A Shroud of Tattered Sails: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 4)
Page 4
"How about she focuses on her recovery first," Gage said, "and then she'll be better able to help you figure out what happened."
"See," Trenton said, pointing at Gage. "See, that's all he does. He just makes things difficult for everybody."
"It's my mission in life," Gage said.
Quinn glared at Gage, which went a lot further than Trenton's schoolboy whine in communicating how seriously the police were taking this situation. "You have two options, Gage. You can be a help or a hindrance. If you're a hindrance, I will make sure you are completely cut out of the loop on this. Are we clear?"
"Clear as salt water," Gage said.
"Gage—"
"Did Omar say where Marcus might have stopped on his way up the coast?" Gage asked.
Quinn sighed. "No. He didn't leave an itinerary."
"He's his brother," Gage said. "They were obviously close if they were partners. He must have some idea where he stopped."
"Well, you can ask him yourself," Quinn said. "He's flying into Portland tonight, then driving over. Should be here Friday morning."
"He's coming here?" the woman said.
There was such a plaintive note of worry in her voice that it stopped the conversation cold. When they all looked at her, she blushed—not quite as red as poor Zachary's, but pretty darn close.
"It's not because I remember him," she said. "It's just—he's going to be angry. Don't you think he'll be angry with me?"
"Come on," Brisbane growled, "why do you think he'd be angry with you unless you know what he's like?"
"I don't, I don't," she insisted.
"I think it's time you cut the crap," Brisbane said.
"I think it's time you back off," Gage said.
"Or what?" Brisbane said. "You going to hit me with your cane like always do when you're pissed off?"
"Only if you ask nicely. I might be able to make your head look a little more even."
"Shut up, you two," Quinn said. "I swear I'm surrounded by children."
"Please stop," the woman begged, "please, please stop. No fighting. I can't have any fighting around me right now. I just can't."
The well-composed woman who'd greeted him when he walked inside was now completely gone, replaced by a nervous, fidgety creature, full of anxious blinking and jerky movements. He counted at least three separate tics. She clutched repeatedly at the bedspread, her little fingers curling as tightly as claws before relaxing, tightening and relaxing over and over again. Her left cheek twitched uncontrollably, and the corner of her lip also spasmed. The tears, only a few at first, turned into a torrent, and she sniffled and blinked, a hot mess now, staring up at them all like a deer who'd been shot might stare at the hunter loping his way toward her.
It was in that moment that Gage realized two things. She wasn't acting. At least, she wasn't acting now. There was still a chance that she was withholding the truth from them, either consciously or subconsciously, but nobody was so good they could fake that kind of fearful display. Were they? Fearful was the right word, because that was the other, more important thing that Gage realized.
This woman had been abused. He didn't know how, or by whom, but someone, most likely a man, had physically hurt her in the past. The recent past.
Gage reached over and took her hand, slowly and obviously, letting her see him do it, the way he might try to reach for a whipped dog. Her skin felt warm and clammy, layered with sweat, a bad sign. She did, however, start to calm down immediately, less fidgeting, the tics subsiding. She focused only on him, those big aquamarine eyes wide and bright, and he saw an emotion there that troubled him far more than the fear did: adoration. It wasn't just the adoration. It was how good seeing it made him feel. He thought of his conversation with Alex. She was broken all right and she definitely needed fixing. Why was that so wrong? Why did he feel so uneasy about it?
"We'll get to the bottom of this," he said.
"I want to remember," she said, sniffling.
"I know."
"I'm not trying … trying to play games."
"Things will clear up soon," Gage said.
She wiped away her tears with the bedspread. Stupidly, they all stood and watched, nobody saying anything until finally Quinn cleared his throat.
"Well," he said, "we'll make some calls, see if Koura talked to anyone else before starting his cruise. Maybe someone will know who you are. His brother made it seem like Marcus didn't have a lot of friends, but you never know."
"And maybe she got picked up somewhere else," Zachary said. When he had everybody's attention, he hesitated. "You know, at a port along the way. Maybe he stopped somewhere up the coast."
"That's crazy," Trenton said. "Why would he pick up someone he didn't even know?"
"It's just a theory," Zachary said. "I mean, he'd broken up with his girlfriend not long ago. He was probably lonely. I know what that's like." He blushed again—not a fire-truck red this time, thank God, but still an obvious shade of pink. "I mean, I broke up with my girlfriend a couple months ago. That's all I meant. He might have been open to meeting someone."
Gage was impressed. He'd been thinking the same thing himself, though he had decided not to share it. He wasn't all that eager to help the police find out who the woman was before he did. "It would certainly be worth calling all the ports up and down the coast," he said.
Trenton snorted. "That's a lot of ports."
"Around a hundred," Gage said.
"What are you now, a nautical expert?"
