Obsidian

by Thomas King

So much for peace and quiet and anonymity.

  “Hi, Ora Mae.”

  Ora Mae didn’t ask if she was disturbing him or if she could sit down. She just did.

  “I don’t see any visible injuries,” she said, “so I’m guessing Beth hasn’t caught up with you yet.”

  Thumps had no idea what Ora Mae was talking about. And then he did. “Shit.”

  “Shit is right,” said Ora Mae. “As in, you’re in the shithouse.”

  “The appointment.” Thumps tried to look repentant. “Nine thirty. For the blood test.”

  “Woman’s not going to chase you down,” said Ora Mae. “You want to die a slow, awful death, that’s your affair.”

  “I just forgot.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Ora Mae. “That bird will fly.”

  “Shit.”

  “And speaking of our feathered friends,” said Ora Mae, “a little bird told me that you want to sell your house.”

  “Does that little bird run a café?”

  “I don’t reveal my sources,” said Ora Mae, “but if you are going to sell, I certainly expect to get the listing.”

  “I’m thinking about selling.”

  Ora Mae took out her phone and began punching buttons. “Does that mean you’re planning to leave town?”

  “Maybe I just want to downsize.”

  “Honey,” said Ora Mae, “you downsize any more, and you be in a pickup with a camper top.”

  The server returned. Thumps checked the cup. Yes, it was hot, and it was black.

  Ora Mae stared at her phone for a moment. Then she pushed some more buttons. “You come to a place like this and order black coffee?”

  “How can you do that?”

  “What?”

  “Text and talk at the same time.”

  “Checking the comps.” Ora Mae set the phone on the table. “So, you want to know what your sad sack of a bungalow is worth?”

  “I’m just curious.”

  “Depends on what you’re willing to spend to make it presentable.”

  “What’s wrong with my house?”

  “Well,” said Ora Mae, “that trailer-trash yard to start.”

  “That’s all natural biodiversity.”

  “That what they’re calling weeds these days?”

  “Just a ball-park figure.”

  “Don’t do ball park,” said Ora Mae. “Real estate is a science. For instance, why do you want to sell?”

  “That would be my business.”

  Ora Mae gave Thumps the look that supermarket mothers reserved for their children. “Real estate agents are like doctors and lawyers and priests.”

  “Priests?”

  “What you tell us is completely confidential.”

  “There’s nothing confidential about real estate. It’s all public record.”

  “For instance,” said Ora Mae, “if you’re selling because you have a broken heart and are wanting to get out of Dodge as quickly as possible, that’s one price.”

  “Ora Mae . . .”

  “But if you’re selling to move up in the market, that’s another price.”

  Thumps tried to slow the train. “What if I just want to sell? Maybe I don’t want the responsibility of a house. Maybe I don’t want a mortgage. Maybe I think renting makes more sense.”

  “That sounds like depression,” said Ora Mae. “But between you and me, I don’t think she’s serious.”

  It took Thumps a moment to realize that the conversation had taken a right turn when he wasn’t looking.

  “Serious?”

  “He’s good-looking and all that,” said Ora Mae. “But Claire’s not the type of person to be impressed with muscles and a nice car.”

  “Claire?”

  “Now me,” said Ora Mae, “you can turn my head with some quality bling.”

  “Claire is seeing someone?”

  “Well, you didn’t expect her to sit around while you ran your raggedy ass around the countryside chasing bad guys.”

  Thumps tried to think of whom Claire might be seeing. The pool of eligible males in Chinook was not very deep. More a wading pool.

  “He’s from Lethbridge.”

  “Alberta?” said Thumps. “She’s dating a Canadian?”

  Ora Mae shook her head. “Women don’t date anymore. We see each other. We get together. We have coffee.”

  “Claire’s having coffee with a Canadian?”

  “He’s working on a water project with the tribe.” Ora Mae paused and gave Thumps a slow-motion wink.

  “Great.”

  “So, why do you want to sell your house?”

