A Curious Affair

by Melanie Jackson

  I eavesdropped subtly on the crowd but gained nothing from it. Half of the others in the room sounded like their lives were one long hangover left from the four-year party in high school begun when they still had hopes of achieving some form of greatness. Or at least escape. I had nothing to say to them. I couldn’t help them relive their glory days as jocks or cheerleaders, and their inability to face their current reality scared me.

  The rest were like Molly and Dell. They had abandoned all hope of a life beyond Irish Camp and were filled with a numb fatalism about the remainder of their days. I wanted desperately to flee from them because they reminded me of my own recent despair, but couldn’t leave yet. I had to wait for the nephew.

  A ripple eddied through the room and I looked up to see which conversational rock might have been thrown into our midst. It didn’t take long to spot him. He was tall, lean and looked an awful lot like Irving, though he lacked Irv’s kind eyes. There was something primitive about those eyes, soulless, animal—though that seems wrong to say because I believe that animals have souls and that their eyes are as compassionate as any human’s. And there was also—now, don’t laugh—an aura about him. I couldn’t see it exactly, but I could sense it. Murderus-lopithecus, I thought, the modern sociopath’s early ancestor. I didn’t smile at this joke because, well, it wasn’t a joke. I knew I was looking at Irv’s killer.

  “That’s him,” Molly all but hissed as the stranger hung up his damp denim jacket on the coatrack by the door. Denim jackets were common enough up here, but this one still gave me what my Scottish grandmother would have called a cauld grue. I rubbed my free hand down my arm, trying to smooth the gooseflesh. It took an effort to feign nonchalance as I turned back to Molly. It didn’t help my supernatural dread that over her shoulder I could see Atherton perched on the window box, smashing down the dried remains of last autumn’s chrysanthemums that hadn’t wintered over. His eyes were fixed, too wide and a bit wild. His nostrils were flaring as he drew in fast breaths from the crack in the ill-fitting window.

  I exhaled. Atherton had followed me. I had asked him not to, but the cat had a mind of his own.

  And now that I thought about it, this was probably a good thing. It shouldn’t be hard to get hold of the nephew’s jacket and take it outside. The act was a formality, though. I already knew that I was looking at Irving’s killer.

  I let Dell introduce me to the nephew. It was hard to meet his eyes and I couldn’t bring myself to shake his hand, though I still have a hard time explaining why. He didn’t look like a killer. His voice was not sinister. It was quiet; not so much soft as utterly inconsequential. Nor was he especially large or threatening, though I could see that there was strength in his bony hand. But within seconds of being introduced it felt like someone with a sledgehammer and homicidal intention was at work inside my skull, frantically trying to beat a way out. I couldn’t be near him for more than a second. I could barely breathe.

  Part of it might have been because he was wearing Cal’s aftershave. On this man it made me feel sick. It was an obscenity, a violation of Cal’s memory. I could feel my lips wanting to curl back from my teeth. If I had been a dog, I would have snarled.

  I backed away from Wilkes and into Sheriff Murphy. It was a sudden relief to see, or at least feel, the strong presence of the law at my back. I didn’t even mind the large hand that settled on my waist for a few seconds longer than was necessary to steady me.

  “Tyler, have you met Peter Wilkes?” I asked. I sounded almost normal. My incipient panic had been aborted by his presence. Still, though I had arrested my snarl, I could tell that Tyler was eyeing me with a concerned gaze. Something of the horror and rage that I had been feeling had transferred itself into his awareness. Our Irish sheriff had a bit of the fey about him.

  “Yes. We met earlier today. Mister Wilkes, good to see you again.”

  “Sheriff,” the light, inoffensive voice answered. Wilkes didn’t seem to notice me huddling away from him, which made me very happy. I never wanted to get near this creature again.

  “That’s all good, then,” I said. I turned away from both men, checking my face in the fly-specked mirror behind the bar. I looked fairly normal. Pale is my natural winter state. For Tyler’s benefit I said, “Gentlemen, you’ll have to excuse me. It’s been a long day and my jaw has had enough of cold and conversation for one night.” I managed a quick turn back in their direction and an unfocused half-smile.

