.’

‘Now put her into first.’

I press the clutch and gently move the stick into position. ‘She’s in first. I think she wants to move forward.’

He glances at me sideways with those perfect gray eyes. ‘Are you mocking me?’

I look at him innocently. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Calling the car “she” like that.’

‘I’m merely following your instructions. You’re the instructor so if you say she’s a she then she’s definitely a she.’

He smiles. ‘Right. Move her forward and remember to change gears gently.’

I let the clutch up and we move along the road.

Stoker puts his hand on mine again and I’m not sure whether it’s to make sure I get the gear changes right or to comfort me after my breakdown or maybe even to comfort himself.

Either way, I like it.

I like it a lot.

*

Thirty minutes later, we’re approaching Penzance on a road that runs by the sea. I have the shift down now and I haven’t stalled the car or crunched the gears for at least ten minutes. In my mind I have a mantra that I keep repeating to myself, Push the clutch, change gear, let the clutch up slow. It’s also ten minutes since Stoker took his hand from where it covered mine and I miss it like crazy.

‘So where are we going to find the elusive Mr Tibbles?’ he asks as we drive into the small town.

‘At a place called Meow Meow.’

He nods. ‘I think I know where that is. Park here in this car park.’ He points to a parking lot on the left. I drive in and park the car and we get out. It’s a warm summer day and to everyone else we probably look like a couple on a date. Except that Stoker is wearing overalls. And he’s covered in grease. OK, we don’t look like a couple on a date. At all. My fantasies are running ahead of reality again.

He heads for a cluster of stores and I catch up with him. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Of course.’

‘Are there any places like catteries or kennels closer to Promise Cove?’

He thinks for a moment then says, ‘Yeah, there are two that I can think of. Maybe more.’

‘So how did Aunt B’s cat end up way the hell out here?’

He shrugs. ‘I have no idea. Why?’

‘Doesn’t it seem strange that someone would bring Mr Tibbles here?

It’s a half hour drive and there are at least two places closer to home.’

‘I don’t know, maybe Meow Meow serves the best cat food or something. Beth really does…did…love that cat.’

Again he lets slip the fact that he knew Aunt B and again I let it go unquestioned. None of my business.

‘But that doesn’t make sense either,’ I tell him. ‘Why would Aunt B

put him in a cattery just before she died? How could she know that was going to happen?’ Before I finish the last sentence a cold thought chills me and spreads up my spine like ice. Oh my God, what if Aunt B
did
know she was going to die?

What if she put her cat here so he would be fed and safe until I got here from America? But that that would mean she
jumped
from the cliffs.

Could she really have calmly put Mr Tibbles in the Meow Meow knowing it was the last time she was gong to see him because of what she planned to do? And why would she even do that anyway? I can’t believe Aunt B

would commit suicide, I really can’t. But it would explain a lot.

It would make sense of the fact that she fell from the cliffs despite the night being clear and dry. It would explain Mr Tibbles being in a cattery, but not why he is in one so far away from Promise Cove.

It would also let me understand, if only a little, why Mom did what she did a year ago. I know that depression can be genetic and suicide can run in families.

Does that mean I’m next? Maybe Aunt B was lonely living in Promise House all by herself with only her customers for company. And now that fate has befallen me. Am I going to go crazy in that house alone?

But was my aunt actually all alone in Promise House or did she have Stoker there to keep her company? I look at him sideways only to realize he’s looking at me with that concerned look on his face.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘You kind of faded out there.’

‘Sorry, I’m just trying to make sense of it all.’

‘You think a lot.’

I shrug. ‘And you don’t? Do you just act without thinking?’

That may have hit a raw nerve because his eyes suddenly become sad and he says, ‘Sometimes it’s better to not think.’

Before this becomes a mutual depression-fest on the sidewalk, I say,

‘OK, well you can think about where the Meow Meow Cattery is, right?’

The look passes from his face and he nods. ‘It’s just up this street.’

‘So let’s go.’

*

The Meow Meow is situated between a shoe shop and a dry cleaners.

We go in and find ourselves in a small reception area. Behind the desk, a girl with thick-rimmed glasses and red hair tied back into a pony tail is typing into a computer. From behind a door at the back of her office, I can hear faint meowing coming from some of the residents.

She looks up, sees Stoker, and unconsciously smooths down her skirt.

‘Hello, can I help you?’

‘I’m here to pick up my cat,’ I say to get her attention away from Stoker.

‘What name is it please?’

‘Anderson.’

‘Your cat’s name is Anderson?’

‘No,
my
name is Anderson. My cat’s name is Mr Tibbles.’

