A Curious Affair

by Melanie Jackson

  “Dawg and Tulloc speak highly of him. I understand that he was a benefactor to the town,” Tyler said, doing his best not to sound sympathetic but failing. I forgave him anyway.

  “He was well-loved and is sorely missed—which is wonderful. And terrible. Maybe I like you because you didn’t know him and I don’t have to spend my time comforting you on my loss.” I was aware of the shading of bitter irony in my voice and didn’t like it.

  “Is this why Irv’s death has hit you so hard? A second loss too close to the first?” Tyler’s question was kind but direct. He seemed determined to figure me out. That was flattering, but I knew that that might get tiresome. Talking cats aside, I truly am a very reserved person.

  I looked into his lovely eyes and wondered how much I wanted Tyler to know about me. A bit more perhaps than he did at that moment, but I did a quick calculation, based on my emotional state and how many people were in the restaurant, and decided not to mention that both my parents were dead and that I had the irrational feeling that everyone I loved was on some kind of endangered species list. If dead dogs were too heavy for a first date, then dead parents were too.

  “Maybe. In part. Irv was a kind man, and it offends my sense of justice that his life could be snuffed out because his nephew got greedy.” This was truth, but not the whole. I had a long list of half-truths that I’d told Tyler, and more than a few lies by omission. But since none of this was out-and-out lying, I didn’t feel the immediate need to correct his every misapprehension. Or mention the whole hit-by-lightning-talking-cat thing just yet. Time enough for all that, I assured myself, after we caught Irv’s killer and he had gotten used to me being a bit peculiar. That I was considering telling him anything was amazing. I blamed it on the wine and the subdued lighting that reminded me of a confessional.

  “You’re still certain that Wilkes killed Irving,” Tyler said. “Does he look guilty to you? Does he have a blameworthy pall that only you can see?” I didn’t think he was mocking me, just trying to figure out why I was so convinced of Wilkes’s guilt when Dell was a more likely candidate.

  “Yes, he has a criminal hue that only I can see.” I sighed. “Look, I know that superficially he’s not a great suspect. There is no obvious gain that I can prove, and he isn’t a drooling madman. That’s frustrating for me because no one else believes what I believe. And he hasn’t cooperated by doing anything suspicious, which is a shame. I mean, I wasn’t expecting him to run around high-fiving the undertaker or to be wearing the mark of the Beast right out in the open, but it would be handy if he at least looked capable of violence. Then maybe you’d be more willing to consider what I’m saying. As it is, no one but me seems to notice how dead his eyes are.” The last part sounded a bit pettish.

  This idea seemed to amuse Tyler. “Yes, if only criminals always looked the part. And yet, though he appears to be a spineless worm, you’re not giving up on him, are you?”

  “Nope. I’ve learned to listen to that little voice in my head.” Atherton, by name. “You just wait. Wilkes’ll do something to give himself away eventually.”

  “Like?” This wasn’t a challenge, just curiosity.

  “First off, I think it odd that he’s still in town. Hasn’t he got a job to get back to in Fresno or Lodi or wherever the hell he’s from?”

  “He’s apparently between jobs and wants to wrap up Irv’s affairs. That’s what he says. I can’t argue. And for now, I’d just as soon he stayed put.”

  “Uh-huh. Like Irv had affairs.” I sipped a bit more wine and tried not to sigh again. I wanted information about Irv’s murder, but I also wanted to just enjoy my first night out in three years. The two goals lay in opposite directions. “Have you looked to see if Irv bought any property lately—anything with a mine on it?”

  “No deeds of sale have been recorded for him. I haven’t found any real estate people that were helping him out, either. Of course, his own property has a mine claim, but you knew that.”

  “It’s played out,” I said, pleased that Tyler was actually looking into things. That was impressive. The sheriff’s department ser viced the whole county, and I knew that crime hadn’t taken a hiatus since Irv died. They were already stretched thin. Irv’s murder had to be a terrible strain on their limited resources.

  “Have your meth dealers confessed?” I asked suddenly. “To cooking meth, I mean. I know they didn’t kill Irv.”

