The dedication got another quick perusal, put me in mind of Jane Austen, and was promptly abandoned. At that point I resumed staring at the words remaining.
Now the left side was populated with all the little words, while the bigger ones were clustered mostly on the right, all of them pretty evenly spaced. It was like a particularly daunting game of Red Rover with words. Probably not a plausible explanation for the missing words. I blinked and looked again. With a little zigzagging, scanning top to bottom, putting it all together, it read at times the answer is hidden in plain sight, and that had potential written all over it. My mouth dropped open and I heard my own audible gasp of astonishment. This really was a message. A secret message to me . . . A small voice in my head whispered, “Or, more likely, the journal’s previous owner,” but I shushed it.
For one fleeting moment, I imagined this was a philosophical truism posed by the universe and magically appearing in the book like an image of the Virgin Mary in the rind of a cantaloupe. Good sense quickly took over and just as quickly subsided when I succumbed to the power of wishful thinking as my eyes widened in mingled excitement and disbelief. Clearly this was some sort of wonky spy gadget!
As far as I was concerned, this was as good an explanation as any, and further, it was the one I wanted right now. Beyond that superior logic, everything was nebulous, but I had a good feeling about this. Questions and possibilities flooded through my mind and left me clinging urgently to this solution.
Was this like Gharlie’s Angels? Would I be messaged instructions for secret missions via this book? Would I need to learn some karate kicks and maybe the wuxi finger hold? Was I ignoring a completely obvious explanation, letting my imagination spin away from me, altering reality to fit my daydreams? Was I hallucinating the whole thing? Mom had made grilled vegetable sandwiches for lunch—had she been experimenting with questionable outsourced mushrooms?
Okay, wait! What about the dedication—how did that fit in? Could Jane Austen be the key? Were the remaining words some sort of book cipher key that used one of Austen’s novels to send a secret message? That would be freakin’ awesome! But which one? And how the hell was I going to figure out how to do that?? I was a British lit major. My code-breaking skill was limited to figuring out which of my students read the assignments based on their answers in class and which chose the Dark Side. And even if this were true, who the hell was sending the code?
And let’s not even forget the personal questions: Why me? It was pure coincidence that I was at Torchy’s Tacos Thursday night, that I sat at that table and knocked the book from its hiding place. Was it meant for me to find? This was sounding embarrassingly ridiculous, even within the confines of my own mind, but how could I not ask these questions?? This stuff was always happening in books . . . Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Mary Poppins, Peter Pan . . . And probably plenty of modern fiction as well, which I’d be up on if I weren’t so enamored with classic British lit. So why couldn’t it happen to me?
A squeamish little shiver ran up my spine, and I felt compelled to rain on my parade a little. Did I really want any of this to happen to me? Did I want the responsibility involved with quests, secrets, and missions?
It took me all of two seconds to decide.
Hell yeah, I did!
Still . . . I didn’t have a lot to go on. Other than at times the answer is hidden in plain sight. Right. I guess I’d figure it out. Or maybe an experienced sidekick would show up with all the answers.
The sudden knock on my door was way too clichéd, but it sent my heart ricocheting around cartoon-style all the same. I slid my cagey little spy book under the couch and answered the door.
Of course it was Ethan.
I knew that. I’d been expecting him. I just hadn’t been expecting him to show up at the precise moment I was itching for a sidekick. I gave him a quick once-over, getting momentarily hung up on the slope of his biceps in the short-sleeved, oil-stained Austin City Limits T-shirt he had on. Ethan could be great sidekick material if he wasn’t always treating me like I needed to just grow up and get on with things. Then again, maybe this was my moment of truth, my chance to show Ethan what lurked behind my teaching glasses and teasing grin.
Friday’s class discussion of Emma had touched on this very topic: how one person’s preconceptions about another can blind them to the reality. I’d considered it an elegant little tease, hinting at the undercurrents of my own personality. I seriously doubt any of my students picked up on it.
