Flight Patterns

by Karen White

  I took a deep breath, smelling the beer when I exhaled. “I told myself before I came over today that if I didn’t find that soup cup, it was the universe telling me it’s time to pack up my marbles and go home.”

  “What about Becky?”

  The hurt was there, even cushioned by the alcohol. “What about her?”

  Marlene was silent for a moment. “I saw Becky when I stopped by the house. She reminds me so much of you when you were her age—same gnawed fingernails and all. She seems to be carrying a world of troubles on her little shoulders, though. You sure can’t keep things from those young ones. They might not know what it is, but they know when things aren’t right. It comes out when she talks, too.”

  Marlene put her hand on my shoulder and began collecting our empty bottles from the steps. “I hate to think of her going into her teenage years like that. Kids aren’t too nice about anybody different.”

  And I should know. I stared into the neck of my bottle, remembering a childhood of playground taunts about my mother, who thought she was more than ordinary and walked around town with fake-fur stoles and high heels, looking as out of place in Apalachicola as a polar bear. My biggest mistake had been in trying to defend her, at least until I realized the futility of it and developed my own dubious methods of separating myself from her.

  “Maisy is doing a great job with Becky and wouldn’t welcome my interference anyway. Whatever relationship Maisy and I had is too broken. I can’t fix it.”

  “Not unless you’re both willing to give up a little of your pride and resentment.” She raised her eyebrows before tilting the remainder of her beer into her mouth. “If you want things to change, you have to stop waiting for someone else to make the first move.”

  I blamed the alcohol for my inability to argue with her, to let her know that I was fine with my life. That existing alone and without connections except to antiques and old china made life easier. And the past was an easy place to hide, an easy way to keep my eyes focused behind me instead of into a future I was afraid would look too much like my past.

  Softly, Marlene said, “You need to give up something old if you want to gain something new.”

  I thought of Maisy and me as we’d once been, the bruises of nine years of separation a riptide in my mind. I felt strangely close to tears trying to imagine Maisy out of my life again. “But what if I ruin everything?”

  “What if you don’t?”

  I twisted my neck to look up at my aunt. “You’re supposed to tell me that I’ve given it my best shot and it’s time to go home.”

  “Darlin’, I’m not going to tell you to do anything—only you can decide what you’re going to do next. I just don’t think leaving right now is the answer. But this thing with your granddaddy and Birdie has got me worried. I’m thinking that you and Maisy are going to need each other. You’re a lot stronger together than you are apart.”

  I held the cold bottle against my neck, and saw Maisy’s face as I’d seen it in the crowd at the Seafood Festival ten long years ago. Being there when I was supposed to be traveling the country with my latest boyfriend and his band would have been shocking enough. If only that had been the worst of it.

  “We were. But that was a long time ago.”

  The sound of an approaching car caught our attention as we watched the beam of two headlights turning into the drive, illuminating the slopes and curves of Nessie’s serpentine cement back. I stood, too, wondering who would be stopping by at this time, then relaxed when I recognized Lyle’s cruiser.

  I remembered what I was wearing and turned to Marlene in panic. “I’ve got to go change.”

  She waved her hand at me. “You look fine, and Lyle’s not interested anyway.” She winked, then turned to go inside.

  “You’re leaving us alone?”

  “Sugar, you and I both know I don’t have cause to worry.”

  “It’s not you I’m worried about. What if somebody else drives by and sees us? It’ll get back to Maisy before sunrise.”

  Marlene seemed to consider for a moment before putting down the beer bottles and reclaiming her seat on the top step.

  Lyle parked the car on the white oyster-shell parking area in front of the house. He left his hat in the car but carried something I couldn’t identify in the dim porch light.

  “Hey, Miss Marlene. Hey, Georgia.” His eyes didn’t even register my outfit, and I found myself wishing that Maisy were there to see for herself.

  “Can I interest you in some garden statuary, Officer?” Marlene asked with a smile, but Lyle and I both knew she was only partly joking.

