by Paisley Ray
“What did you talk about?” I asked.
“The heat, my camping trip.” He took another sip, staring at me. “Your mom asked how you and your dad have been getting along.” I didn’t think Mom cared.
I wanted to know precisely what was said, but not with Trudy around. “Do you think they stole the Cassandra?”
Edmond wore a worried look. “I hate to think so, but…”
“But what?” I asked.
“It didn’t seem significant at the time.” His mouth tightened. “Betts went up to the apartment from inside the shop. When she returned we all went outside and I locked up, set the alarm.”
“How could they steal the painting? If they went into the shop, the alarm would’ve triggered.”
“I didn’t check the inside door to the apartment. Betts could’ve left it open. The alarm is rigged to perimeter doors and windows. If someone was already inside, it wouldn’t go off.”
Dad gave the address of the shop to the officer on the phone line and hung up. “A detective is meeting me at the shop. Edmond, he’d like to get a statement from you.”
I handed the truck keys to Dad. He walked out the front door with Edmond and Trudy. “Rachael, lock the door behind me.” I didn’t hesitate to turn the deadbolt.
As soon as I heard the truck engine start, I ran upstairs to find a phone number and dialed. I called Katie Lee first, but no one answered. I left a message and dialed another number. The phone rang five times until someone answered. “Is Patsy there?”
There was a pause. “Rachael?”
“Mitch?”
“Hey darlin’, how’s your summer goin? Been stayin’ out of trouble?”
“Kind of,” I said, and he laughed. “What about you? Anything going on?”
“Nothing like when you come to town.” I smiled. I’d forgotten Mitch’s charm. “So when are you coming to The Bern?”
“Once I get back to campus, I’m sure Katie Lee and I’ll plan a roadie.”
“I’ll look forward to that. Patsy’s not around. Not sure where she is.”
I sighed. “You knew Bubba Jackson, right.”
“Yeah.”
“Has he turned up in town at all?”
“He bolted. No one’s seen him since the epic night of the McGee’s party.
“Could he pass as Zorro? Did he ever wear a silk black shirt with a tied sash?”
“Rachael,” he whispered, “have you been smokin’?”
“Mitch, I think he’s in Canton. What’s his last name?”
“We just call him Jackson.” Not exactly helpful.
“What does he look like?”
“Damn girl. I don’t know. He’s a guy.”
“Brown hair and eyes? Tanned olive skin, fit.”
“I guess.”
“Does he have a tattoo of a cannabis leaf on his left arm?”
“I don’t know. Hold on.” Mitch shouted to one of his brothers, “Does Jackson have a hooch leaf tattoo?”
I heard the answer the same time Mitch did. “Yeah, that one’s on his left arm. He has a badass one on his lower back of a guy with a beard holding a serpent. Says it’s the thirteenth zodiac sign.”
“Ophiuchus.”
A SUN-BAKED BREEZE billowed from beneath my bedroom curtain then clunked the weights sewn in the hem against the wall. On top of my dresser a fan droned as it moved air against my skin. Did I wear a sign on my back that said, “Loser, please take advantage?” How could I be so stupid? Jackson must’ve known who I was all along. Did he come to Canton for revenge? Luring me so I’d trust him. Then he could pack me in a crate and dump me off some cliff? Shit, shit, shit. I knew who I should call, but hesitated. I told myself I’d wait to get a full report from Dad before I called FBI Agent Storm Cauldwell.
It was past lunchtime and I’d organized my sock drawer, ponytail holders, and smoked half a box of cigarettes. I’d started arranging my shoes by color and heel height, when the phone rang. It was Dad checking on me. He said they were wrapping things up at the shop and he would be home within the hour.
“Do the police think Betts stole the painting?”
“I’ve filed a report, and Edmond gave them a detailed description of the events before we discovered the missing painting. They said they would look into Betts’s possible connection, but would need probable cause before they could get a search warrant. Rachael, there’s a chance your mother is involved.”
Hanging up, I wondered if this day could get any worse. My hand still rested on the phone when it rang again. I answered it greedily, thinking Dad forget to tell me something important.
