Tahoe Heat

by Todd Borg

  GEWNREARDECAO

  It still made no sense. I couldn’t find order in the chaos. It did have the word REAR in it. So I separated the components out.

  GEWN REAR DECAO

  Easier to remember, but still no meaning.

  I folded the paper, put it in my pocket and gathered Lily and Spot from the pine cone stable.

  TWENTY-THREE

  An hour later, I was working on the code when Ryan appeared and, sounding very nervous, asked if Street might like to come over again, and he could make us dinner.

  Early that evening, I left to go pick up Street. Although I was living at Ryan’s, and Street was bringing clothes for another sleep-over, we rang Ryan’s doorbell just like dinner guests. We heard Spot’s deep, ragged woof, woof, and I allowed myself the brief pleasure of thinking that even if Smithy weren’t on duty out front, no person would dare break into this house.

  I carried wine, and Street brought a small bouquet of flowers. Ryan opened the door. His face was blotchy-nervous, and he looked scared. He stared at the flowers.

  “Hi. Oh, I can’t believe… nobody has ever brought me… you are so kind.” He took the flowers from Street, sniffed them and then hugged her. When he pushed away, the flowers were bent, and he was even more nervous and embarrassed for his effusive emotion. Street showed no reaction except to smile.

  He stood in the doorway, not yet inviting us in. “I, um, I made an eggplant manicotti with marinated white beans. I hope that is okay. You are probably real epicures, aren’t you? I’ve never made it before, but this is the first time I’ve ever had two people over for dinner who weren’t, you know, like gamer friends, where you eat in front of the screen while you’re blowing up the world, and I thought… Now I’m talking too much.”

  “Not at all,” Street said.

  Spot came up with Lily at his side, her arms wrapped around his neck. Her feet were in baby-blue socks, and she had them out in front of her, sliding on the wooden floor as Spot pulled.

  She said, “I can water ski next to Spot. He’s my boat. Isn’t that a good idea?”

  “That’s a great idea,” Street said.

  Spot seemed to ignore Lily, and her feet slid along as he walked toward us, tail wagging.

  Ryan looked at me, his forehead creased. “Is that okay, the manicotti? I flavored it with roasted garlic cloves, and crushed oregano and basil. There’s no meat. Is vegetarian okay?”

  “It sounds great,” I said.

  I must not have said it right, as Ryan looked more worried.

  “You have to understand,” Street said, “that Owen is kind of a meat-and-potatoes guy who thinks he’s trapped in a vegetarian world. But he actually likes all kinds of food, including vegetarian.” Without pausing, Street swung her elbow out into my side and said, “Here’s where you nod and say, ‘Right, I totally love veggies.’”

  I nodded and said, “Right, I totally love veggies.”

  Ryan cracked a little smile.

  We were still standing on the doorstep.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll take that at face value. Now, what about a drink or something. Oh, I should invite you in. Please.” He moved aside. “I’m thinking that a meat-and-potatoes guy would drink beer. But then you brought wine.”

  I handed him the bottle.

  “Calera Central Coast pinot. This will be perfect with dinner,” he said. “Or do you think I should open it now? If it makes a difference, I also got a Kenwood Jack London cab from Sonoma. Is that okay? I don’t know which would be best.”

  “Either would be great,” Street said. “Besides which, Owen has a thing about rules. If someone states that there is an order to something, he will subvert that whenever possible.”

  Ryan looked at me for direction.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “We’re celebrating. Let’s open both and we’ll have a tasting.”

  Ryan’s eyes grew wide.

  “Tasting doesn’t mean we have to drink it all,” I said.

  “Yeah. Of course,” he said. “That’s a great idea. Both wines. I’ll keep the corks.” He turned and went into the kitchen.

  We went into the family room where the drapes were closed. Spot followed, dragging his water skier at his side.

  Ryan came back out with the opened wines, then made another trip and returned with three wine glasses. He set them down on the table and then looked at us.

  “I’m not sure how you do a tasting,” he said. It was difficult to match up this shaky, nervous, insecure kid with the rich bio-tech genius who was the subject of business magazine features.