  Tyler raised a brow at my certainty.

  “No, but they don’t have to. Their fingerprints are all over everything. Also, we have one of the men on an assault charge. The second man, Pat Jaspar, actually tried to hit Dawg. The DA is delighted at this slam dunk.” The first man had threatened to shoot Tyler as well, but that affair was apparently too trivial to mention. The sheriff was about as prone to hysterics as the Rock of Gibraltar. “Oh, you’ll be glad to know that the shelter has already placed Jaspar’s dog. He’s with a rancher out on Greeley. The beast is happily digging up the backyard.”

  “Good! Though I was hoping to see the poor thing one more time.” Just in case it happened that I could suddenly understand what ever it was he was trying to tell me. “As a matter of fact, I need to visit the shelter for a piece I’m doing on feline leukemia. Maybe I’ll get the address while I’m there.”

  “You write freelance?” He knew the answer but was letting me do the social thing and giving me equal time to talk about my job. He was also guiding the conversation away from Wilkes. I guess he wanted to enjoy the evening, too.

  I tried not to sigh again. I didn’t want to be a wet blanket, but I still had questions and I knew he had some answers.

  “Sometimes. I also get assignments from a couple of magazines that use me regularly. And I write the occasional cookbook.” I didn’t mention my fictional work for various confession-type tabloids. I didn’t do those kinds of pieces often—really, only when the financial wolf was at the door. They paid well, but I hated lying about having imaginary affairs with politicians or rock stars. Unable to let it go, I brought the subject back around to Irv. “I can’t help but notice that though we have discussed my theories, we haven’t talked about who you think murdered Irv if it wasn’t Wilkes,” I said, finishing my wine. “We know my opinion. What about yours? Do you really still think it was the stinky guys?”

  “Stinky guys?”

  I gave myself a mental kick.

  “Sorry, the meth dealers. I think of them that way because of how their camp smelled. What was that guy doing on our hill?”

  “Ah. He was meeting someone. He says.”

  “Wilkes?” I asked.

  “He didn’t know who. A mysterious man in a denim coat and a knit hat.”

  “Wilkes has a denim coat,” I pointed out.

  “So do you.”

  “Use your imagination,” I pleaded.

  “Sorry. I’m the sheriff. I don’t like confessing to hunches or relying on my imagination. And that’s all I have. For now. So I’ll keep my thoughts to myself for the time being,” he said mildly, pouring out the rest of the bottle. He handled the task with grace, though his hands were large. His eyes lifted and met mine. “But you would be wrong if you thought I didn’t consider everything you said and consider it well. I do believe in intuition.”

  He had a lot of nerve saying I was wary. He could give lessons to my strays. I wanted to kick him. But I didn’t.

  “Well—I’m a blonde. Maybe I don’t like confessing I can think, but I still do it when necessary. On a limited basis. With certain people. When I have no choice. I never really saw myself as Nancy Drew.”

  “You’re not that blonde. And I have a choice. I’ll keep my counsel for now.” Tyler drank from his own glass. The smell of the wine was delicate, a hint of early spring that rode the invisible vapor and then vanished. It was almost as appealing as Tyler’s cologne.

  I let the argument go. One had to choose one’s battles.

  “I haven’t seen my stylist for a while. Usually I’m very blonde. Will you mind?” Goo
d Lord, I thought. I’m being frivolous. Hell, I’m flirting.

  “I’ll keep your hair color in mind. I have nothing against blondes. They may have more fun, but it isn’t because they’re dumb.” He would flatter, but he wasn’t going to tell me that he believed Wilkes was the killer.

  “Something else to keep in mind…” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “I think you need a cat for the sheriff’s office. A mascot. And I have the perfect animal for the job.”

  “Let me guess. One of Irv’s strays?”

  “Yes. His name is Sleepy—for obvious reasons. And he’s had his shots so the department won’t be out anything for vet bills.” He ate like a piglet, but I figured Tyler had a good job and could afford the extra kibble.