"Nope," Gage said, "just read a bunch. Washington has the most because of all the islands up there, something like seventy. You'd think California would have more, but they only have about a dozen. Oregon's somewhere in the middle with twenty-three. That's without even getting to Alaska or Mexico, which both have a ton."
"How fascinating," Trenton said.
"You read at all, Trenton? I can get you a library card. They have a huge assortment of picture books you might like."
"I hope no one thinks I'm some kind of floozy," the woman said.
Everybody started speaking at once—a mortified Zachary mumbling his apology, an angry Trenton shooting a retort about the kind of people who hang out in libraries, Gage offering some reassuring words to the woman, and Brisbane just generally mumbling to himself—until Quinn raised his hand, silencing them.
"Enough," he said. "We're not accomplishing anything with all this. I think it's time we leave Miss … well, you need to think of what you want to call yourself. And please do it soon. But we'll let you get some more rest in the meantime. I think it goes without saying that I don't want you leaving town, right? Not until this all gets sorted out."
"Yes, sir," the woman said meekly. "But I can't … I don't have a place to stay right now. And I know the hospital won't just let me stay here forever."
From the doorway, Zoe said, "You can stay at the Turret House."
Gage had no idea how long she'd been standing there, though from the way she leaned against the door frame with her arms crossed, he guessed it'd been a while. Again, he had to marvel at her transformation. The powder-blue cardigan over the white open-collared shirt, the pleated tan slacks, the matching open-soled sandals that showed off toenails painted the same shade of blue as her sweater—if he hadn't been witness to her change in appearance the past few months and had passed her on the street, he may not have even recognized her. Topping off her outfit with just a touch of pink lipstick and some dangly blue crystal earrings, she looked at least ten years older than her actual age. It broke his heart.
"Alex is okay with it?" Gage asked.
"It was his idea, actually."
"What's the Turret House?" the woman asked.
"A bed and breakfast," Zachary jumped in, before either Zoe or Gage could reply. "The best in town. Really nice people who run the place. You couldn't—couldn't do any better."
He said this to the group, but he was only looking at Zoe when he did. It wasn't just a normal look, either, it was one of those looks
, the kind a young man gives a woman when he's keenly aware of everything about her that's womanly. That was disturbing enough for Gage, who, despite recognizing Zoe's recent change in appearance and actual age of adulthood, refused to see her as anything but the sixteen-year-old kid she'd been when he'd adopted her. What was even more disturbing was that Zoe was looking right back at Zachary in pretty much the same way.
"That's very nice of you," she said.
"I mean every word."
"I'll … I'll tell Alex."
"It's the truth," Zachary said. "My mom stayed there when she visited. She raved about the place. I think she even wrote a review on Yelp." He glanced at everyone else, apparently realizing that he and Zoe weren't the only ones in the room. "Um, she never does that sort of thing."
"Glad that's sorted out," Quinn said. "All right, everybody, let's leave her in peace. If I don't find you here, ma'am, I expect to find you at the Turret House."
"I won't leave town," the woman said. "But Garrison, Zoe, if you could stay a minute. Just to sort out things."
"Don't worry," Zoe said, "we're not leaving."
She said it defiantly, as if she expected someone to challenge her. Gage cheered inwardly. The tone in her voice, her crossed arms, and the glare in her eyes were all signs that the old Zoe hadn't gone far, and there was no way someone like that was going to end up as Alex's assistant her whole life.
Wisely, no one did challenge her, and the cops said their goodbyes and departed. Zachary was the last to go, and there was a bit of an awkward shuffle as he and Zoe passed each other in the doorway, each looking at the other while trying not to make it obvious they were looking. It would have been a comical display to Gage if he didn't find it so disturbing. Please, no, not a cop. She can date anyone but a cop.
Fortunately, there was no exchange of phone numbers, emails, or whatever young people did these days, just a couple of embarrassed smiles. When it was just the three of them in the room, Gage turned his attention back to the woman in the bed.
The woman.
He couldn't go on calling her that. It was too impersonal, too dehumanizing—maybe not as dehumanizing as Jane Doe, but not much better.
"Well," Gage said, "Quinn was right about one thing. Until your memory comes back, we do need to call you something. You got a name in mind?"
"No," she said. "I do like the name Zoe, though. It's very pretty."
"Thank you," Zoe said.
"I suppose Jane would be fine for now. If that's what they want to call me …"
"No, we can do better than that," Zoe said.
"She's kind of like a mermaid," Gage said. "You know, she came from the ocean? You could go by the name of that girl from the Disney movie. What was her name?"
"Ariel?" Zoe said.
"Yeah, that's the one."
"Yuck," Zoe said. "That's the worst idea ever. Do you know how oppressive and subversive that imagery is to girls entering puberty?"
"There's my girl!" Gage said.
"Shut up."
