Finn-agled

by Kristine Raymond

  “And my throat was collateral damage?”

  “Something like that.”

  Gotta hand it to Zara – her attempt to make me feel better was somewhat successful. Figuring interviewing for a new best friend at this juncture in her life is low on her list of priorities, I took her at her word. “Go. Solve crime. Hey, we’re still on for mani-pedis Wednesday, right?”

  “Absolutely.” Injecting comic relief into a semi-tense situation, Duley waggled his fingers. “Maybe I’ll go with sparkle polish this time.”

  I grinned, contradicting Zara’s grimace. “He’s a laugh riot.”

  “Isn’t he though?” She shot an exasperated look at her partner. “Imagine working with him all day.”

  “I can hear you, you know.” Shutting off the lights, Duley followed us into the hall, leaving the dead behind to rest in darkness.

  Sundays are usually my days to sleep in, so with no idea how to fill the extra three hours of daylight bestowed upon me, I decided to hit the beach for an early morning walk. Swinging by the house to pick up Garfunkel, and with a quick detour through Dave’s Donuts drive-through for coffee and bagels, I pointed Lance in the direction of Clamshell Beach; the fact that Victoria Stellan’s body had been found along the seawall – pure coincidence.

  A half-dozen vehicles were already there when I pulled into the lot. Diehard health enthusiasts and worshipers who chose to commune with the Almighty surrounded by nature rather than under a steepled roof had heeded the call of the ocean, the surf and salt air as powerful a Siren as any mythological character ever immortalized.

  Parking behind a minivan sporting New Hampshire plates, one of those rear window stickers depicting a family consisting of two adults, four children of varying heights and, I’m assuming, ages, and three dogs caught my attention. Even if the canines remained behind in the Granite State, it boggles the mind to imagine what their road trip’s been like.

  “Come on, boy. Wanna’ chase the seagulls?”

  Body quivering in anticipation, Garfunkel hauled me across the asphalt and down onto the sandy strip of beach, his nose sniffing out his quarry. It was low tide and dozens of birds fluttering along the shoreline in search of their breakfast scattered as we approached.

  “Baroo!”

  “You know, Bud, you might have more luck if you tone it down a bit. Adopt a stealthier approach, you know? Not that I’m trying to tell you how to do your doggie stuff or anything.”

  “Baroo!” Another halfhearted attempt and my canine companion gave up, gluing his nose to the ground instead. Searching for edible leftovers was more rewarding than chasing after feathered prey anyway, and took a lot less effort.

  Half a mile up the coastline, we ran into the family from the minivan who hadn’t left their furry members behind after all. Three Great Danes the size of Shetland ponies immediately integrated Garfunkel into their pack, and the quartet raced up the beach, splashing in and out of the surf. His stubby legs no match for the Danes’ thoroughbred-like limbs, my pooch plowed along the sand, tongue lolling, ears flapping, unfazed by his inability to keep up.

  The dogs played for a quarter hour while Alan and Amy Sadarsky and their four children – Alistair, Abigail, Austin, and Avery – talked nonstop, one over top of the other, about their trip. I learned more about the thirteen colonies in fifteen minutes than I ever had in history class, though I did manage to get a word in edgewise to tell them about the Dane-inspired items in my shop.

  Saying they’d stop by to check them out before heading back to New Hampshire – I know a brush-off when I hear it – by the time they collected their three canines and four kids and returned to their van to resume their vacation, I was as exhausted as Garfunkel. Going home and back to bed held a certain appeal, especially with the remnants of my hangover hanging on, but the crime scene beckoned and, let’s be honest, it’s the reason I chose this beach in the first place. No way I’m leaving without taking a peek.

  Ambling along at a sedate pace out of consideration for my dog-tired doggie, by the time we reached the seawall the tide had turned, the expanse of sand we were standing on shrinking as the ocean expanded its reach. A ribbon of yellow police tape fluttered in the breeze, the only evidence that something untoward had happened here. What am I hoping to find? A clue to Victoria’s real identity maybe? Not that I doubt Zara and Duley’s detecting skills – or the rest of the Port New police force for that matter – but clues get overlooked all the time, don’t they? Or does that only happen on crime shows?