  “I’ll show you,” I said. I poured a splash of pinot into each of the glasses. I took one and raised it high. “To dinner at Ryan’s.”

  Street raised her glass. Ryan followed suit. We clinked.

  I swirled mine, sniffed it, sipped it, chewed it, swallowed it. Then I poured a bit of the cab into my glass and did the same.

  “Very good,” I said.

  “You don’t need to rinse the glass?” Ryan said.

  “One flavor informs another,” I said.

  “Really?” Ryan’s earnestness was a little bit heartbreaking.

  “Like I said,” Street said.

  Spot lay down and sighed. Lily was still attached to his side, and she flopped down next to him.

  “The boat went too slow,” she said, “and my skis couldn’t stay up. So now that I’m in the water, I’ll just hang onto the boat.” Lily kept her arms wrapped around Spot’s neck. He put his head down on the rug and appeared to fall asleep.

  Lily looked at our glasses. “Don’t I get to do a tasting? A kiddie cocktail?”

  “Sure,” Ryan said. He went into the kitchen, returned with a glass of yellow soda, and handed it to her.

  Lily sniffed it, took a sip, swished it around her mouth, then swallowed. “Very good,” she said, mimicking my voice.

  We all chatted a bit and then, too soon, we ate dinner, the result of Ryan fussing that he wasn’t being a good host if he didn’t get lots of food into us right away.

  Although Street and I avoided talking about the case, Ryan couldn’t stay away from it. He asked me many questions to which the answers were largely ‘I don’t know,’ and ‘I’ll have a better idea in a few days,’ and ‘Let’s enjoy dinner,’ and ‘You and I will go over this tomorrow.’

  Dinner was tasty despite being meatless. Street made interesting conversation. Ryan was too nervous to say much. Because I was the only one with an obvious appetite, I decided it was my job to eat.

  After we’d cleared our plates, Ryan seemed relieved. He worked in the kitchen for a while. Sometime later, he came out of the kitchen carrying a cookie sheet. On it were fresh cookies, some kind of chocolate extravaganza. I looked to see how Lily reacted, but she was asleep next to Spot.

  “It might be a mistake to bring out an entire batch and set it within Owen’s grasp,” Street warned.

  Spot lifted his head off the floor, his nostrils flexing, eyes sleepy but intense.

  I reached for one.

  “Wait, don’t eat it yet,” Ryan said.

  I already had a cookie at the gates.

  “Wait, wait, wait!” He stood in front of us, his arms out, palms up, pleading. “It’s like that line in the Yeats poem about stepping softly because you’re stepping on my dreams.”

  I put the cookie back.

  “It’s okay for each of you to pick up a cookie,” he said, “but don’t eat it. Just hold it.”

  We did as he asked.

  “Now close your eyes. Pretend it’s nine hundred years ago. You are stone carvers in Paris, creating the gargoyle monsters for the Notre Dame Cathedral. Like many artisans, you’ve spent your entire life on this project in service to the Church. Food has never been anything but calories. The best treat you’ve ever tasted is a chunk of tough, singed deer meat. And heavy bread. Coarse enough to break your teeth, flavor like old leather, as hard to chew and swallow as tree bark. You need the water jug nearby just so you can wash i
t down.”

  With my eyes shut, Ryan sounded rapt and focused, maybe even unflinching for a moment.

  “Are you there?” he asked. “Is your taste and smell completely deadened? Is your tongue still dry with the dust of chiseled stone from a long day’s work?”

  I opened my eyes and looked at him. His eyes were shut, but his face was wild and intense. He held his own cookie out in front of him. Street still had her eyes shut, always the good student, waiting patiently.

  “Okay,” Ryan said. “You can eat your cookies.”

  Street took a tiny bite, her eyes still closed.

  I chomped mine, chewed it up and swallowed. It was chocolaty and warm and chocolaty and chewy and very, very chocolaty. I shut my eyes to consider again what it would be like to be a stone carver in Paris a millennium before, yet tasting a chocolate astonishment such as I’d just eaten. Just to make certain it wasn’t a culinary aberration, I ate another, and then another. Washed it down with the Jack London cab. Perfect.