  “No, ma’am. I actually came to see Georgia. I went to the house to see Maisy first, but she was tutoring a student. Your grandfather was sleeping, or at least he was pretending to, so I figured I’d come find you.”

  The weight of the humid air pressed down on my skin, burning me, making me want to dive into the bay and swim as far away as possible. Birdie had once told me that she woke up each morning like that, feeling pursued, hunted. That all she wanted was to disappear into her empty spaces. I’d never really understood her until now, looking into Lyle’s eyes, and knowing that whatever he was about to tell me would make any sudden departures from Apalachicola much more complicated than gassing up my car and loading the trunk.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Just remember that if anybody asks, I wasn’t here. I can’t be, since I’m not working this case anymore. This is just a social call, all right?”

  I nodded slowly. “Sure, Lyle. Whatever you say.”

  He held up the objects in his hand, and they looked like two clear Ziploc bags with something no bigger than a wallet inside each. “Can we go in the kitchen?” he asked. “We’ll need better light.”

  Marlene stood and held open the door for us, and we filed in behind her, the dogs yapping at her heels. “I’ll go get out of your way and take the dogs. If you want anything to drink, help yourselves. There’s sweet tea in the fridge.”

  We thanked her and sat down, and I watched as Lyle placed the bags on the table.

  An old book and faded postcard, each partially blackened and spotted with mold, stared out at me from their plastic prisons. The postcard was closest to me, and I could barely make out that there was faded handwriting scrawled across the back.

  “It’s not that I don’t trust any of the other guys on the force to do a good job, but I figure knowing Ned as well as I do might be an advantage. And if I discover anything, I’ll pass it on so that it doesn’t come from me.”

  Lyle flipped the postcard bag over to reveal the picture on the front. Half of it showed a beautiful white-sand beach and aqua waters; the other half showed the old Gorrie Bridge, the through-truss swing bridge that had been replaced in 1988. In what had once been bright red letters splashed across the right-hand corner were the words, “Welcome to Florida!”

  “Where did these come from?” I asked, although part of me thought I already knew.

  “In your granddaddy’s truck.” He cleared his throat. “Inside a jacket pocket the, uh, occupant was wearing. The postcard was stuck inside the book, which is how it survived pretty much intact.”

  I picked up the book. Its beige cloth cover was spotted with mold, and it felt soft under my fingers, like a knit sweater. I sounded out the title in my head, my tongue slipping over the unfamiliar words. Voyage au bout de la nuit. “Have you looked inside it?”

  He nodded. “A name was handwritten on the inside of the front cover that is faded but legible, and managed to avoid the mildew that ate up most of the bottom half. The first initial is ‘G,’ and the last name is Mouton. Could be our truck thief, or not. The copyright is 1939. I asked Miss Caty at the library about it and she looked it up—second edition. She also told me the translation of the title is Journey to the End of the Night.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “As you can probabl
y guess, it’s all in French. Can’t read a word of it.”

  Our eyes met in mutual understanding. “As far as I know, my grandpa doesn’t speak a word of French, either. So if that book was found in his truck, my guess is that it belonged to the man found inside.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He leaned forward and tapped his index finger on the postcard. “This one baffles me completely.”

  I picked it up again, trying to make out any of the writing. The sender’s name was completely obliterated, as were any dates or postmark. But the front photo was definitely Apalachicola, and pre-1988, when the current bridge was built.

  “It looks like the address is almost legible,” I said. “Has anybody examined it more closely?”

  “Yeah, we did.” He fumbled in his breast pocket. “I wrote it down here—someplace in France. Maybe your grandpa has heard of it—I figure he can nod or shake his head, right? And if he hasn’t, maybe you or Maisy remembered him mentioning it.” He placed a small piece of paper on the table and slid it toward me.

  I glanced down at the words scrawled in Lyle’s familiar handwriting. Château de Beaulieu, France. I felt suddenly light-headed.