  Yeah, I know it’s a lost cause. The body was discovered three days ago. The tide’s rolled in and out over a dozen times since then, basically wiping the scene clean. I had a better chance of marrying Monty Halloran and living happily ever after than I did of finding that crucial piece of evidence the cops missed that would break the case wide open, but that didn’t stop me from strolling the length of the concrete barrier. Poking around in the sand produced nothing but sand, and what appeared to be a recently discarded prophylactic. A mental image of Alan and Amy Sadarsky popped into my head. “Ewww…gross.”

  Garfunkel whined, seemingly in agreement with my observation, but in actuality, his paws were getting wet, as were my feet. “Come on, pooch. Let’s pack it in. Don’t know what possessed me to think I’d find something out here the police didn’t. Guess I’ll hold off applying for my P.I.’s license for the time being.”

  Making a quick detour at a do-it-yourself carwash to rinse a layer of salt off of Lance before returning home, I scrambled a couple of eggs for me (the bagels having long worn off) and poured all-natural, grain-free, macro-nutrient, if-I-have-to-keep-buying-this-stuff-I’ll-need-to-sell-a-kidney, kibble into Garfunkel’s bowl. By the time I turned around to plate my eggs, he’d inhaled it and was lumbering off towards his bed for a nap.

  “Well, this has been an exciting morning,” I remarked to the empty room, “what with waking up at the crack of dawn to view a dead body and an impromptu excursion to the beach to check out a crime scene. Wonder what the rest of my day holds?”

  “You could spend it with me.”

  Can you say ‘heart arrhythmia’?

  Spinning on my heel, I discovered Spencer peering in through the screen door, wearing shorts, a t-shirt, and a Cheshire grin. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. Can I come in?”

  Silly question. “Of course. What are you doing here?”

  “Sick of me already?” Walking six steps to the counter, he began unloading a tote bag; a mountain of food taking shape on the granite surface. “I thought you might be feeling a little under the weather, so I brought over a few things. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Ignoring the subtle allusion to my hangover, I scraped my overcooked scrambled eggs into the trash and set out clean plates and utensils. “I don’t mind in the least. Would you like some coffee? There’s a fresh pot.”

  “I’d love some.” Spencer divvied up wedges of vegetable quiche and portions of roasted potatoes and carried them, along with an assortment of fruit-filled pastries, over to the small dinette centered in front of a bay window. “Is this okay?”

  “Yeah. It’s great.” Handing him a steaming cup of joe, I eyed the spread. The quiche looked tempting, but a raspberry-filled Danish was begging to be consumed and who am I to deny a pastry it’s last request?

  “So, what’s this about a dead body? Care to fill me in?”

  I choked on my Danish. “What? Oh, you overheard me talking to myself.”

  “I did. Sounds like you’ve had an eventful morning. And here I thought our date last night was going to be the highlight of your week.”

  My cheeks matching the raspberry-filled center of the second sweet roll that had mysteriously found its way onto my plate, I replied, “Some people think the week runs from Sunday to Saturday. In that case, we’re covered.”

  “So we are.” Eyes that, in this light, held a hint of green – shamrock, not emerald – twinkled mischievously. “Isn’t this the house you grew up in?”

>   “How do you kn- oh, that’s right. You had a thing for me in high school.”

  “No need to sound incredulous. It’s true.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Though meant to convey derision, my interjection sounded more like a moan as I’d chosen that moment to bite into the quiche. Damn, this crust is tasty! What were we talking about? Oh, yeah. “Keep it up, Dane. Maybe, one of these days, I’ll believe you.”

  Spencer grinned; that devilishly-handsome, up-to-no-good, bone-melting grin that did things to my insides I don’t dare acknowledge. “Well, believe me, or not; I like this place. It’s… homey.”

  “I believe the word you’re searching for is ‘cluttered’. A hazard of the job, I’m afraid. A few of the locals enjoy donating to my cause – like I’m a charity or something – and occasionally drop off their yard sale finds and such for me to sell in the store. While I appreciate their contributions to my livelihood, most of the time this stuff ends up at Goodwill.”