  “Well?” Ryan said, the essence of the kid who cannot suffer delay. He looked both excited and worried.

  I gave him the thumbs up.

  Ryan’s relaxation at my approval was palpable. This from a kid who’d made tens of millions in a high-tech business at an age when most of us were still trying to figure out what we wanted to do when we grew up. But then, maybe that was exactly where Ryan was, trying to figure out his future. His riches were just a collateral benefit from his hobby, like snowboard trophies or scout merit badges or spelling bee ribbons or publication credits for poems or travel articles.

  Street was still chewing her tiny piece of chocolate dream, slowly, carefully, with what appeared to be great deliberation. She opened her eyes. “Is that Calera pinot all gone – I hope not?”

  Ryan jumped up, nearly ran to the dining table, and lifted the bottle to the light. “There’s still a taste,” he said, excited. He brought it and, with flare, poured the last few drops.

  Street lifted her glass up, swirled the wine several times around, then put it to her nose and inhaled, shutting her eyes once again. She tipped the glass up, and drank it, taking time to chew the wine with the lingering flavor of cookie, then swallowed. After a long moment, she spoke in a low voice.

  “Amazing,” she said.

  Ryan grinned like a kid witnessing a revelation. He picked up another cookie, then noticed Spot.

  “Spot is staring at me like I hold the key to the universe.” he said.

  “You do,” I said.

  “Are you supposed to feed dogs human cookies?”

  “No. But that hasn’t stopped fifty million dog owners before. If you want to give it a try, just set it on top of his nose,” I said.

  “You’re not serious,” Ryan said.

  “Owen calls it delayed gratification training,” Street said. “Spot will just stare at it until you say okay. Then watch out.”

  Ryan looked at us some more, decided we were serious. He walked over toward where Spot lay. He moved slowly, tentatively.

  Spot looked like he might launch a cookie death-leap at any moment.

  Ryan reached out with the cookie.

  I thought a steadying word might be in order. “Spot, stay,” I said in a stern voice.

  Spot made the tiniest of movements as if he might look at me, but couldn’t bare to pull his attention away from the approaching cookie.

  “Stay,” I said again.

  Spot ignored me, every one of his visual, auditory and olfactory receptors focused on Ryan’s gift.

  “He’s safe, right?” Ryan’s voice vibrated. “He won’t accidentally bite me?”

  “He won’t bite you,” I said as streams of drool dropped from Spot’s jowls. “But you have flood insurance, don’t you?”

  Now Ryan ignored me. He held the cookie by its edges, a delicate grip with thumb and forefinger, his other three fingers arched up to minimize finger loss should the carnivore miss the cookie. Ryan’s other hand was tucked behind his back, the most effective hand and arm insurance.

  With great trepidation, Ryan reached his shaky hand out and gently set the vibrating cookie on the top of Spot’s nose. Had the cookie and nose been made of porcelain, the staccato tinkling would have been notable. When the cookie was half-balanced, Ryan jerked his hand back.

  Spot went cross-eyed looking at the cookie. The cookie leaned sideways. Teetered on the edge of the nose. Drool-flow increased to flash-flood level.

  Ryan squirmed with excitement. “Okay, Spot!” he shouted.

  And the cookie was gone. Just like that. Whatever dramatic flair of motion happened, it was too fast to see without slow-motion photography. No sound effects beyond a clink of fang on fang and a quick guttural gulping sound. Just a simple blurred movement, and the cookie went from existing to not existing. If we hadn’t been looking toward Spot, there would be no indication of what had happened except for the largish ball of saliva on a high pop-up toward third base.

  Spot licked his jowls. A thorough tongue swipe down the left side and then up the right. A secondary swallow. He stared at Ryan, then turned his head toward the cookie tray where more helpless treats were lined up awaiting execution.

  “Oh, God,” Ryan beamed. “That was fantastic! Spot could be in the movies.”

  “Let’s keep this as our secret,” I said. “If word got out that we were feeding him chocolate cookies, the rule makers would charge me with cruelty to animals.”