  ORA MAE DIDN’T have any more information about Claire’s Canadian, and by the time she left to go back to Wild Rose Realty, Thumps wasn’t even sure that the man existed. Muscles and a nice car could just be another one of Roxanne Heavy Runner’s romantic schemes. Ora Mae would certainly play along with that. She and Roxanne shared the same high opinion of men and their ability to manage complex emotions and interpersonal relations.

  As Thumps waited for the server to refill his cup, he realized that Ora Mae hadn’t told him how much his house was worth. Or how long it might take to sell it. Or what he was going to have to do to make it attractive to a potential buyer.

  The yard. Ora Mae was right about the yard.

  The house itself was okay. A little paint. Hard-scrub the bathtub and the toilet. Clean the windows. Replace the shingles on the back roof.

  The yard was a different matter. The front had started off as a well-manicured lawn. Then the first fall, grub worms made an appearance, followed by raccoons and skunks. Thumps could remember coming out one morning to find the yard ripped up by the pesky mammals who had spent a festive evening digging up the beetle larvae and leaving the ground looking as though some deranged gardener had come through with a Rototiller.

  He raked out the damage and threw down grass seed only to have dandelions, knapweed, and thistles take over. Another year of grubs, and raccoons and skunks, and more weeds, and the lawn gave way to a prairie diorama.

  Thumps had seen yards in magazines that were filled with native plants, which were intended to mimic the surrounding environment. His yard was not one of those.

  Still, if it meant a sale, he could always hire the folks at the Ironstone nursery to dig up the ground and put down sod. Maybe put in a tree or a couple of bushes to improve the curb appeal.

  “So, what happened on the coast?”

  Archie Kousoulas pulled up a chair and sat down with a thump. The little Greek had traded his dust mask and goggles for jeans and a windbreaker.

  “Hi, Archie.”

  “Don’t ‘Hi, Archie’ me.”

  “How’s the construction going?”

  “And don’t be changing the subject.” Archie turned the files around so he could read them. “Is this it?”

  Thumps pulled the files back. “This is a police investigation.”

  “Thought you were a photographer.”

  “I’m also a deputy sheriff.”

  “Duke gave you a badge?”

  “I left it at home.”

  Archie leaned back in the chair. “This the same home you’re trying to sell?”

  It took Thumps a moment to put the pieces together. “Ora Mae texted you?”

  Archie held up his phone. “That’s what friends do.”

  “Friends leave friends alone.”

  “She said you’re depressed, that you’re looking to sell your house and leave town, that an intervention is in order.”

  So coming to Mirrors hadn’t been any safer than wandering the streets of Chinook with a sandwich board sign that said, “Help Me.”

  Archie lowered his voice. “How old is the case? If it didn’t get solved back then, what are the chances you’ll solve it now?”

  “Like you said, there’s new information.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like it’s confidential information.”

  “Does Duke know?”

  �
�Con-fi-den-tial.”

  “And if Duke knows,” said the little Greek, “then I should know.”

  Thumps wasn’t about to ask what leap of logic had helped Archie to that conclusion.

  “Besides,” said Archie, “if you have some new information, you’re going to have to check it out. And since Duke’s computer isn’t worth shit, at some point, you’re going to want to use mine.”

  “I can get my own computer.”

  “You’ll get it out of the box in one piece, maybe even get it plugged in and turned on.”

  “Archie . . .”

  “But after that, all bets are off.”

  Archie ordered a caffè gommosa, which turned out to be a shot of espresso poured over a single marshmallow.

  “A marshmallow?”

  “It originated in Seattle or Portland.” Archie poked the marshmallow. “It doesn’t melt completely. Caffè gommosa is Italian for ‘rubbery coffee.’”

  “It looks disgusting.”

  “It’s an acquired taste.” Archie pushed the marshmallow to the bottom of the cup and held it there with his spoon. “While you were gone, I did some research into serial killings.”

  “Archie . . .”

  “You can thank me later.”