“You all may only see a high school English teacher, but what don’t you see? For all you know, I’m a millionaire with an altruistic love of the classics.” I leaned my rear against the front of my desk facing the smirks and twitters, lifting my eyebrows in question, daring them to look closer. “An undercover narcotics officer . . . a jewel thief . . . a government operative. I could be anything with the cover of a high school English teacher, using my position on the faculty, spying for personal gain.”
“Seems like the irritations would far outweigh any potential benefits,” Alex murmured sardonically.
“Oh, it definitely seems that way. But perhaps that’s what makes me the perfect candidate. Beyond reproach, above suspicion,” I said, walking around the side of my desk. A mystery,” I said, meeting his eyes with a smile and relishing everything the word implied.
The bell rang then, with impeccable timing, and I imagined they all trailed out wondering about me and my secret life. Deluded, I know. Still, I knew, and that was plenty.
With the recent developments in the found-object department, my status as a woman of mystery was now spot-on. Beyond my evening in character, I was now on the verge of something pivotal, the scope of which, for the time being, remained boundless and undefined. It made me wonder now about the man standing in front of me, ready to bandy words.
Maybe Ethan was the answer. Heck, maybe he had an undercurrent of his own—the Will Schuester of Travis Oaks High, minus the singing. (Or maybe not minus the singing—what the heck did I know?) He definitely wasn’t above keeping secrets, and he was “in plain sight” on a regular basis. I’d give it some thought—I wanted a bit longer to think things through on my own first. If I pulled Ethan in now, I’d be relegated to the position of sidekick, and I wasn’t about to put up with that.
“Cate . . . ?” By the time my eyes focused in on Ethan, I’m sure he’d seen a schizophrenic play of emotions run across my face. I smiled, smoothing them all out.
“Yes. Ready for Scrabble.” I reached behind me for the box I kept on the little table just inside the door. “How about we play outside?” I didn’t want to take any chances with all the secrets I now had packed into this tiny apartment.
“Sounds good,” he agreed companionably. Ethan was always in a winning mood on Scrabble day. I grabbed a sweater from the hook by the door and followed him down to certain defeat.
By the time I swung back in the door, it was 7:30. Mom had made Philly cheesesteak sandwiches, and Ethan had devoured every last bit she’d forced upon him. I needed to get on with the total transformation, and it was imperative that I not forget to brush my teeth. Sautéed pepper and onion breath didn’t really send out the vibe I was going for.
Dress first. Part of me was excited just to slip into my make-believe phone booth again, and the rest was totally psyched to be zipped into that dress, for real this time. It inspired confidence and took sexiness to a whole different level. The same was true of the heels, but they could wait.
I’d just finished smoothing the fabric over my curves when I heard the knock. Mom probably just wanted to double-check that Ethan and I weren’t engaged . . . or better yet, engaged in something frisky. I slipped around the sofa, tying on the filmy little wrap, and pulled the door wide.
It wasn’t my mother. And sidekick or not, it looked like I was going to have to come clean on a few things with Ethan.
“Whoa!”
As responses went, it was certainly gratifying.
“Did you decide
to cancel your plans and tag along with Courtney tonight instead?”
“What?” I propped my fists on my hips and waited, my synapses trudging along in confusion.
“Eliot Ness, Bonnie and Clyde . . . the Driskill?” When I didn’t respond, he added, “Are you packin’ a flask under that skirt? Because it doesn’t look like there’s room—”
“No, and no. What are you doing here, Chavez?” I snapped, simultaneously wanting to share my secrets and keep them to myself.
He held up his hands to ward off further waspishness. “Just wanted to let you know that I’ll be out of town next week . . . in case you’re looking for me.”
I dropped my arms and frowned in confusion. “The whole week? Where are you going?”
He suddenly looked vague, suspiciously vague. Ethan never looked vague. Slippery, cagey, evasive . . . yes. “I just have some things to take care of.”
“In the middle of the semester? Can’t it wait until the Thanksgiving holiday?”
“No, Lady Buttinski, it can’t. And why are you so concerned?”