  I knew that Tyler continued to stare at me, so I made myself walk toward Molly and pulled out some social blither for the ex-girlfriend and Mrs. Jameson, the Baptist minister’s wife, whose iron-gray-haired, iron-willed presence in The Mule I couldn’t even begin to fathom. Perhaps she had had car trouble and stopped in to phone for a tow truck. Or she had come down with dementia and forgotten that this was the house of iniquity and sin her husband preached against.

  Molly didn’t want to let me go. She was enjoying herself, playing the near-widow. She began telling me about how Mrs. Jameson had been Irv’s grammar school teacher, reaching for sentiment in the old battle-axe that I doubted was there. I nodded politely as Molly chattered, trying to get away but not finding a long enough pause in the conversation to do it gracefully. All I wanted was to get to Peter Wilkes’s coat and take it outside to Atherton, but Mrs. Jameson had other plans for me. She had found out that I was a writer and planned to pick my brains clean about a book her nephew was writing.

  I think that I was in some kind of shock, because I was unable to focus on the conversation. Instead, Mrs. Jameson’s neck fascinated me. It was as wrinkled as an elephant’s leg, though a good deal thinner. It was all I could do to pull my eyes away from the loose folds of grayish skin that slipped up and down every time she swallowed or said a word with the letter p in it. Instead, I tried staring at the black velvet bow in her steely hair and nodded repeatedly as she told me the excruciating details of what seemed the most ridiculous mystery plot I’d ever heard. In some ways, she reminded me of my maternal grandmother, a righteous woman of Puritan stock whose dead bones were probably still quivering with outrage at my lack of feminine homemaking virtues. Mom had come by her limited world view honestly. Though I wanted to, it was impossible to just walk away from my grandmother’s disapproving shade, so instead I looked at the painting over her shoulder, nodded at intervals, and kept saying Uh-huh, hm, really?

  Finally, feeling desperate enough to do the unthinkable, I reached into my purse and took out a business card. I never do this, since I would rather have my skin removed by a dull potato peeler than give advice to a beginning writer who probably doesn’t want anyone telling him the brutal realities of the business, but I pushed the card into her hand and suggested that Mrs. Jameson have her nephew contact me so we could talk about his project. I then made a mental note to change my phone number in the morning just in case he did call.

  I leaned toward Molly and performed an air kiss that took her completely by surprise. At last I was ready to escape. I oozed my way toward the door, doing my best to get lost in the clouds of cigarette smoke just in case Tyler was still watching me. I made it to the coatrack by the red door and oh-so-casually lifted down Peter Wilkes’s coat. It smelled of Cal’s aftershave and I wanted to cry that this memory was being taken from me, forever corrupted by this horrible man. I didn’t put the jacket on since it would obviously be too large and I couldn’t claim to have made a mistake if anyone saw me with it. Also, the smell made me sick and I’d sooner have wrapped myself in a corpse’s shroud.

  I stepped outside. It was cold and beginning to rain, but a huge improvement over the atmosphere inside. Atherton had seen me make the switch and was waiting on the bench just outside the door.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” I asked in a whisper.

  Atherton sniffed once and then backed away. His fur began to rise.

  Yes, that’s smelly-butt man. He can’t hide his scent from me with that other stinky smell.

  My eyewitness—and nose-witness—ha
d spoken. I looked the coat over, hoping for a blood spatter, something I could show to the sheriff and ask to have tested for Irv’s DNA. There wasn’t anything that I could see. Perhaps it had already been washed. Could laundry detergent remove all traces of blood? I didn’t know.

  “His name is Peter Wilkes. He is Irv’s nephew,” I said. “Wait for me here. I’ll just be a second. I have to put this coat back before someone notices it’s missing.”

  Tell the sheep man to take him away. Tell him to put him in a box.

  “It’s not that easy. The sheep man won’t arrest this guy unless we have proof that he’s the one.”

  Proof.

  “Proof that a human can understand. Smell isn’t enough.”