  “Do they ever bring you anything valuable?”

  “Once in a blue moon. A few months back, Larry Heckelmann dropped off a cigar box filled with costume jewelry. You know, fake and paste stuff. Well, except for the five-and-a-half carat ruby solitaire ring set in 18k white gold, worth somewhere in the vicinity of $27,000. My heart shed buckets giving that back to him, let me tell you, and I just know he turned around and took it to the track.”

  “Yes, but you can sleep well knowing you did the right thing.”

  “You think I’d have trouble sleeping knowing a few extra zeros were beefing up my bottom line?”

  “Somehow, Finn, I don’t believe you do this for the money.” Spencer gathered up the empty plates – we’d inhaled the food – and headed for the sink. I trailed behind with coffee cups in hand, shamelessly admiring the view. Well, maybe a little shame. Just a smidge. “You love what you do. The shop, the people you meet. It’s written all over you.”

  “So, I’m an open book? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Something like that.” He held out a dish towel. “Do you want to wash or dry?”

  What I’d really like to do is head down the hallway and–

  “Dry.”

  Garfunkel materialized while we were straightening up, his olfactory system in overdrive at the mere possibility of a stray crumb. Snuffling and rooting along the baseboard, it took him a full minute to realize there was an additional human in the room and, upon his discovery, he plastered his muzzle against Spencer’s pant leg, his elation disturbingly similar to my own on recent occasion, though I prided myself for refraining from any bouts of exuberant face rubbing. Not that it wouldn’t be fun.

  “Finn?”

  “What? Sorry. My mind wandered.”

  “That happens a lot, doesn’t it?” Spencer chuckled at my grimace. “I asked if Garfunkel was born this way or did it happen over time, like male-pattern baldness?”

  “If you’re asking specifically about his condition, he was born with it. It’s a recessive gene thing. As far as the coat loss, that happened over time. When he was a puppy, he had fur over his entire body. With each passing year, it grew thinner and softer, almost like peach fuzz. Then it quit growing back altogether.”

  “Interesting that it only affects the darker areas. Too bad you can’t do a combover from his white patches.”

  “Now there’s an idea.” Pulling up a chair, I plopped down, propping my elbow on the tabletop and resting my cheek against my hand. “Is that why you’re here? To inquire about Garfunkel’s medical condition?”

  Spencer followed my lead and lowered himself into the seat across from me, lacing his fingers together. “I’m always gathering information for my next book. Maybe I’ll write a story about a bald Basset Hound whose owner runs an antique shop.”

  “I thought I was already in your books. Didn’t you say your character Lucy Bell is based on me?”

  “I did, but there are many, many layers to Finn Bartusiak. I’ve barely scratched the surface with Lucy. I have the feeling there are volumes of research sitting right here in front of me.”

  He’s teasing, right? He has to be. There’s nothing novel-worthy about me – not two characters’ worth, anyway. Still, the idea of some late-night collaboration does hold a certain appeal. Hmm. How to play this to my advantage. “So, you’re here to learn my deep, dark secrets?”

  “Not entirely.” Damn! Guess my coquettishness needs some work. “I did want to check in on you. You were a little on the tipsy side when I dropped you off last night.”

  “Don’t remind me.” I got up and poured two refills, setting his coffee in front of him before reclaiming my seat. “Just to set the record straight, that was not an accurate representation of my usual alcohol consumption. It’s been a stressful week.”

  “I thought the week ended yesterday.”

  “Okay, it was a stressful week, and I needed to unwind a little bit.”

  Spencer threw up his hands. “Hey, no judgment here. You’re above the legal drinking age–”

  “Thanks for pointing that out.”

  “–and you weren’t driving. I’m glad you had a good time. I know I did.”

  Did it just get hot in here?

  How many times over the years have I envisioned this scene? Spencer and I lingering at the kitchen table over our coffee cups, engaged in witty, yet insignificant dialogue, the bed down the hall still warm, the sheets rumpled from our bout of–

  “Finn?”