  “I see. Well, Delores, the dispatcher who volunteers on Saturday night, was mentioning that things could get lonely in the wee hours. I had thought about a dog, but…”

  “A dog would have to be walked,” I pointed out. “Unless you unearthed Tinker, which might be a bit upsetting to visitors. On the other hand, a cat can get by with a litter box and a bowl of crunchies. And Sleepy is very restful. Delores would love him. Everyone loves him.” This was an exaggeration.

  But, I’d have a snitch in the sheriff’s office! This was sounding like a better idea all the time, since Tyler was determined to be closed-mouthed about the case. The cats might or might not understand what the humans were saying, but they would know who came and went from the office while Tyler was being reticent.

  “Okay. Shall I come by tomorrow and pick him up?” I had expected a bit of resistance to the suggestion, but Tyler was an easier sell than Crystal. He was probably trying to make up for refusing to talk about the case.

  “That would be great.” I felt suddenly buoyant. Two down and less than a dozen strays to go.

  “So, we’ve established that you’re a cat person,” Tyler began. I didn’t think we’d established that at all, but didn’t argue. Whether I liked it or not, I was stuck being a cat person. “But you like dogs, too?”

  “I go both ways. I also feed the rude squirrel who throws acorns at me when the bird feeder is empty. I think I’m a sucker.”

  “Cats and birds? In the same yard? How do you keep the peace?”

  “So far we haven’t had a problem. I keep the felines pretty stuffed with kitty crunchies.” I had also read the cats the riot act about not treating the bird feeder as a smorgasbord.

  I noticed a dull glint under the left cuff of Tyler’s shirt. I reached for his wrist but stopped short of touching him.

  “What’s that you’re wearing?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine that it was some sort of keepsake from his avaricious ex-wife, but that was—quite tellingly, I suppose—the first and only thought that occurred to me.

  “It’s a commemorative band,” he answered at once, but I could tell that I had taken him by surprise. “My dad was in the army. When I was in grade school they encouraged kids to be patriotic and to send away for these bands. Each one is engraved with the name of a soldier that went MIA in Vietnam. When a soldier was found, his…guardian would be notified. My band is for a Lieutenant James Broms, Jr. Missing since August first, 1968. He was never found.”

  “And you still guard his memory.”

  “Yes. Someone besides his family should remember his sacrifice.” Tyler wasn’t exactly embarrassed, but I knew he wanted the subject dropped. I have enough sensitive spots of my own to ever deliberately tread on another’s vulnerable places.

  Our steaks arrived then, the ambrosial odor chasing all other thoughts away. I always order medium-rare. It’s risky because for many chefs anything beyond rare means cremation. But my meat was sleek and glossy under its mantle of gorgonzola. I said a prayer of thanks that I had meat and not a burnt offering from an angry kitchen priest. I wouldn’t have dared send it back.

  We laughed some over dinner. Not belly roars, just chuckles. But our voices mingled our shared amusement and I found that I liked the intimacy. I hadn’t laughed with anyone for a long while. Eventually I asked Tyler what scent he was wearing since the smell was driving me wild. It was sort of like nutmeg or cider or minced pies. I could make out a base of cinnamon and vanilla, but there was a kiss of something else as well. It reminded me of childhood autumns when my brother and I would play in the fallen leaves, running through the raked piles until they were crushed to pulp and we were wearing bits of brown and gold in our hair and sweaters, and sometimes down to our underwear if we had been rolling around. Mom would call us in at dusk and give us a cup of cinnamon-orange tea to warm our frozen hands.

  “I hate saying it out loud,” Tyler said. “It’s called Sushi Imperiale. It’s by Bois 1920.”

  I recognized the name. It was an expensive retro scent, which would explain the evocative qualities that called up my childhood memories.

  “That’s okay. I’m wearing a perfume called Wild Pansy. It makes me think of a mincing Regency fop.”

  Tyler smiled. “I like it, though. It smells like a florist shop.” Casually he took my hand. “Shall we see if The Standpipe is offering crème brûlée to night? That would be an excellent way to cap off this meal, and a walk would be nice.”