  I stepped back inside and swapped coats. My own jacket was denim but of a much lighter shade, and it had a faux fur lining. My hands didn’t shake as I made the switch. My attack of nerves were gone. I knew who the killer was. All that remained was to prove that he was the one who had done this heinous deed.

  It didn’t surprise me any when Tyler appeared at my side. I didn’t have to look up at his face to know it was him. Tyler is tall—at least to me—lean and muscled without being freakish. In other words, he has adequate muscle for doing real things and not just exercising in the gym. His badge at eye-level was also a hint to his identity. There was only one man in town whose occupation was stated on his chest in shiny gold.

  “Are you alright?” Tyler asked softly. “Frankly, I’ve seen corpses with better color.”

  “I’m fine. Just very tired. It was a long day. And the smoke in here is a bit much.” I let my words come out indistinctly. I wasn’t faking pain, just the degree I felt. I also kept my eyes on another of the bar’s bad paintings. This one was really bad, a portrait that any kindergartener could have drawn, but it was hung in an expensive antique frame. I wondered where they got their art. Not the gallery across the street. Hell’s bells, Renoir could have scribbled his name on it and still no one of any taste would have touched it.

  “Jillian?” Tyler prompted, touching my arm lightly.

  “I must be exhausted. I even took the wrong coat.” I forced myself to look up at him.

  “I saw that. That’s the nephew’s coat.”

  He’d seen me. Great.

  “Would you like me to walk you up the hill?” he asked.

  “No. You stay here and do some detecting,” I said without thinking. I opened the red door.

  “Detecting of Peter Wilkes?” Tyler asked bluntly, following me outside. I was glad that no one except Atherton was close enough to overhear us, and the cat had had the good sense to climb under the bench. Tyler added: “I’m not blind, Jillian. I know you don’t like the man. And I don’t think it’s because it’s like seeing a ghost, though the resemblance is uncanny. There can’t be any doubt of him being Irv’s kin.”

  “You’re right. I don’t like Peter Wilkes—and it isn’t because he looks like Irv, though that’s obscene in its own way. Everyone should have exclusive rights to their own face.” I stopped, unable or at least unwilling to say more. It wasn’t that I didn’t want Tyler on my side. I did—really badly. But I wasn’t sure that the truth was what would put him there, and I wanted some time to think before I said anything more. “Tyler, do you use intuition a lot on the job?”

  I willed him to respond affirmatively. He considered my question a moment before answering.

  “A certain amount of it, yes. Not that I’d ever admit it in court since we aren’t supposed to play hunches in law enforcement,” he told me. “Why? Your intuition speaking up about Irv’s nephew?”

  “Yep. It’s loud and clear and ugly. I’m going to go home and have a long bath and a longer think and see if I can’t find some reasonable basis for what I know is true. That man is a killer.”

  Tyler’s fine eyes narrowed. “If you find one, call me. Right away. Because right now we have a drug dealer running a meth lab in the area where Irv hiked who looks like a much better suspect—assuming the autopsy proves that Irv’s death wasn’t an accident, which I don’t think it will do. And, Jillian…” He paused, probably trying to find a way to be diplomatic. “Look, don’t do anything stupid trying to prove your suspicions on your own. She who doesn’t fight and runs away, lives to not fight another day. If this guy has anything to do with Irv’s death, we’ll find it out through the usual channels.”

  “You’ll be the first—and probably only—person I call with any amazing insights,” I promised, at least agreeing to the first part of his speech. And it was true. I didn’t have anyone else to share my thoughts with except a wary, feral cat. That was a depressing enough thought all by itself. It reminded me again that Cal was gone and that my folks were gone, and there was only my brother, Garth. We’d been close as kids, but we had both married people with strong and diametrically opposing personalities. Debbie’s was self-involved and extremely social—as in upwardly social. Cal was social-minded and involved in mankind. Same word, entirely different meaning. Garth’s wife Debbie saw this concern with everyman—and our moving from the city—as being downwardly mobile, and a bad influence on her children.