  Lyle continued. “I looked it up and it’s located near Monieux, in southern France. If you Google it, there’s a picture. Mostly ruins now, but apparently it wasn’t what we consider an estate or castle—more like a large farmhouse with lots of land. Ever heard of it?”

  The alcohol in my system seemed to dissolve immediately, leaving me with startling clarity. I nodded. “I’ve heard of both. But not from my grandfather.”

  He looked at me expectantly, and for a moment I didn’t know what to say, as if I’d already discounted what I was thinking as being as close to unlikely as to be impossible.

  “The artist we believe painted the china pattern we’re looking for, Emile Duval, lived in Monieux while an apprentice—which led us to a nearby estate owned by the Beaulieu family. It’s a leap, but we’ve found a business ledger from the Beaulieu estate that I have been going through in the hopes of finding a payment to Haviland Limoges or, if we’re really lucky, the artist’s name to show that he was paid by the estate for the china design.” I spread my hand over the postcard, the red lettering peering out between my fingers. “What an odd coincidence to see this town’s name twice in as many weeks, when I’d never heard it before in my entire life.”

  “It would be,” Lyle said, unblinking. “Which is why I think it isn’t.”

  “Isn’t what?”

  “Isn’t a coincidence.” He sat back in his chair, the fingers of both hands now drumming on the table. “Let me know if you find anything in the ledger book. I’m not sure what it will mean if you do, but we’ve got to start somewhere. Ricky Cook is the officer assigned to the case, but he’s pretty overwhelmed with both his daughters getting married this month, so I’ve offered to help him out with some of the footwork—unofficially, of course. He’s going to try to stop by sometime tomorrow to talk with your grandpa—as much as he can communicate, anyway.”

  He pulled his chair to stand up and I stood, too. “Florence Love said she remembered her daddy talking to a stranger in town the week the truck was stolen. Definitely a foreigner, because he spoke with an accent—what kind we’ll never know, because Florence’s daddy died a long time ago. But the stranger said he was a beekeeper, and had brought some of his own honey from home.”

  “Honey?”

  I nodded. “The man gave some to her father and Florence said it tasted like lavender. Since she mentioned that a knapsack with several jars of honey was found in the truck, I thought you might find it relevant.”

  He pulled a notepad out of his pocket and jotted something down. “I’ll pass this on to Ricky.” His pen hesitated over the paper for a moment. “Seems like an odd thing to travel with. The book makes sense—and even the postcard if he was using that for a bookmark. But honey?”

  “When Grandpa used to travel to visit friends, he’d always bring a jar of honey as a hostess gift. So if our man was a beekeeper, carrying honey in a knapsack would make sense.”

  Lyle jotted something else in his notepad and stuck it back in his shirt pocket before picking up the two plastic bags. “I should get going. Let me know if you find out anything and I’ll do the same.”

  He turned the doorknob but didn’t open the door. “How much longer do you think you’ll stay?”

  “Not too much longer, I expect. I think Maisy’s looking forward to seeing my back.”

  “If that were true, she would have packed your bag and put it in your car already.” His smile softened. “She’s scared, you know.”

  I sucked in a breath. “She’s got nothing to be afraid of from me. You and I both know that.”

  “Yeah, well, she doesn’t. She needs to be reminded.”

  “That’s the whole point, Lyle. She should know who I am without my having to remind her.”

  He smiled sadly. “So you’re just going to fly away again, your conscience clear because you think you tried?”

  “Don’t put this all on me, Lyle. I came down here, didn’t I?”

  “You had a client, Georgia, and another reason for coming. That’s like saying you threw your line into the water without a hook and you’re disappointed you didn’t catch any fish.” He shook his head, ending the conversation. “Before you tell me to mind my own business, forget that I said anything. But it’s been good having you back. Just . . .” He pulled open the door and stepped out onto the steps. “Just don’t leave too soon. In ten more years Becky will be in college.”

  “Good night, Lyle,” I said, hearing the frost in my voice.