  Street, nodding, pointed at Spot. “Look how he’s suffering.” We all looked at him.

  Spot looked at us, wondering who would step up and fill the cookie void if Ryan was not going to put more on his nose.

  “This calls for some classical music,” Ryan announced. He walked toward a set of shelves that were his media center. “I’m thinking that a great romantic composer would suit chocolate and Paris. How about Mahler? I have much of his work. Maybe you have a preference?”

  “Over my head,” I said. “Famous composer is all I know about him. Grand and important symphonies, right?”

  “Do you have the Symphony Number Five?” Street asked.

  So we sat and listened to Mahler, and Ryan poured himself another half-inch of the cab, his eyes glimmering, and he talked about how exciting it was to devote an entire evening to an extravagant dinner sans video games, and he raved about celebrating the elixir of fermented grapes and the culinary delights of chocolate, all while we imagined life as stone carvers in medieval Paris. And when it was time to turn in, he said with great sincerity that it was the best evening he’d ever had in his entire life, and my heart broke a little bit once again.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  In the middle of the night, I awoke to an explosion. I rushed out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Spot was already at the entry to the great room. He stood in the dark, growling ferociously.

  I found the light switch. The floor of the great room sparkled with a million small pieces of glass. One of the huge, double-pane windows had blown apart as if from a bomb. Cold air was rushing in.

  In the middle of the pool of broken glass lay a fireplace poker, a sharp point on one end, and a looped handle on the other. Tied to the loop, like streamers on the back of a throwing spear, was a tail of long, red hair.

  “Should I call nine-one-one?!” Ryan yelled. He was peeking into the room from around a corner. Street stood behind him.

  “No. The person who did this has already gone. There won’t be anything for the cops to do in the night. I’ll call Diamond in the morning.”

  Ryan came into the room, saw the poker and gasped. “It’s her hair! God, no, that’s Jeanie’s hair!”

  “Why do you think that?” I said, even though I’d already had the same thought.

  “Long and shiny, and the exact same red-orange color!” Ryan melted down onto the couch, his eyes tearing. Street walked up behind the couch and kneaded his shoulders.

  I didn’t know what to say. “Maybe you should go check on Lily. Hopefully, she slept through the
noise.”

  I ran outside. Praeger was alert and in his car, but he hadn’t heard the noise.

  I told him about the poker. “The guy must have approached from the back side of the house.”

  “You think I should cruise the road in case the guy is getting into a vehicle?”

  “I’m sure the guy knows you’re here. So his plan would have taken that into account. I don’t think you’d find him. The guy probably saw the motion lights being installed, so he threw the poker from far enough away that he wouldn’t trigger the lights and cameras. Then he would sneak off through the woods. I’d send Spot on a search, but I’m sure the guy has already left in a vehicle like the last time. I think it’s best if you stay nearby.”

  An hour later we had the glass swept up and the dust vacuumed. Ryan was shaky. Street eventually thought to suggest that he look up window repair companies, and that gave him a focus.

  I found a staple gun and step ladder in the garage and put up a large bedspread over the window opening to slow the flow of cold air.

  I put on coffee. It was 4:30 a.m.

  At seven o’clock, Lily appeared, holding a small stuffed giraffe. She was unaware of what had happened. She noticed the bedspread up on the window wall and asked why it was there.

  “The window broke. Made a real mess, but Ryan’s getting a company to replace it.”

  “Why did it break?” she asked.

  I hesitated. “Sometimes, if glass is really stressed, it will break. But don’t worry. It’s very unusual for this to happen. It probably won’t happen again.”

  She seemed to accept that answer.

  Street cooked up a nice breakfast, doing a good job of keeping things relatively normal for Lily’s benefit.

  The window repair van came in the morning. Street had to leave. Ryan, Lily, Spot and I went outside. Praeger had been replaced by Vistamon. We said hi to him, then wandered up to Herman’s cabin. Ryan sat on the chairlift seat. Lily joined him.

  I asked her to hang onto Spot’s collar while I took a look around. I made a circuit of the house, looking for footprints or some other sign of the suspect, but found nothing. Perhaps finding clues would have to wait until the party.