by Carolyn Hart
He looked at me and his words came in a rush. “Jay told me my book was good.” His bleary eyes had the lost and lonely look of a child crying at midnight when no one comes.
Oh my, oh my. “You put your heart into your book.” My voice was soft.
“You know who I am?” There was a tiny note of hope in his voice.
I understood his thoughts. Despite several drinks, despite a tongue that couldn’t quite enunciate clearly, he was connecting—to him—the dots. I was a writer for a new online magazine. If I included him in the grand piece, this could be his big break. If I featured his book, someone—an agent, a publisher, Hollywood—would knock at his door. Burgeoning eagerness and terrible vulnerability glistened in those bleary eyes.
Any minute coal smoke might envelop me. But there wasn’t a Precept forbidding care and comfort for wounded souls. As for hewing to truth—oh, well. That was an ethical concept I would definitely ponder, preferably when aboard the Serendipity on a gorgeous day. Beauty is truth, truth beauty according to John Keats. I would hold to another truth: There is a spark of the divine to be nurtured in all creatures. I set out to nurture.
Leaning forward, I confided in a low voice. “Of course”—warm emphasis—“he said your book was good. That’s why the choice will be so difficult. I’m sure if he chooses Deirdre it will likely be based on the number of books she has had published.”
“He said”—Harry’s voice trembled slightly—“that I had great capacity to grow, and he could use my example to inspire students.”
Harry Toomey didn’t realize the import of Jay’s comment. Jay using Harry as an example of successful self-publishing was an entirely different matter than Jay adding Harry to the faculty because of his success at self-publishing. Had that been the case, Jay would have told Harry, “You will inspire students.” I felt a whoosh of relief.
Was I parsing Jay’s words too carefully, seeing only the outcome I desired? I didn’t think so. Jay might have trouble with his trouser zipper around vulnerable females, and he would use what power he had when he wanted sex, but he had the wit to recognize that his own reputation was enhanced if he surrounded himself with successful professionals. Anyone on tenure track considers how each and every act will affect that decision. Despite his threats to Deirdre, I felt sure he intended to announce her selection tomorrow.
As soon as the announcement was made, Deirdre could relax, though I’d advise her to always have someone else present when she had occasion to be in Jay’s office. I had no doubt she’d handle him with ease. Soon she’d begin a new book and I would report a successful mission.
If Wiggins focused on the moments when I’d appeared, I could point with pride to the Woman in the Powder Room, full of zeal for her book. As for the fellow at the bar, surely Wiggins would spot me one mishap. And this interlude with Harry Toomey certainly was evidence that I could spread solace with élan. I’d be meticulous before I boarded the Rescue Express and inform Harry of the shocking news of Rabbit’s Foot’s demise but assure him that I’d greatly enjoyed hearing about his book.
Harry was scrabbling in a book bag. He pulled out a book, thrust it at me. “Here’s my book. It’s a trade paperback. What do you think of the cover?”
I glanced down at a garish orange cover. The title straggled in a slant down the page, letters in alternate colors: purple, pink, cerise, juniper, taupe . . . Grabbed by Harry Toomey.
“Hey”—he was pumped—“doesn’t the title grab you?” The man was besotted with his own cleverness. “Here, I’ll read the first paragraph.” He pulled out another copy, flipped the book open. “‘Jenkins jumped. But the kick caught him in the gut. Arrgh. Down he went. The years flashed through his mind. When he was four. That hand that grabbed the feather, took it away, dripping blood . . .’”
Startled, I asked, “The feather dripped blood?”
He blinked, his rhythm broken. “It was the hand.”
“Of course. And so impressive when read by the author. More feeling. But that’s all I want to hear. I must read Grabbed for the full effect.” I clasped the book to my chest (that would probably be bosom in a historical romance, but I refused to succumb to the environment) and quickly stood.
He stumbled to his feet. “But I want to tell you all about the book.”
I didn’t doubt his intent. “That would be wonderful, but I have several more appointments.”
Once again his too-warm, moist hand caught my arm. His voice was less thick. “You said you heard someone say it was Deirdre. Who?”