“I’m not.”
“No? Okay, well then, are you going to tell me where you’re going, all vamped up?”
I crossed my arms over my chest, the corset top tightening up. Ethan flicked his gaze down and blinked twice before whipping it back up again. I waited till I had his full attention before answering. “No. I’m not,” I said flatly. “You keep your secrets, I’ll keep mine. And I’ll see you when you get back.” I smiled, trying my damnedest to convey that he was missing out on some really good stuff.
Ethan’s jaw tightened fractionally. “Isn’t that a little juvenile?”
“Quite possibly,” I said. “I’m good with that.” I raised an eyebrow and pressed my lips together, refusing to break even though it would be really nice to tell somebody about the secret messages.
Ethan held my gaze for one last excruciating moment before turning to walk back down the stairs and mysteriously disappear for one long week.
Chapter 5
The Hitchcock soiree was being held in a finished but unrented space in the Second Street district. Waffling over whether to get there early or a little late, I chose early. Better parking, and a bit of time to test out my new “by-night” personality before the crowd descended.
The split second before I slid through the glass door decorated with a full-body silhouette of Alfred Hitchcock, I had the uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching me. Holding tight to the door handle, I pivoted on my heel, glancing behind me, right and left, my newly sleek bob shifting against my cheek. I saw no one even remotely suspicious—this was Austin, after all. Nothing seemed out of place.
All at once, I felt in character . . . a Hitchcock blonde, edgy and on the run. Not to mention off the grid. As ridiculous as it was, I’d stopped to buy a burner phone just in case (in case of what, I had no idea), and I’d sat in the car until I’d memorized the number so I wouldn’t have to write it down. I was positively itching to make a call.
I smiled to myself. I was totally getting caught up and it was awesome!
Slipping through the door, I nearly screamed my head off. Somehow they’d managed to rig some of those cheapy black birds that go on sale at craft stores every Halloween to attack unsuspecting partygoers as they came through the door. I was certain my hand had come up exactly like Tippi Hedren’s trying to ward them off. Damn sproingy things.
Smoothing my hair in case I was sporting beak-head, I inched farther into the space, my gaze panning over the spotlit walls decorated with Hitchcock movie scenes. It was like the sets from a year’s worth of high school drama productions: Mount Rushmore, a cramped city apartment building, the roof of a French villa high above a glittering party, an apartment with a desk in the foreground holding an old-timey phone and pair of sewing scissors, and a bell tower. And hanging suspended above it all were cables dangling those creepy black birds.
“Ms. Kendall has arrived!” I swiveled to see Sydney bearing down on me in a catsuit that left nothing to the imagination. “Should I call you Cate, or would you prefer Eve for tonight?” Her grin was edged out by surprise as she looked me over. “Holy crap, you’re a fox! But you’ve still got your brainy school—”
“Don’t say it,” I interrupted, whipping off my glasses, which I sometimes used for night driving, not wanting to jinx what I had going here. “Tonight I want to be someone different. Not Eve or Cate. I created a whole new identity . . . just for one night.” The rest of my plans weren’t quite fully baked yet. “Tonight I’m Cat Kennedy, Hitchcock blonde, woman of mystery.”
“And sexy as hell! If I didn’t know you’d be going back to life as a schoolteacher tomorrow, I’d be coming on to you myself.” She winked and commenced a full perusal all over again.
Beyond the dress, which was smokin’, I’d slipped on my highest heels, slicked on my reddest lipstick, and lined my eyes with sultry black, layering on the mascara at the end. I was minus a cape, but I felt totally transformed . . . sort of like a superhero. Except without a project—a regular Mr. Incredible.
“Oli and Will are in our little makeshift kitchen, but they’ll be out in a minute. You are gonna blow their minds. Hell, you’re gonna blow everyone’s mind. And Cary Grant, if he shows, will be in the palm of your hand.”
I looked around us. Tables were scattered, draped in black, each with a movie-themed centerpiece. And in between, a trio of partygoers mingled, all of them in stark black, with maybe a sparkle or two. I might just be a standout, and that was fine with me.