  “The FBI already did that. So did the state police.”

  “And they came up with nothing. Right?”

  “They came up with a number of cases,” said Thumps. “All of them solved.”

  “I know,” said Archie. “So, when you have time and you’ve gotten your head out of your ass, stop by the bookstore and we’ll talk.”

  “I don’t do cryptic.”

  “You going to the car show party?” Archie settled in the chair. “Cooley said you’re thinking about buying a 1956 Chevrolet Bel Air.”

  “Not me,” said Thumps. “Moses.”

  “Moses doesn’t drive.”

  Archie finished his espresso. What was left of the marshmallow lay at the bottom of the cup like a lump of white pus.

  “You know that looks disgusting, right?”

  “Then don’t look.” Archie stood up and brushed off his pants. “Gabby and I are going to go to the party in vintage attire. I’ll bet she could find a nice outfit for you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine,” said Archie. “How many friends do you think you have?”

  “I’ve got you.”

  Thumps wasn’t sure if Archie would smile or frown. He did neither.

  “The way things are going,” the little Greek said, “you’re going to need more than that.”

  Twelve

  Aside from the periodic shrieking of the espresso machine, Mirrors was unexpectedly tranquil, a caffeine retreat filled with the low chants of hard drives and the slow benedictions of people shuffling their feet and adjusting their earbuds.

  The new monastic mantra.

  Thumps nursed his coffee, but he knew he couldn’t stay long. Any moment, the third wave of intervention might arrive. Ora Mae and Archie had been enough for one day. If he wanted to spend his time being interrogated about his personal life, he could always go to Al’s.

  Thumps wondered if ventures such as Mirrors were the harbinger of things to come. A small-box store of expensive drinks and sugary baked goods with a rotating staff of well-mannered young people passing through on their way to someplace else.

  Overpriced, quiet, anonymous.

  He had paid the bill and was to the door before he realized he was humming the theme to Cheers.

  THE MAIL WAS still waiting for him on the kitchen table. He set the files that Shipman had given him next to the stack of junk mail and flyers and headed downstairs to the basement. How long had it been since he had spent time in the darkroom? Two months? More? The trays were stacked in the sink on the wood racks. If he was going to do any printing, he would have to mix up new chemistry. Developer, stop bath, fix. The backlog of negatives was on the table next to the enlarger, and if he remembered correctly, there were some promising images in the lot.

  Or he could just turn out the light and disappear into the blackness. If only the darkroom had a toilet, a bar fridge, and a recliner.

  Thumps was trying to imagine how he might manage such a makeover when he heard the front door open and felt someone walk across his kitchen floor. The footsteps were light and cautious. It wasn’t Cooley, and it wasn’t the sheriff. Nor was it his next-door neighbour, Dixie Kane. They all walked as though they had elephant genes floating about in their genetic pools.

  Archie Kousoulas was quicker and lighter on his feet, but the little Greek would never have come into the house with anything resembling stealth. By now, the house would have been filled with the sound of his voice, as he searched the rooms, one by one.

  And then the walking stopped, and a chair was pulled out, and Thumps heard someone sit down.

  Curious.

  Goldilocks? Come back to check the furniture and the porridge?

  Thumps opened the door quietly and slipped out of the darkroom, the heavy wood leg of his Ries tripod in one hand. In case it was the bears instead.

  As it turned out, it was neither.

  “Rose?”

  Rose Twining was sitting at the table, opening a letter. To her credit, she didn’t shriek.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Rose Twining lived four houses down the block, in a yellow and white bungalow. She had been born there, had lived her entire life in Chinook. At least that’s what she told everyone.

  “Goodness,” said Rose. “You gave me a proper start.”

  “Is that my mail?”

  “I didn’t know you got home.” Rose squeezed her lips together. “Who won the pool?”

  Now that Thumps looked more closely, he could see that all the letters had been slit open.

  Rose held up the letter she had just opened. “Dixie had to go to Denver. He asked me to look after your place.”