  “G’night, Georgie.” He paused on the top step, then turned around briefly, giving me the once-over with his eyes. “Nice outfit, by the way. I bet James would love to see you in it.”

  He jumped off the steps and was climbing into his cruiser before I could think of an appropriate response. He started the engine; then with a wave he pulled away, the tires crunching on broken shells.

  I went back inside and turned off the porch light before heading back to my room, my thoughts full of honey, and French books, and a small town in the south of France. And when I finally drifted off to sleep, I dreamed of bees flying over fields of lavender, their movements erratic and random, as if they no longer knew the way home. Then, one by one, they slowly fell to earth.

  chapter 26

  “When you shoot an arrow of truth, dip its point in honey.”

  Arab proverb

  —NED BLOODWORTH’S BEEKEEPER’S JOURNAL

  Maisy

  Maisy stared into her grandfather’s makeshift bedroom with a start. The blinds were open, the empty bed was made, his walker—the new piece of equipment they equally hated and pretended to be temporary—missing.

  The smell of coffee and baking biscuits wafted out from the kitchen, teasing her nose and clenching her stomach as she guessed who might be in there baking. Digging in her heels with each step, she hurried to the kitchen, stopping abruptly in the doorway.

  Georgia was taking another batch of biscuits from the oven as Becky, already dressed for school in a navy knit polo and pressed khakis, was reaching across the table to pour honey on Grandpa’s biscuit. His ham had been cut into bite-size pieces, a dirty knife on the edge of Becky’s plate identifying the person responsible. Becky’s favorite juice glass, the one with Elsa from Frozen, was filled with orange juice and sitting next to Grandpa’s plate.

  Maisy’s jaw unclenched as she studied her daughter’s face. Becky’s lower lip was clasped between her teeth as she carefully poured the honey, then used a napkin to wipe off the top so nothing clogged or dripped. When had her little girl learned to be conscious of others’ needs? To know that honey congealed and clogged the tiny hole at the top of a squeeze bottle unless somebody thought to keep it clean? She felt close to tears as she watched Becky tak
e her seat, then wait a moment to make sure Grandpa was all set before placing her napkin in her lap and picking up her fork.

  “Good morning, Mama,” Becky said as Maisy walked into the kitchen, her glossy blond hair pulled back in a high ponytail, emphasizing the elfin look of her face.

  “You’ve done a great job,” Georgia whispered in Maisy’s ear before handing her the coffee mug with the big “M” on the side, a conspicuous crack showing evidence of glue. “Drink this first. And then you’re allowed to talk.” She moved to the table and pulled out a chair and motioned for Maisy to sit.

  Maisy gave her grandfather a good-morning kiss on the cheek before sitting down in the proffered chair. Then Georgia grabbed a plate, placed two biscuits and a slice of ham on it, and silently put it in front of Maisy.

  “Do you want gravy or honey?” Georgia asked, placing a gravy boat in the center of the table next to the honey. “No need to say anything—here’s one of each.”

  Maisy took two long gulps of coffee, not caring whether she scalded her tongue. She needed the fortification more than she needed to feel her tongue. “Why are you here so early?” she asked, reluctantly taking a pinch from one fluffy biscuit.

  “I thought I’d spend more time with Grandpa. I need to get back to New Orleans soon and I realized we hadn’t spent much time together.”

  Maisy took her time with her next sip of coffee, needing to stare into the dark brown depths and hide her eyes. She wanted Georgia to leave. They’d survived nearly ten years apart; surely that meant they could survive another ninety. That had been the mutual agreement, something they both thought would make them equally happy. So why then did she feel so bereft imagining Georgia gone again?

  The doorbell rang and Becky slid back her chair. “That’s Brittany Banyon. Her daddy’s walking us to school this morning so you don’t have to, Mama.”

  Maisy had to think for a moment through her complicated carpool schedule made necessary by two working parents. She didn’t have to be in that morning until later, and was relieved to be off duty. “Whose idea was that?”