by Dana Mentink
“I’m all ears.”
Misty accepted the cup of coffee Bill handed her, and though she was too timid to ask, he somehow intuited that now was precisely the right moment for chocolate. He placed his own coffee and the chocolates on a small patio table, and they settled into the slightly rusted chairs.
“Two salted caramels. That should at least get us through the part where you explain how in the world you have come into possession of Jellybean Tucker again,” Bill said.
She didn’t answer at first, overwhelmed at the glory of that gooey chocolate wonder settling across her taste buds and the sweet sensation of being near Bill once again. Both were heady pleasures. He waited patiently.
“If you can believe it, he was following my car out of town. We scooped him up, and I drove Nana home to Berkeley and stayed the night at her place, though Jellybean was extremely unkind to Nana’s canary, Peepers. It’s the only time I’ve known Peepers to go silent. Usually, he can’t be quieted for anything. I called and left a message on your shop phone. Didn’t you get it?”
He groaned. “I didn’t think to look. I’ve been out hitting the bricks, hunting for Jellybean.”
At the sound of his name, the dog raced up to Bill, placed one tiny paw on his leg, and licked a spot on his jeans. When Bill reached out to pet him, he burst away and commenced running frantic laps around the yard, much to Fiona’s amusement.
“Okay, that explains the return of Wonder Dog.” Bill directed those intense green eyes in her direction, and she felt a tingle that started in her stomach and ran through her body like a swiftly played scale.
“But why did you tell them Lawrence would come back? Did you hear from him?”
“No.”
“Did the director say the movie is going forward anyway?”
“No. He’s pulling the plug Friday if Lawrence doesn’t return.”
Bill’s eyebrows rose halfway to his thick hair. “I give. Why did you come back, Misty?”
Why? Why? The very question, the heart of the matter. Why had Misty Agnelli returned to Albatross when she’d nearly made her escape, hidden safely under the bed again while the world went crazy around her? “These are good chocolates,” she said, stuffing the second one into her mouth.
“Candy will not save you, young lady.” He leaned forward. “Why, Misty?”
The caramel bought her a few precious moments. She swallowed and forced her mouth to say the words. “I’m going to find Lawrence Tucker and bring him back here before Wilson stops the production.” There. It was delivered, sitting like an unexploded bomb between them.
Bill froze. “You think you can do that? Get him to return?”
“Yes,” she blurted before she could rethink it.
“How? Did you call him?”
“No.”
He scrubbed a hand across his unshaven jaw. “Did he contact you?”
“No.”
“Then how are you going to find him? He could be anywhere.”
“I’m going to…” She stopped. “I don’t know.”
Bill shook his head. “But why would you do that, Misty?”
Why indeed? “I can’t explain it. It won’t make sense.” It didn’t make one bit of sense, even in her own mind. Borderline recluse, walking social disaster, coward to the nth degree.
“Doesn’t have to make sense. Tell me.”
She wanted time to compose the right words, to neatly score them to the proper rhythm, in an appropriate time signature. Bill’s piercing gaze would not allow her the luxury.
She sucked in a deep breath, wishing she had more chocolate. “I felt like I was meant to come back here and convince Lawrence to return.”
He stared.
“For the town,” she added. And for you. At least she had the sense not to tell that bit.
Now he was openly gaping. “You were meant to find Tucker?”
“Somebody has to do it.”
His open mouth gave way to the quirk of a smile.
“And for some crazy reason, I think God figures that’s supposed to be me,” she finished.
“Let it shine, Misty,” she could hear Lawrence saying. Okay. She’d just set the match to the wick, and there was no turning back. Stomach knotted, she waited for his response.
“So a woman who is scared to leave home has returned to a town she doesn’t like to find a man she doesn’t understand without any idea how to go about it, on a one-week deadline?”
The knot grew tighter. He would laugh. Think her crazy. Wish her well and step away from the strange, awkward, ridiculous woman who was Misty Agnelli.