  Our luck held. The chef at The Standpipe had also made lava cake and vanilla gelato. We ordered one of each and two glasses of port and shared a sugar high.

  We had a perfect evening until the moment when Tyler brought me home. He walked me to the door and then, like any other man on any other date, he gave me a good-night kiss. It took me by surprise, though I should have expected the traditional dating ritual after wearing my sex-power dress and all the hand-holding while we strolled through town.

  I tried to relax, but all I knew was that my heart was beating painfully and gaining speed with every second that passed. I could feel the rhythm of my pulse in my lips. He tasted like I did, of chocolate and cream, but the flavor translated into something dangerous when it passed his mouth.

  Feeling a bit concussed, like a girl receiving her first kiss, I stepped back abruptly and Tyler let me go at once. I was breathing too hard and flushed with more than one emotion. I didn’t like feeling sweet and mushy inside, like one of Grandpa’s chocolate cherry cordials. I only allowed myself the pleasure of feeling sappy when I watched old Audrey Hepburn movies, very late at night and in bed. Alone.

  “It’s okay, Jillian,” Tyler said softly. “That was just a friendly kiss. No need to look at me like I was writing you a parking ticket.”

  Just a friendly kiss, I thought. Tell my heart that.

  “Sorry. I’m clearly out of practice.” And prone to overreact. I cleared my throat. It hurt. Everything suddenly hurt. I felt bruised inside and out and I wanted to be alone.

  “It’s like riding a bike,” Tyler said gently. “You never really forget.”

  I had to remind myself that it was just a kiss—not Waterloo, not the Titanic, not Pompeii. Rome wouldn’t burn because our lips had touched. I—a single woman—had kissed an attractive man goodnight. That was all. Tyler probably wasn’t even seeing me as a third course of his romantic banquet. He was just being polite. At most I was just a between-meals snack coming after his first marriage and before his next girlfriend. Hell, Cal would have approved of the kiss, would have pointed out that I hadn’t actually died with him, that life really should go on and part of life was attraction to the opposite sex. I’d have to have sex again eventually.

  Of course, the fact that I could think about what Cal would say was the problem. He was there, a third person in all my conversations, a witness to any intimacy. That there had been even a temporary severance from my twilit world of grief and guilt surprised me. In some ways, it had been like getting over the flu, and the relief of not hurting had made me giddy and reckless.

  But hard on the heels of this thought returned guilt. I relapsed into dull unhappiness and I turned away from Tyler’s gaze, feeling suddenly concerned that this wasn’t just all about sex for him. I couldn’t look at him
because I might see something there in his eyes—some unwanted emotion, his heart or even his soul. Worse, desire for some idealized woman who wasn’t really me. It wasn’t a sight I wanted to risk seeing. It wasn’t knowledge I wanted. I thought, with a touch of resentment: How on earth could anyone who had loved and lost ever think of being intimate again?

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jillian.”

  “Good night.” I didn’t look up and didn’t wave as he pulled away.

  I waited until the sound of his Jeep had faded and then went in through the garage, since I had forgotten to leave the porch light on. Cal’s possessions piled in the corner by the paint locker looked dispossessed and forlorn. I looked at the dusty mound of plaques and honors that I had taken off the walls earlier that week: Rotary, Kiwanis, Elks, Lions, Chamber of Commerce—and city council. If it was civic and you could join, Cal had. Me? I wasn’t so gregarious. I maybe managed to send out Christmas cards in years ending in even numbers. Maybe that was, in part, why these tokens of Cal’s life had bothered me enough to take them down. It was yet another reminder that without him I was isolated, not only by chance but by my nature.

  I have to admit that my evening with Tyler had made me feel and want things that weren’t purely emotional and that guilt couldn’t entirely quell. I went upstairs, shut myself in the bathroom, and stood in the hot shower, soaping myself both slowly and then quickly. But I wasn’t able to touch myself the way I needed. My hands did not worship. There were no eyes to gaze into, telling that I was lusted after if not adored. My release was enjoyable, but it wasn’t enough. Not anymore. My body was ready to be alive again even if my heart was not. And it wanted Tyler’s touch.