“Rachael?” A southern voice asked, and I immediately felt guilty.
“Clay?”
“Did I catch you at a bad time? I mean are you busy?”
“No,” I said, my voice pitching up an octave.
After an awkward pause I blurted, “Sorry about that interruption the last night on campus, but I had no idea that Agent Cauldwell was going to show up. I would’ve stayed except he was FBI. I mean, he asked for a statement, and I didn’t think it would be wise to piss off FBI.”
“Rachael, you don’t need to apologize. I’m the one that…What I wanted to say was, I’ve missed you. I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.”
MIDAFTERNON DAD AND TRUDY returned to the house and the three of us sat at the picnic bench out back. With all the drama, Dad loosened his reign on alcohol consumption. He and I drank Iron City, Trudy sipped protein boost powder and lemonade through a straw, while she thumbed the crime blotter of the Sunday paper.
I wasn’t sure if the missing Cassandra painting—possibly stolen in a vendetta by my mother—outweighed having potentially kissed Jackson Kimball, a.k.a Bubba Jackson. I hovered in denial. Did he really kiss me or did I imagine it? Could he be the Bubba Jackson wanted by the FBI for involvement in the New Bern art forgery ring and marijuana operation? No one who is that good a kisser can be Bubba Jackson, the dead head, art-forger-henchman, and cannabis smuggler extraordinaire. It was unlikely, wasn’t it? Just a coincidence? Hoards of people probably have marijuana leaf tattoos. The connection wasn’t 100 percent, and I talked myself out of calling the FBI contact and bothering him with my imaginative sleuthing. And it wasn’t the sort of thing I could tell Dad. I was messed-up. I liked Jackson Kimball.
“Are we missing something here?” I asked. “I mean is there someone else who could’ve stolen the Cassandra? Was anything else in the shop missing or displaced?”
Trudy folded the paper and put it on the table. She scrolled an article with her finger. “More home robberies in North of here, in Stark County. It says electronics, jewelry, and fine art work were stolen from Maybelle and Samuel Jones, in Norton, and Schmidt and Betty—”
“Bismet?” Dad asked.
Trudy looked up from the paper, “Yeah, in Hartville.”
“Do you know them?” I asked.
“May I?” Dad asked, sliding the newspaper toward him. He mouthed over the words in the article before standing up. As he moved toward the house, he said, “They’re former clients of mine. I’ve done painting restorations for them both.”
“Do you think it’s related? I mean maybe Mom and Betts didn’t swipe the Cassandra, maybe we were robbed.”
“I’m calling the detective. This could be significant.”
DAD, TRUDY, AND I stayed up late. Our house was like a hotel lobby. A detective and some policeman stopped by. They hadn’t found Betts or Mom yet. They wanted to know what work Dad had restored for the two couples whose homes had been robbed. Dad ended up going over to the shop to Xerox their files.
Trudy and I sat outside not saying much when gum cracking startled me. “Jesus Sky, what are you doing here?”
“Just in the neighborhood.”
The wine I’d been drinking loosened my word filter. I asked Sky, “What happened? You look like you were abducted into another realm?”
“I sold out at the expo.”
“Really? How many?” Trudy aske
d.
Sky plopped onto the picnic bench. “Thirty cases.”
“Whoa, how’d you do that?”
“I set up at eleven and sold everything I had by one. A cute guy from another booth wiped me out.”
“I’m impressed.” And I was.
CRICKETS STRUMMED A STEADY beat when Sky left our house. I was edgy. There was no way I could sleep until I had a detailed description of Bubba Jackson. I dialed Katie Lee’s number.
“Hey Rach. What’s going on?”
“I have a question. Does Bubba Jackson have a tattoo on his bicep of happy grass, and have you ever seen him dressed like Zorro?”
“Lord Rachael, where do you come up with this stuff?”
I twisted the phone cord. “I’m serious. Patsy said he was redneck. What’s so redneck about him?”
“She said that?”
“Yeah.”