  “You’ve been reading my mail?”

  “Had to be sure there was nothing important that needed attention,” said Rose. “Maybe something from the IRS or a notice from Publishers Clearing House.”

  Before Thumps knew Rose better, he had believed most of what she told him about herself. That her mother was a Gypsy from Romania. That her father was a French count. That she had a brother who was a missionary in Africa.

  “And your watch arrived.” Rose reached into her jacket pocket and came up with a large pocket watch. “My first husband used to carry one of these.”

  “This came for me?”

  “I would have figured you for a wristwatch guy,” said Rose. “These things are a little old-fashioned.”

  “It’s not my watch.”

  “And large,” said Rose. “Kinda heavy to be carrying around all the time.”

  “You sure it came for me?”

  “Had your name on the package.”

  “Did you happen to keep the packaging?”

  “Why?”

  Thumps picked up the watch and turned it over in his hand. It was heavy. Steel case with a white porcelain face. “Rockford” on the dial.

  “Be handy to have the return address or the postmark,” said Thumps. “See where it came from.”

  “If it’s not your watch, why would someone send it to you?” Rose put a deck of playing cards on the table and shuffled them. “Okay,” she said, “cut ’em.”

  “Don’t need my fortune told.”

  “Best to know what’s coming down the road,” said Rose. “That way, you’re not surprised when it arrives.”

  Thumps cut the cards.

  “My mother showed me how to read the cards,” said Rose. “Did I ever tell you that?”

  “Yes,” said Thumps, “you did.”

  “Look at that.” Rose held up a card. “The ten of diamonds.”

  “Money,” said Thumps. “Right?”

  “Sometimes.” Rose laid the cards out in a pattern on the table. “And look here. The king of hearts.”

&nb
sp; You didn’t move Rose quickly. Once you let her in your house, and once she had her cards out, there was no rushing her.

  “The four of hearts suggests a long trip,” said Rose.

  “Been there, done that.”

  Rose turned over the ace of spades. “And here’s a problem you’re going to have to deal with.”

  Rose didn’t look much like a Gypsy. She had thin brown hair that hung off her head like wet laundry. And large, thick ears. Her face was round and when she wrinkled her nose, she looked like a mouse. As far as Thumps could tell, Rose only had two dresses. Today, she was wearing the red one with the large yellow flowers. The other dress was green with red flowers.

  “You want me to do a reading for your love life?”

  “Love life is fine.”

  “Your refrigerator is empty.” Rose looked around the house. “And you’re out of tea. That’s never a good sign.”

  “Haven’t been grocery shopping yet.”

  “And your cat ran away.” Rose laid the ace of spades on top of the queen of clubs. “Maybe it’s not you,” she said. “Maybe it’s the house.”

  “Rose . . .”

  “Houses have personalities, you know. Maybe yours isn’t cat friendly. Maybe there were dogs living here before you moved in.”

  Rose fancied herself the neighbourhood historian. Which was a polite way of framing a certain nosiness and an inclination to snoop.

  Thumps liked Rose, though he liked her better from a distance.

  “You got a couple of bills that need attention.” Rose put the cards back in the pack. “And you’re paying too much for your phone. That new company out of Great Falls has better rates.”

  “Thanks, Rose.”

  “You planning on staying home for a while?”

  “I am.”

  “What about your cat?”

  Thumps sighed.

  “I could keep tabs on her,” said Rose. “Make sure she’s happy. Maybe she’s having second thoughts.”

  “Not necessary.”

  Rose made her way to the door. “People are easy enough,” she said. “But with cats, you never know.”

  THUMPS STOOD AT the sink and watched Rose make her way down the street. So far as he knew, she lived alone. According to Rose, she had been married twice or three times or once, but her husband had been killed in the war or he had run off or he had died of a nasty disease. Sometimes there were four children, all doing well in large city centres back east, or there was just one daughter with whom she did not get along, or two boys who sent her money every month.