  “Huh?”

  “I asked if you’re okay. You look a little flushed.”

  This is one of those rare times I’m thankful that mindreading isn’t a thing. Scrambling for a plausible explanation that would forestall further inquiry, the best I could come up with was, “Yeah, I’m fine. Hot flash.”

  Bewilderment. Sympathy. Horror. An amalgamation of all three flittered across Spencer’s face at the mention of my non-existent hormonal condition and his mouth opened and shut like the catch of the day being hauled from the sea. A lesser person may have laughed. I was not a lesser person, at least, not outwardly.

  The corner of his left eye twitching, Spencer cleared his throat. “Can I, uh…get you a glass of water or anything?”

  “No, thank you. It’ll pass in a minute.” Or, when I draw my last breath. Whichever comes first.

  “Well, the other reason I stopped by is I’m hoping to get a look at that code you were telling me about.”

  Chapter Eight

  Had Spencer asked me right there and then to spend the rest of my life with him, I don’t think I could’ve been more elated. I ran to my bedroom and back in three seconds flat, removing the lid to the keepsake box Grandma Lena had given me on my eighth birthday before I even reached the table. Digging amongst my treasures, I pulled out a vintage beaded coin purse and opened it, withdrawing a slip of paper from inside and handing it over.

  Pulling my chair around next to his, I peered over his shoulder as he studied the code, though I knew it by heart.

  Zubcd Yefemeby

  Xlw k Wrlm no

  Vpqre Upbpqee

  “What do you think? An alien language? An encryption sequence for a missile launch? A cipher in some sort of government conspiracy?”

  “Hard to say. It’s definitely a coded message of some kind. Do you have any blank paper handy? It’s been a few years since Scout camp, but I may remember a thing or two about decoding.”

  Retrieving an unopened ream of copy paper off the shelf in my office – hey, this could take a while – I dug around in my desk drawer for pencils, figuring the eraser end might prove handy. Finding half a dozen of varying lengths, I headed back to the kitchen, detouring to the counter first in order to grab the plate of leftover pastries. Fuel was a necessity if we were going to crack this code.

  I sat back and let Spencer take the lead. The few attempts I’d made to decipher the word jumble had been futile, and a fresh set of eyes was welcomed. Plus, by taking a back seat (figuratively speaking, of course; if we were in a real back
seat, I’d be a way more active participant), I could study Spencer’s analytical approach to the puzzle.

  It was fascinating watching him work. On a blank sheet of paper, he laid out a five-by-five block grid, one extra row of five squares at the top and an additional column of five squares on the left. The top row and column he numbered one to five. In each of the interior blocks, working left to right, he placed a letter of the alphabet: A through E in the first row, then F through K, with I and J sharing a space, L through P completing the third row, then Q through U, and finishing up with V through Z.

  “This is called a Polybius Square,” he explained as he filled in the final space. “It dates back to ancient Greece and the scholar Polybius.”

  “Hence, the name.”

  He smirked. “You like that word, don’t you? ‘Hence’.”

  I shrugged. “It’s a good word.”

  “Can’t say I disagree. Okay, back to the grid. The way it works is each letter is assigned a two-digit number. So, A would be 1-1; B would be 1-2; C would be 1-3; and so on.”

  “But there aren’t any numbers in the code. It’s all letters.”

  “You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. Let me start over.” Spencer balled up the paper and tossed it aside, smoothing out a fresh sheet in front of him. “This one is called the Caesar shift.”

  “Are you sure you’re not making these up to try and impress me?”

  His hand stilled, and he slowly lifted his head. “And if I was?”

  Mesmerized by his eyes as the shamrock hue morphed into a tumultuous blend of sea and foam, I read a question in their depths, one I’d waited fifteen years to answer. Leaning forward, I whispered–

  “Baroo!”

  “Dammit, Garfunkel! You scared the living daylights right out of me!” Not to mention, ruined what might have been the most perfect moment of my life. “What’s wrong with you? Stop pawing at the door that way. You’re going to rip the screen.”

  “Baroo!”