He did laugh, and her mortification was complete. The rich, sonorous bass filled the tiny backyard. She stood, fiddling with her empty coffee cup, cheeks hot with embarrassment, hands cold with shame. What had she expected?
“Well, anyway,” she said, “I’ll take Jellybean and get out of your hair.”
He wiped a hand across his eyes. “I just can’t believe this.”
“Thanks for keeping him, or at least trying to.” She was two steps away when he caught her by the arm.
“Wait a minute.”
She would not turn and see the mirth on his face, the humor she’d provided at the cost of her own dignity. “I’m in a hurry,” she muttered. “Mr. Wilson said I could stay in the trailer, so I’ll take Jellybean there.”
But he did not let go. He gently turned her around until she was looking into the handsome face, at the strong chin and slightly untidy hair.
“You don’t think God meant for you to do this alone, do you?”
She blinked hard to dismiss the tears that had gathered in her eyes when she’d heard him laughing. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, Misty Agnelli,” he said, beaming a smile at her that left her positively breathless, “you’ve got yourself a partner in this quest.”
Was she imagining this? Dreaming it up like some romantic movie? Had Bill Woodson really believed her wacky notion enough to help? Enough to stay close? To her? A partner.
Jellybean barked and chased his tail as Fiona looked on with glee.
“Correct that. Looks like you’ve got yourself three partners. Can you deal with that?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice. Suddenly, she did not feel quite so awkward and unsure of herself as she had a moment before.
Partners. Yes, she could deal with that.
Ten
Bill figured he was going to be a poor excuse for a detective, but for some reason he was thrilled just to sit with Misty in Lawrence’s unoccupied trailer, trying to narrow down the endless scenarios to explain where the actor had gone. The director had allowed the amateur detectives to search for clues in the star’s domicile and even provided Tucker’s cell phone number.
“Do whatever you want,” he said. “I’ve got other things to take care of. Oh, and thanks for the chocolates,” Wilson said, looking at Bill as if he were a celebrity. “How do you get that combination of creamy and crunch in those peanut butter puffy things?”
“Trade secret,” Bill joked.
Wilson nodded soberly. “I understand. I worked on a film where everyone had to sign secrecy agreements.”
“Which one was that?” Misty asked.
“I can’t tell you.”
After Wilson left, Misty eagerly dialed Tucker’s cell phone number and received no response. There wasn’t much in the trailer that was any more helpful. Tucker, it seemed, loved to read fishing magazines and consume vast quantities of green olives and tiny gherkin pickles, both of which were well represented in the minuscule refrigerator.
After a lunch of peanut butter sandwiches and apple slices, they decided to track down the taxi driver who, Bill had ascertained from Vivian, must have been dispatched from the cab company in nearby Tidewater. They set off, Bill driving his growling delivery van, which smelled of chocolate, with Fiona in the backseat and Misty riding shotgun.
It was a glorious spring morning, and Bill cracked the window to let in the sea air.
“Do you mind if I pop in some tunes?”
She laughed when he loaded up the Farm Fandango CD, which was Fiona’s current favorite, and soon they were both singing along to nursery school songs.
He saw Misty’s fingers tapping a complicated pattern on her knee.
“You’re fingering the music in your mind, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “You got me. Can’t help myself.”
What would it be like to be so gifted? “That’s incredible.”
“What?”
“To be so good at something that it’s in your blood and nerves and muscles.”
“Like you and chocolate.”
He chuckled. “I don’t have chocolate in my blood, I hope. That would be killer on the cholesterol.”
She giggled, and he heard another sound from the backseat, the soft burble of humming from Fiona. His hushed awe must have translated, because Misty stopped singing to listen.
And then it stopped as quickly as it had started.
He did not realize there were tears in his eyes until one trickled down his cheek. He hastened to rub it away. “Sorry,” he whispered. “It’s one of the first sounds I’ve heard her make since…” He swallowed hard.
Misty reached for his hand and squeezed. “Better than music.”
He held on to her fingers and marveled at how he’d gotten to be in this driver’s seat, relishing a child’s hum, chasing after a missing star, enjoying the company of a musician. How exactly had he gotten acquainted with a bona fide musical genius?