I gently but firmly removed his hand. “It was one of those conversations. I can’t sort them all out now. A while ago.”
His face folded in thought. “Jay told me my book was good. I was sure that meant he’d chosen me. If I were on the faculty, I know an agent would look at my book, take it, find a publisher who’d see how wonderful it is. I’m not going to believe he picked Deirdre unless he tells me. He owes me that much if everybody’s talking about Deirdre getting the job.” Harry turned away, moved past me, walking with caution but with obvious determination.
I watched as he reached the patio door. I was sure he intended to go and see Jay Knox. I hoped Wiggins never thought to add a Precept about unintended consequences. But Harry wouldn’t change Jay’s decision. And if Jay wondered that the word was out, that might be all for the good.
The crowd had thinned. There were even some empty stools, but the noise was up several decibels. I didn’t see Dr. Randall. Cliff Granger raised his glass, downed the rest of the contents, swung off the bar stool, moved toward the archway.
Most of the revelers were middle-aged, a lot of women in black tops and pants. I didn’t see many youthful faces. The slender student, the one with whom Jay Knox had spent quite a bit of time according to Maureen Matthews, the one who’d sat miserably with a sullen escort but was now alone, came to her feet. She took a deep breath and hurried toward the exit.
I didn’t follow Liz. I was certain I’d correctly guessed Jay Knox’s decision. He was going to appoint Deirdre. He might be angry that she’d pushed him away tonight, but he wouldn’t jeopardize his standing in the department by appointing Harry. In fact, I imagined he’d only included Harry as a presumed finalist in order to have some leverage with Deirdre. In any event, Jay was likely involved right this moment in a conversation with Harry Toomey. I congratulated myself. I’d done good work tonight in discovering that Jay Knox would name Deirdre because she was the candidate with publishing credits.
I strolled to the ladies’ room. The powder room was unoccupied. As I disappeared, I didn’t know when I had felt more carefree. Tomorrow would see Deirdre announced as a new faculty member. After appropriate celebration, I would see what inspiring thoughts I might share with Deirdre. Shoulder to the wheel. Keep on keepin’ on. Write what if on a sheet of paper and let ideas surge. Once she began to write, the Rescue Express would swoop through the sky and I would swing aboard.
Until then . . .
I popped from spot to spot, peeking in on those dear to me.
My daughter, Dil, looked comfortable in silky blue pajamas. She was smiling as she read. But it was strange to me to see her red hair streaked with silver and her face touched by age.
I glanced at the title: Secret of the Scarlet Macaw by Deirdre Davenport. Definitely a good omen.
Suddenly Dil peered over the top of the book, sniffing. “Mike, do you smell perfume?”
Her husband lowered his newspaper, looked puzzled.
Dil flashed a quick smile. “Just my imagination. I thought I smelled a fragrance that Mother loved, a light gardenia.”
I found my son, Rob, in his workshop, even though now it was near midnight. He’d always loved working with wood. His pale reddish hair was also flecked with silver. He looked intent, content. There was a plaque on the wall, which I was sure he’d made, a quote from Lao Tzu.
If you are depres
sed, you are living in the past.
If you are anxious, you are living in the future.
If you are at peace, you are living in the present.
I touched my fingers to my lips, blew a light kiss.
Rob lifted his head and a sudden sweet smile touched his face. He bent back to work, humming “Rock and Roll Music,” which I always sang with gusto when stirring up brownies.
I made a last survey of Silver Lake Lodge. I was visited by a sudden inspiration. In the powder room, empty at this late hour, I appeared. I hurried into the lobby, found a house telephone. “Cabin five, please.”
The phone rang several times. I was a little surprised Jay didn’t answer. He had been emphatic that he intended to remain in the cabin and await Deirdre’s arrival. Perhaps he’d given up, wandered into the gardens, taken a stroll down to the pier. I decided to leave a message. “The buzz is out that you selected Deirdre Davenport. You’ll be pleased that Dr. Randall is absolutely delighted. Your choice reflects the mature judgment”—if Jay assumed this sentiment came from Dr. Randall, why, it simply illustrated how easy it is for anyone to jump to conclusions. It was my own observation—“expected from a candidate for tenure. It would be a shame”—this was a warning to Jay—“if you disappoint him.” I hung up.