“She must’ve been mad at him. He doesn’t sport a mullet or live in a trailer and eat pig’s feet or any of that. Jackson’s smart, really smart. One of the boys, big partier, supplied pot.”
I scoffed. “Does he own an herbal company?”
“Apparently a cannabis one, in his kitchen cabinets and freezer.”
“What’s his last name?”
“Kimball, but everyone calls him Bubba Jackson.”
Shit, shit, shit.
Conversations with Katie Lee tended to drain my head, leaving it in a vegetable-like state. This one was no different. My life altered the moment I met her in Grogan Dorm hallway last fall and I wasn’t sure if I could categorize the “change,” under positive. I knew who I should call.
NOTE TO SELF
Why can’t the whole New Bern art scam thing just go away? If I call FBI Agent Cauldwell, he’s going to think I like him. Which I do, but he’s not right for me. He’s bossy and carries a gun and is way older than me.
CHAPTER 12
Stew Me in a Saucepan
Late morning hovered in a state of gloom unwilling to give way to sunlight. The day and my mood were indecisive, caught somewhere between wanting and not wanting the consequences that came with a package of clarity. Guilt surrounded me from all sides: my secret addiction to cigarettes, my wayward mother, my inability to accept her psychic-lesbian lifestyle, and Jackson Kimball, the swindling-drug-dealing-amazing kisser who was wanted by the FBI. Like my nicotine packed cigarettes, I had a weakness for Jackson. I knew it was wrong, but he’d seemed legit at the expo. He just happened to have a side business selling forged painting and illegal herbs. I was attracted to him and struggled to make the phone call that would put him behind bars.
Dad drove the speed limit and stopped for a full four seconds at every intersection. He took his time driving to Geneva’s, and when he pulled in at a gas station to fill the van, I asked, “Are you sure you want me there when you tell her the painting has been stolen? I mean, I don’t really know her. What if she flips out?”
The gallon numerals incrementally raced inside the glass face of the Arco pump. Through an open window, Dad said, “This is family business. You’re old enough to be involved in the good and the bad. If you want to own your own gallery someday, you’re going to have to learn the responsibility of taking ownership.”
He finished pumping gas and continued the drive to Geneva’s house. Announcing our arrival, the work van doors snapped closed. As we walked across a cobbled path to the door, I looked toward the orchid house but didn’t see Geneva. She was expecting me to log her books and manuscripts. She’d be surprised to see Dad. They rarely spoke and I didn’t know why. Once he dropped the bomb about the Cassandra painting having been heisted from our shop, I figured she’d stop talking to both of us.
Dad signaled for me to ring the bell. I pushed the button and waited.
She opened her door bearing a gold letter opener in one hand and a Phillips screwdriver in the other. “Hello Rachael.” Stepping back, she looked at Dad. “This is an unexpected visit.”
“Geneva,” he said. “May we come in?”
“Is everything okay?” I asked, eyeing the sharp objects.
She swiveled the objects around in a Kung Fu maneuver. “I dropped an earring behind the sideboard and was trying to retrieve it.”
We followed Geneva into her kitchen. Cut flowers and fern foliage sprawled across the counter near her sink. “Tea?” she asked.
Dad dug his hands in his khaki pants. “This won’t take long.”
Geneva looked from Dad to me. “Is something going on?”
“Can we sit?” Dad asked.
She led the way to sun porch, and claimed the high back wicker chair with the worn cushion. Opening a wooden box, she pulled out a cigarette.
Dad’s long legs spilled beyond the seat cushion of the iron-rod glider sofa, and I settled next to him. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and focused on his shoelaces.
Geneva flicked a lighter and told Dad, “You have a look of combustion. You may as well tell me before you explode.”
“There’s been a theft at the shop. The Evelyn Pickering De Morgan. Your Cassandra painting has been stolen.”
Smoke from her lit cigarette clouded the still air. “Was anyone hurt?”
“No,” Dad said.
“Have you contacted the insurance company?”
“Yes, they will be in touch.”
Dad’s eyes had dark circles underneath them. “Have you filed a report with the police?” she asked.
Dad nodded.
“Do you have any leads?”