Because she doesn’t know, said the darkness inside him before he could stop it.
And she doesn’t have to, he returned, sitting up straighter and clasping her hand more firmly.
Together they drove along the wind-scoured coast, listening to barnyard boogies and straining for any further sound from the backseat. As the CD finished up, they’d made it to Stan Fan’s Taxi Company. Not daring to leave the sleepy Jellybean unattended, Bill held the dog, football style, and guided them all into the office.
Bill expected to find an old, balding guy smoking a stogie, but the man in charge was no more than midtwenties, he guessed, with a Bluetooth headset in his ear.
“Welcome to Stan Fan’s Taxi Company,” said the young man. His black eyes regarded them curiously from under a mop of hair. “I’m Stan. What can I do for you? Looking to hire a cab? Did you try to call? Sorry if I didn’t pick up, but my dispatcher had to go have an emergency root canal, so I’m trying to keep us afloat until the novocaine wears off.” He noticed Jellybean. “Hey, that’s a cute dog.” He extended a hand to pet Jellybean, but Bill casually shifted the dog to the other arm.
“He’s, uh, missing his owner right now. Sort of down in the dumps.”
“Aww. That’s terrible. My dog Percy went missing when I was a kid. Never did find him. Broke my heart.”
Misty explained their mission. “You picked up his owner, Lawrence Tucker, in Albatross on Friday. I need to know where he went.”
“I remember the guy. He had a funny way of talking. All big and grand like, as if he was announcing the World Series or something.”
Misty’s face brightened. “Yes, that’s him. We need to know his destination.”
Stan’s expression clouded. “Oh, um, that kind of thing is private. I don’t disclose personal business about my clients. That’s a no-no in the cab business unless there’s been a murder or something like that.” He raised a doubtful eyebrow. “You’re not cops, are you?”
“No, but Mr. Tucker is a movie star, and he’s gone missing. He’s our friend, and he needs help.”
“A movie star?” Stan blinked. “That could explain the weirdness, but he didn’t look like anyone I know. What’s he appeared in?”
Misty rattled off the names of a half dozen movies.
Stan remained blank. “Did he do any superhero movies?”
“I don’t think so,” Bill said.
“Oh, wait,” Stan said, brightening. “Did they use his voice on the Galaxy Seven video game? I thought he sounded kinda familiar.”
“Probably not,” Bill said.
Getting back to their mission, Misty said, “It’s really important that we find him.”
Stan nodded. “Well, like I said, I can’t help you with that.”
Bill cautiously cuddled Jellybean closer. For once, the dog actually remained docile. Maybe he really did miss Tucker. Bill stroked the silky ears, and the dog relaxed under the attention, giving him a seriously pitiful look.
Bill let out a sigh, hoping it wasn’t too dramatic. “Jellybean’s had a rough time since Mr. Tucker left. He’s escaped and run away from my place. I sure would like to reunite them.”
“Yes,” Misty hurried to put in. “Mr. Tucker saved Jellybean from drowning in a frozen lake. They’ve been inseparable ever since.”
“Oh, wow. Dog probably wonders where his owner is.”
Misty and Bill nodded in unison.
Stan’s eyes went soft. “That must be heartbreaking. Poor little thing does look really down in the mouth. I always hoped that one day Percy would come barreling through the door again with that goofy bark of his. What I would have given for that to have happened. I never saw him again.”
Misty was nodding so hard now her hair bounced around her face. “For sure, and we are so eager to reunite them, you wouldn’t believe it.”
Stan thought for a moment and then clicked at a laptop on the counter. “Tell you what. I won’t give you the address, but I can tell you the city where I dropped him, okay?”
Bill and Misty exchanged a smile. Maybe they weren’t such bad detectives after all.
Stan was grabbing for a pen when he suddenly spoke into his Bluetooth and disconnected. “Sorry. Family of four needs a ride to the airport pronto. They promised a nice tip if I’m there to pick them up in fifteen minutes.”
“But we need that address,” Bill said. “It’s crucial.”