This corner of the lobby was empty. I disappeared.
Windows in the two wings of Silver Lake Lodge were mostly dark. I made a circuit of the cabins. Though the curtains were tightly drawn, a thin streak of light seeped from the edges in cabin 5.
I wondered if Jay Knox had listened to my message.
Perhaps I’d find out tomorrow.
I arranged the bolster on the bed just so. The room gave no hint that I had occupied it last night. I took a final glance in the mirror. Perhaps my ensemble would inspire some of the women attired in black—a hip-length, bateau-necked Italian silk blouse brilliant with red, orange, and indigo blocks. Picture a macaw. Add indigo slim-legged cropped pants and orange sandals. Bright, bright, bright.
Breakfast was served on the patio. Many tables were filled. Women in black engaged in intense conversations over bacon and eggs. “. . . only a thousand-dollar advance . . . but I’ve already had six hundred and eleven hits. . . . They promise to send e-mails to ten thousand book clubs. . . . was one of those unsigned reviews . . . Men always get more money. . . . told me no dead monkeys . . .”
Deirdre sat alone at a table for four near a goldfish pond. She appeared pale and worn, her angular face drawn in a tight frown. She looked as doomed as a poker player holding nothing higher than a ten.
I slipped into the chair next to her, gave her a bright smile. “I always told my kids, long faces make dreary places.”
Without warning, she reached out, poked me. “You again.”
“I’ll be gone soon. Everything’s working out.” I beamed at her.
Deirdre looked like a castaway on an atoll with no ships on the horizon. She stared down at her plate, jabbed a fork into scrambled eggs, but made no effort to eat.
I didn’t understand the gloom. “My dear, I have everything under control.” I felt puffed by understandable pride. “You will be announced as the new faculty member by Jay this morning.”
“Jay’s going to announce me? But he can’t.” She stared at me, her face incredulous.
I was startled by her response. “I’m sure—” I looked across the patio at two men whom I knew and broke off in midsentence, tried to catch my breath.
Adelaide Police Chief Sam Cobb was just as I remembered him, a large powerfully built man with a thatch of graying dark hair, a strong face. He wore his usual baggy brown suit. At his elbow was Detective Sergeant Hal Price, white-blond hair, brilliant blue eyes, crisp blue shirt, khaki trousers, tall, lean, ruggedly handsome.
Sam listened to a small man who scurried along beside them talking fast, gesturing wildly. Hal’s gaze automatically ranged around the terrace, a police officer attuned always to his surroundings. Abruptly, he stopped short and stared across the terrace.
At me.
We’d had several encounters. My heart belongs to Bobby Mac, but that doesn’t mean I am oblivious to an attractive male. In a purely academic fashion, of course. Just as I wouldn’t expect Bobby Mac to pass Ava Gardner on a beach and not notice. In a purely academic fashion, of course. If Ava was before your time—trust me, no man ever averted his gaze.
It wasn’t my aim to entrance Hal, although his admiration was sweet. In fact, I hoped that Hal would find a winsome young woman who would win his heart. I would be the first to raise a toast.
Hal still stood and stared.
Sam Cobb stopped and looked over his shoulder, frowning.
A waiter with a tray walked between me and Hal.
I disappeared.
“Will you please stop doing that?” Deirdre unsteadily returned her coffee cup to the table. “Here, not here, here, not here. Make up your mind.”
“I’ll explain later.”
In an instant, I stood at Sam’s shoulder, caught a scent of woody cologne.
“You spot something, Hal?” Sam looked inquiring and slightly impatient.
Hal stared for a long moment at the table now apparently occupied only by Deirdre, then started forward. “I thought I saw”—he paused, dropped his voice—“that redhead. The one who comes and goes.”
Sam gave him a sharp look. “Officer Loy?” Sam sounded both incredulous and eager.