Dad pushed both hands through his hair. “Yes.”
“Who?”
“Maeve and her psychic friend, Betts.”
Geneva slammed her cigarette box lid shut and stood up. “John James O’Brien, I told you that woman was trouble and you went and married her anyway.” She stalked across the room, her cigarette affixed between her fingers. Stopping to inhale, she trapped the smoke deep into her lungs.
“Geneva,” Dad said in a dangerous tone.
She turned to face him and pointed the lit tobacco at him. “No. Don’t you ‘Geneva’ me. Maeve meddled between us, interfered with the business. You always sided with her. This time she’s run away to play gypsy, but in Maeve fashion returns to steal from us.”
“The police aren’t certain.”
Geneva pointed her cigarette at me. “She’s kept me from Rachael all these years. I always knew she was trouble.”
“Mother, that’s enough.”
TREE CANOPIES ON THE narrow two-lane highway threatened to swallow each corner I turned. Static ran through my head. I’d lost it. Dad, Geneva, Mom, Edmond. They’d all lied. Not a small white lie, but a big, fat, juicy, whopper. And thanks to the missing Cassandra, Geneva let that bit of information out from under the cork. The irony. Cassandra, the prophetic keeper—and this doosie of a secret.
Dad called it “‘holding information for personal reasons.”’ Teary-eyed, my paternal grandmother had hugged me. “I wanted to tell you a thousand times.”
I didn’t hug her back. How could this acquaintance be my grandmother? She lived in my hometown, mere miles from my house, but I’d never spent one holiday or birthday with her. Missed time wasn’t something that could be relived. Mom and Dad kept her from me, and I didn’t know if I could ever forgive them.
The weight of the truth threatened to crush a sense of myself I thought I’d known. Without warning, I’d grabbed the van car keys. Instinct propelled my legs, and before either of them knew what I was doing, I ran out of the house. Jumping into the van, I drove aimlessly and ended up on one of my favorite roads. It snaked underneath tree branches that dipped and swayed above like a tunnel of wings. Remote and curvy, I’d practiced driving on this stretch when I had a learners permit. Before a wooden bridge that crossed the Nimishillen Creek, I pulled the car over. Winding my window down, I stuck my head out and dangled my limp arms. With closed eyes, I fell into a vortex of emptiness and sucked air. When I opened them, my chest choked and my eyes floode
d. At nineteen years of age, my life was a magnet for deceit.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a decent cry. It didn’t flush out my anger or change the lies I’d been told, but it somehow lightened a burden and made me thirsty. I drove to the 7-Eleven and bought a Coke Slurpee. Dad being stuck at his mom’s house gave me a vengeful pleasure, and I wondered what the two were talking about. I hoped that he worried that I’d run away. I wanted Dad to share the emotional drain his withholding of information had sucked from me.
HITCHED TO A DOCK, the paddleboats sat idle. Except for the geese on the grassy mound in the middle, the pond at Lakeside Shores apartment complex was deserted. I wasn’t sure why I ended up here and had been sitting in the parking lot with the van windows open for over an hour. A combination of the information I’d recently acquired about my grandmother, and the giant Slurpee I’d guzzled sent me spiraling into a brain drain. I’d hit bottom when a thump on the passenger door startled me.
“Hey Rach,” Sky said. “What are you doing here?”
I humphed a sigh. “I’ve been delivered a mother load of emotional baggage.”
She opened the passenger door and settled into the seat beside me.
“What happened?”
“I’ve just met my grandmother who I thought was dead.”
“Whoa, was she abducted and returned?”
Incongruously I gaped at Sky then started to laugh. I should’ve been crying, but I didn’t have any tears left. Besides laughing felt better.
“I don’t get it. What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Dad and his mom had some kind of epic fight when I was a baby. My mom caused friction between them, and they stopped speaking, until today.”
“Are you serious?”
I nodded. “I didn’t think I had a living grandparent. Turns out I do and I’ve known her as an acquaintance all my life.”
“That’s galactic. What are you doing here?”
“I stormed out with the car when they told me. Ended up here.”