Stan grabbed his keys off a hook on the wall. “Leave your number. I’ll call you when I get back.”
“We’re on a deadline,” Misty called as he ran past.
“Sorry, but I got college loans to pay off. I’ll call you when I can.”
Misty didn’t put her cell phone down until they arrived back at Chocolate Heaven. Stan had not called. How long did it take to deliver a family to the airport anyway?
A timer on her phone pinged. “Oh, shoot. I’ve got a lesson to teach. Do you have an empty corner I can pop into? My violin’s in my car, and if go back to the trailer, I’ll be late.”
“We’ll get you set up. No problem.”
After she grabbed her instrument from the trunk, Bill guided her upstairs. “You can use my room. It’s not much bigger than a closet, but at least it isn’t filled with brooms and dustpans.”
Firing up her laptop, Misty got settled just in time for her noon lesson.
Ernest Finn’s wrinkled face appeared on the screen. “Afternoon, Ms. Agnelli.”
“Misty,” she corrected him for the thousandth time. “How are you and the doggies?”
He chuckled. “Getting too old to chase after cats.”
“You could consider a terrier. As far as I can tell, they don’t ever get tired.”
He laughed. “I’ll stick with these mutts.”
“Ready to get started?”
“Actually,” he said, his puffy white brows wriggling on his forehead, “I’m afraid I’ve got to skip our lesson today.”
“Oh?” She felt a stab of alarm. Ernest, a retired shopkeeper and a widower, had never missed his weekly lesson in the six years she’d been his teacher. He felt like family to Misty, right down to his grumpy old dogs and the six grandkids he’d shown her pictures of.
He knew a lot about Misty too, more about what was missing in her life than anything else. No boyfriend. No kids. No social life. Once she’d broken down and cried in between scales, actually sobbed out the ludicrous story of Jack and Jill. Ernest was a good listener, the best kind of friend, eve
n if she’d never laid eyes on him in person. For just a moment, she had a deep longing to sit down face-to-face with Ernest.
“Is everything okay? Are you sick?” she pressed.
“Oh no, I’m fine. Just something came up. How is the film shooting going?”
“We’ve, uh… Well, it’s sort of… Actually, it’s hard to explain.”
He frowned. “Still working there, right? Going to keep tutoring old Tuck on his violin, aren’t you?”
More like keep chasing after him. “It’s a little complicated.”
He chewed his lip. “Well, don’t give up on him, Misty. Could be he needs more than just a violin teacher.”
That was an understatement. They made an appointment to reschedule the lesson and signed off. While Misty waited for Bruno, her teenage client in El Paso, to check in for his lesson, she scanned Bill’s tidy room.
The bed was neatly made, and the tiny side table was bare of anything except an old cassette player and a brass alarm clock. The desk at which she sat barely fit into the corner, the wooden top scratched and dinged as if he’d owned it since childhood or bought it used. A small, faded photo was tacked to one corner of the desk. It was Bill in his high school football jersey, posed with the ball in one hand, one foot resting on a helmet that sat on the grass. He had a smile plastered on his face, but it looked forced rather than the genuine grin that tickled her insides every time she thought of it. The photo had been skewered with a tack that stuck right through the top of Bill’s head, the pin jabbed so deeply into the wood that it made a crater in the photo.
She stared at it for a long time. There was something very sad about the tattered photo that she could not put her finger on. Why did she not see the self-assured confidence of a teen? The invincible spirit of a high school jock with the world lying at his feet, ready to conquer anything?
What would her own high school photo have shown? A girl hiding behind mounds of frizzy hair, books clutched to her baggy sweatshirt as if she could shield herself from life with academia. She would be alone in her picture also, no boyfriend by her side and, more painfully, no real girlfriends either. Her books and her music, those were her friends, her comforts in a home that she grew increasingly reluctant to leave. Maybe football was Bill’s friend, though she didn’t see how such a handsome, outgoing boy would have any trouble with his social life. He’d even had a beautiful girlfriend, so what could be lacking in his high school experience?