  I should have liked Debbie more than I did since I understood self-absorption all too well these days, but we just didn’t get along, even with Cal out of the picture. And I wasn’t any too fond of my niece and nephew since they were turning out to be little facsimiles of their label-conscious mother. There was no sign of Garth’s easygoing and loveable nature in them. I think sometimes that they were cloned solely from Debbie’s DNA.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Tyler said. His voice was again gentle. I was too tired and discouraged to ask why.

  As soon as Tyler went back inside, Atherton came out from under the bench.

  “Would you like me to carry you back to the house?” I asked him.

  He eyed the damp streets, whose gutters were gluey with dissolving leaves, and then looked me over.

  No, I shall walk.

  I didn’t argue. Atherton was heavy and the walk home was all uphill.

  There were a few people on the street, huddling in doorways and under awnings as they closed up their shops or hurriedly used their ATM cards at the credit union before scurrying home to a late and well-deserved supper. I found myself looking at them as a stranger might, assessing their vulnerabilities and being horrified at how they simply trusted no one to look over their shoulder and steal their PIN numbers as they entered them into a machine, or that no thief would scoop up the bags of cash the merchants rested on the deep windowsills and ledges as they locked up their old-fashioned and not terribly secure doors, whose locks hadn’t been replaced since the turn of the century. They would carry their money in the open, like a purse, taking the day’s earnings to the night depository at the bank at the end of the street that was surrounded by oleander bushes where anyone could hide, but feeling no fear of what might be lurking in the shadowy doorways ahead because they hadn’t ever needed to be cautious. They would climb into unlocked cars and probably return home to their unlocked houses. Just like I did. Because our town was safe.

  My world felt suddenly unfamiliar and dangerous to me, and all because I knew there was a murderer drinking beer back at The Mule, a true wolf among us unwary sheep, and I couldn’t prove it, couldn’t even spread the alarm. At least not yet.

  “Shit.”

  But at least we know who he is now, Atherton consoled me. We will get proof for the sheep man.

  “Yes, at least we know.” But I wasn’t positive that we would be able to get the kind of proof Tyler needed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The man who carries a cat by the tail learns something that can be learned in no other way.

  —Mark Twain

  Molly insisted on a church funeral in the chapel where Irving had been baptized—and had never stepped foot in since. I couldn’t imagine much of anything less appropriate, but every choice of obsequies seemed equally bad, and like everyone else—the long-lost nephew inclu
ded—I was just attending out of obligation and letting Molly, the only one who cared about such things, play one more day at being the grieving widow.

  People entered the old churchyard by twos and threes. This wasn’t by choice but rather necessity. The first minister of the Mother Lode Gold Rush Church of Christ the Savior, one Reverend Marvell—formerly a Baptist and gold miner, but one who, late in life, decided to pioneer a new religion for those sinners who worshipped the idol of gold almost as much as God—had specified that the gate be built exactly thirty-six inches wide. He had taken Matthew 7:13 (Enter by the narrow gate since the road that leads to destruction is wide and spacious) very much to heart. The door into the now barn-red church was consequently every bit as narrow.

  The house of worship was currently presided over by one Reverend Sugarbrown. His stock and trade was decrying the sins of virtue, which fortunately did not include the sin of gossiping. He was Goldie’s great uncle and I think that perhaps gene tic predestination had arranged for them to be as they are. Like Goldie, Dawg’s ex, the reverend had his good points, but he was a bad kind of gossip, someone who didn’t trade secrets out of curiosity but rather out of a rabid need to hunt down sinners so he could look good by comparison just in case God graded on a curve. He went around, Monday through Friday, vacuuming up unhappiness from all over town—and well beyond, too, if town life or his small parish proved to be too uneventful that week—until he was so full of dirty secrets that it actually made his face gray and bitter. Then he would sit down on Saturday and write his sermon. I don’t think he would have thrived in some happy coastal climate where people were laid-back because of easy living or else happily ambitious and chasing their careers. He needed a place where weather could drive people to desperation and an understandable belief in a vengeful God, and even here, his congregation was sparse. He should have stayed in Maine.