Within fifteen minutes the place was packed, and I wasn’t the only one in costume. One woman had shown up with her own birds attached to her head, complete with blood spots, and believe it or not, a guy in baby blue pj’s and full leg cast rolled through the door in a wheelchair with a floaty Grace Kelly companion. No more than ten minutes later he stood beside me, the evening’s signature drink, a limoncello, in hand, his look-alike companion nowhere in sight.
Judging by the look in his eye and the amused quirk of his lips, I got the impression that this was the Cary Grant of the evening. Tonight though, he was disguised as Jimmy Stewart and hampered by a couple feet of gauze and Mod Podge.
“You’re not Grace Kelly or Tippi Hedren. . . .” He tipped his head, seeming to study me closely for clues, but I wasn’t fooled. “Eva Marie Saint . . . the sexy spy who handled the inestimable Cary Grant.” It wasn’t a question.
“What gave me away?” I’d briefly considered shifting my voice to be throaty or breathless, but decided I didn’t have the follow-through to carry that out beyond the introductions. I tried for flirty, though.
“You have an obvious backbone . . . a very attractive one. And you look dangerously capable.” Damn, he was good. I sidled right into the picture he was painting.
“You have a good eye. I’m Cat Kennedy,” I told him, extending my hand, daring him to expose me as a wannabe.
“Cat, hmm? Very nice. Jake Tielman.” His grip was cool and smooth but for a few calluses. It gave me chills.
“You lost your wheelchair,” I said, glancing down at the bandaged leg that now supported his sturdy six-foot frame. “Not an easy thing to do,” I said.
“Not to worry. It’s valet parked.” He smiled and looked curiously at me. “I come to a lot of these Pop-up events, but you’re a new development. First time?”
“It is,” I confirmed, turning slightly away from him to face Oli and her tray of drinks. Amusement twinkled in her eyes—after being introduced to my evening persona, she and Will had made a point of circulating past me on a very regular basis.
“Dinner will be served shortly. Seating is open and at your discretion.” Biting her lip, she aimed a subtle wink before moving on.
“Shall we?” suggested the charmer, offering his arm. What can I say—I took it.
After seating me at an empty table under Mount Rushmore, Jake Tielman retrieved his wheelchair and managed to position himself so awkwardly as to discourage anyone f
rom joining our little party of two. I had no doubt it was intentional, and I was very impressed.
He flirted easily in the candlelight as we carved up our Cornish game hens under the watchful, beady eyes above. Even the vegetables were creepy, roasted haricot beans and root vegetables, looking enough like colorful finger and knuckle bones to be off-putting.
“New in town or Hitchcock devotee?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” I admitted. His hair was slicked back and parted with precision, clearly in character as Jimmy Stewart’s Rear Window ’do, but I got the impression he wasn’t quite so fastidious on an average day-in-the-life. We were both playing a part. Made me wonder which of us would be exposed first. And that thought led to another, which likely led to some very pink cheeks on my part.
He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t press the issue or inquire over my sudden blush. “Which are you?” I asked.
“Neither. I try to surround myself with unique and imaginative people as often as possible.”
“Should I feel flattered?”
“Absolutely . . . but for a different reason entirely. I gravitate toward dangerously sexy women too. Besides, I don’t know anything about you.”
“Is it possible you’re not trying hard enough?”
He raised an eyebrow, amusement evident in the set of his lips. “Gloves are off, then; gauntlet’s down. Let’s get to it. You up for twenty questions?”
“Yes or no, or anything goes?”
“Oh, I’ll always vote anything goes.” He smiled. Great teeth, classic cheekbones, dangerous dimple. His eyes were deep, dark chocolate brown. Willy Wonka would have been jealous. The pajamas, while kitschy, didn’t have the same appeal as a well-cut suit. They could have been saved for a more private showing. Then again, maybe he didn’t have any use for pajamas. . . .
Cat clearly doesn’t waste any time.
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