‘Mr Tibbles,’ she repeats, typing into the computer. ‘Ah, yes, I spoke to you on the phone this morning.’

‘That’s right.’

‘You sounded a bit different then.’

I remember the fake voice I put on earlier and nod.

‘Well Mr Tibbles’ bill is paid in full so I’ll just go and get him for you.’ She a few more keystrokes and nods. ‘Yes, we have you cat carrier here from when you brought him in.’ She gets up and goes through the door at the back. ‘Back in a moment,’ she shoots at Stoker over her shoulder with a smile.

I look over at him and he just shrugs.

‘Does this happen everywhere you go?’

‘Not everywhere, no.’

‘Really? Girls don’t just throw themselves at you everywhere? I am surprised.’

‘You didn’t,’ he says.

That throws me off guard and I don’t know how to reply. ‘Well…

no…’ I stammer, ‘I don’t really…throw myself at guys.’

‘I see.’

‘No, you don’t. I mean, I like guys. I just don’t throw myself at them so even if I liked you, I wouldn’t be throwing myself at you.’ Way to ramble on, Amy.

‘If?’

I nod, giving nothing away. ‘Yes…if.’

‘I suppose ‘if’ is something for me to work with.’

When he says that, I feel a sudden surge of endorphins in my body like I’m on a high from running a race and I’m sure my pupils are dilating. My pulse is hammering and I feel very warm. I lean on the reception counter and try to speak calmly. ‘What…what is that supposed to mean?’

‘Just what I said. I like you, Amy.’

‘OK.’ Say something more. Don’t clam up now! My mind scatters around trying to find a response but I don’t have anything else to say. I feel like my legs might give way they’re shaking so bad.

The redhead returns with a cat carrier. She places it on the counter and inside I can see Mr Tibbles jet black fur and emerald green eyes. ‘Hello, Mr Tibbles,’ I say looking in at him.

He lets out a pitiful meow.

‘He’s ready to go home,’ the redhead says. ‘I’ll just find the form you signed when you brought him in and get you to sign it to say that you’ve collected Mr Tibbles.’ She opens a filing cabinet and flicks through the papers inside.

Another cry comes from the cat carrier and the redhead speaks in a voice like she’s speaking to a two year old, ‘Oh he’s been a good boy and now he’s ready to go home.’

Mr Tibbles goes silent.

She comes back with a piece of paper. The printed form has been filled out with the address of Promise House, Mr Tibbles’ name and at the bottom is a signature that makes me catch my breath. Clearly written in black pen in the box that is marked “Owner’s Signature” are the words

‘Beth Anderson’ in my aunt’s handwriting. So she did bring the cat here herself before she died.

With a shaky hand, I sign the box that says “Animal Collected By”

and slide the form back across to the receptionist. She places it back into the cabinet and says, ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ The question is clearly directed at Stoker.

‘No, we’re good,’ I say and head for the door holding the handle of the cat carrier.

‘Here, let me take that,’ Stoker says as we get out onto the sidewalk.

He takes Mr Tibbles off me and we walk back to the car.

A part of me wants him to continue the conversation we were having before the stupid receptionist came back but he seems to have forgotten it or is purposely not mentioning it. Instead, he says, ‘I bet Mr Tibbles will be glad to get back to Promise House.’

‘Did you see the signature on that form?’ I ask him, ‘it was Aunt B.

She brought him here. Why? I don’t understand.’

‘Maybe we’ll never know.’

‘No, there has to be a reason. Aunt B used to be always reading detective novels and she would tell me that if something seems out of place, there’s a reason. She made up treasure hunts for me when I was a kid and had me hunting all over Promise House for trinkets or candy prizes she had hidden. The clues she left me were always things out of their normal place or somewhere they didn’t belong.’

‘You think your aunt is leaving you clues? To what?’

’No, I don’t mean that. It’s just that Mr Tibbles being in Penzance is something that’s out of place.’

‘But we don’t know what it means.’

‘No, we don’t.’

‘So we’ll probably never know now. We should just take him home and forget all about it. At least he’s OK.’

We reach the car and Stoker says, ‘I’ll drive back if you like. You’ve had a good practice with the gears today.’

‘Thanks, that’s kind of you.’ I put Mr Tibbles on the back seat and slide into the passenger side. Stoker gets in and starts the car and we pull out of the parking lot. It’s a relief to not have to drive all the way back to Promise Cove.

My phone rings and I pull it out of my jeans. It’s Dell.

‘Hey, I sold some books!’ she says as I answer.

‘Great. Did we have many customers?’

‘After that detective guy there were a few couples who were on vacation and wanted beach books and a family that wanted books for their kids. I’ve closed up now and I’m waiting for the taxi to come pick me up.