“I looked across the patio and there was a woman sitting with a redhead. The woman”—there was a change in his tone—“very attractive, now seems to be sitting by herself, but I could swear I saw a redhead.” His voice dropped lower. “The redhead looked like Loy.”
I had occasion in the past to appear as Officer M. Loy in one of those fetching French blue uniforms. The dark stripe down the side of each trouser leg adds flair. The name was a tribute to Myrna Loy, famed for her role as Nora Charles to William Powell’s Nick. Dashiell Hammett’s Nick and Nora were immortalized in The Thin Man.
Sam was on full alert. “Go find her.”
Hal slowly shook her head. “She was gone when I looked again. There wasn’t time for her to have walked away.” Hal kept his voice even.
Sam gave a slight shake of his head. “I get you. If she’s gone, she’s gone. Let’s get out to that cabin, see what we find.”
Their escort walked beside Sam, his words coming in short bursts. “I haven’t been there yet. I called nine-one-one as soon as housekeeping told me. One of our sharper old gals saw the front door open to cabin five. She heard the air-conditioning running, so she went up on the porch to see if anyone was around. She looked inside and said there was a man lying on the floor. She said she thought he was dead and it looked like somebody clobbered him. The unit’s occupied by Jay Knox, he’s the guy running a conference here this week. The lodge belongs to his uncle, Walt.” The path wound among clumps of honeysuckle and weeping willows that fronted several cabins.
The men came around a bend. A middle-aged woman huddled in the shade of a willow, determinedly not looking toward the steps to cabin 5. A cleaning cart was parked in front of the cabin. The maid held a duster in one hand. The other plucked at feathers, and a little pile lay on the ground by her feet.
A young woman with pale blonde hair in tight ringlets strode to meet Sam and Hal. She was trim in the Adelaide police uniform. Her name tag read: Officer S. Anderson. “I’ve called for the ME. Nobody’s been inside but the maid.” She yanked a thumb toward the open door. “She said—”
Sam held up a broad, callused hand. “We’ll talk to her. I’ll take a look.”
I was already inside. The overhead light blazed. The curtains were still drawn. I imagined the light had shone all night, but the only occupant of the room would never have noticed.
Jay Knox lay on his right side on the floor near the coffee table in front of the
sofa. A huge purplish blue patch discolored his left temple. That was the only sign of injury. No blood, just that uneven dark blotch.
Sam and Hal stood in the doorway. Sam’s heavy face was somber. No matter what he had seen as a police officer, his expression made it clear that murder sickened him. Life was too fragile, too precious to be deliberately destroyed.
Hal understood that moment of quiet, waited to speak until Sam turned toward him. “I’d say he was caught by surprise.” Hal peered down at Jay. “No bruises on his hands. No signs of scratches.”
Sam studied the wound. “It would take a pretty heavy weapon to make that mark, something smooth, rounded.” Sam didn’t step closer for a better view. He wouldn’t approach the body until death was officially declared by the medical examiner. For now, his brown eyes moved carefully from left to right. The movement of his head stopped. In a quick motion, he pulled a small flashlight from his shirt pocket, one of those tiny ones with a laser beam. He turned on the bright light, pointed the beam toward a shadowy patch at the base of the television cabinet.
The beam illuminated a champagne bottle lying on the floor. “I thought I saw something.” Sam looked from the bottle to the body. “If somebody grabbed that bottle by the neck and swung, it’s as good a weapon as a two-by-four.”
“Right.” Hal gazed around the living room. “Nothing appears to be out of order. Furniture’s upright. No signs of disarray.” He walked to each window, returned. “No sign of a break-in.”
“I’d say he wasn’t expecting trouble.” Sam’s brown eyes studied the coffee table. “Maybe he had a visitor who said something like, ‘How about a drink before I go?’ and picked up the bottle. The glasses are on the coffee table. Maybe he—or she—held the bottle by the neck. Pow.”
Hal’s bright blue eyes gleamed. “It could have happened that way. The visitor walked up to him, holding the bottle by the neck, and made a quick pivot, full force behind the swing, the barrel of the bottle hitting the left temple.” He looked down at Jay. “A hard blow there ruptures the temporal artery. Quick. Deadly.”