The woman in bed rubbed her temples. "I just wish I could remember," she said. "I don't know why I can't remember. I know the cops think I'm … I'm guilty of something."
"Well," Gage said, "look on the bright side. At least they didn't read you your Miranda rights."
The woman sat up straighter in the bed. "That's it," she said.
"What?"
"The name. Miranda. You can call me Miranda."
Gage thought about it. "Hmm. I'm not thrilled with the legal connection on that one either, but it's a lot better than Jane Doe."
"Shakespeare also had a Miranda," Zoe said. "In The Tempest. It kind of fits that way. It was probably that bad storm that brought her to Barnacle Bluffs."
"That's right," Gage said. "Prospero's daughter. He and Miranda were banished to an island. It's a good play, one of my favorites. We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep."
"That's a good one," Zoe said, smiling at him. "There's another one that fits even better. What's past is prologue."
"Ah, yes," Gage said. "How about this one: Hell is empty and all the devils are here."
"Talking about the cops again?" Zoe said "Full fathom five thy father lies."
"Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows."
"Your tale, sir, would cure deafness."
"My library," Gage said, "was dukedom large enough."
Zoe opened her mouth to reply, then shook her head and smiled wryly. "You win this time."
"Well," the woman said, "there's no doubt about your memory, at least."
"Sorry," Zoe said sheepishly. "It's a little contest we have sometimes. I know it's probably annoying."
"No, no, it's very cute," the woman hurriedly said and Gage could already see how she could never stand to let even the possibility that she might have offended someone linger in the air for a second. "I just feel so lucky that it was you two who found me. Miranda it is then—at least, until I figure out who I really am."
"Miranda," Gage said, nodding.
"Miranda," Zoe agreed.
"In from the storm," Miranda said.
Chapter 4
Gage took Miranda to the Turret House late that afternoon. Dr. Brunner—whose first name Gage learned was Tatyana—agreed to discharge her only on the condition that Miranda visit a doctor every day until everybody was certain there wasn't some sort of physical trauma that had gone undetected.
When Miranda said she had no insurance or money, and before Gage could jump in to offer to pay, Tatyana said it would be no problem; she would do the checkups herself at no charge. They couldn't be at the hospital, but she would be willing to do the checkups at the Turret House. She scribbled her number on a yellow sticky and handed it to Gage. He wondered if there was something to that, her giving the number to him instead of to Miranda, but he saw nothing in her brusque manner to indicate that she was even remotely flirting with him.
Still, he liked her quite a bit already. House calls? What kind of doctor made house calls, and for free? There was also that faint echo of a Russian accent, a hint of a complicated past. He wanted to know about that past, as well as what the letters CK on her necklace represented.
Was he trying to fix her too? He hated that Alex had gotten into his head.
Since it took some time to get her checked out of the hospital, and Zoe left early to get back to the Turret House to help Eve clean the rooms, it was just Gage and Miranda driving south on Highway 101. The '71 Volkswagen van, which had been completely rebuilt and repainted after the wreck last year, still grumbled and protested at any speed over forty—the floorboards rattling, the wind whistling through all the gaps and cracks.
Gage wouldn't have it any other way. The old van had been with him as long as he had lived in Barnacle Bluffs.
"She likes you," Miranda said.
Gage looked at her. She was gazing ahead rather than at him, and when she realized he was staring at her she glanced at him and smiled furtively before returning her attention to the road. The sun was already low enough in the western sky, shining over the rooftops of the hotels and shops, that he had to squint. The light brightened her hair, brought out hints of blonde; except for her bangs, she had it tied back in a tight ponytail with a rubber band. It made her face seem even more gaunt than it was, but there was a healthy glow now, as if each passing hour brought more life back into her.
The pair of jeans and gray Oregon Coast T-shirt a nurse had rustled up for her were a couple sizes too large. Of course, with how thin she was, just about any clothes would have been too large.
"Who, Zoe?" he said.
"No, the doctor. Tatyana. She's obviously into you."
"I think you're imagining things."
"She's very pretty. And smart, too. You should ask her out."
"Oh, I don't know." Gage shrugged.
"Not your type?" Miranda said, chuckling softly. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't assume. You probably already have a girlfriend."
"Not right now," Gage said. "I seem to scare all women away eventually."
"Oh, I doubt that."
"I'm just too charming for them, I think."
"Hmm."
"There's only so much charm a woman can take. There's like a charm threshold, I've found. You go over that threshold, and it's, 'Hit the road, Jack.' It's why I've vowed to be a lot less charming to women, really embrace my inner rudeness. It's a work in progress, but I think I'm getting better."
"I'm sure that's it," Miranda said, smiling. He was glad to see that the joking had put her at least somewhat at ease, that she'd stopped the gentle clawing at her jeans. "But I'm still willing to bet a few women have stuck around for a while."
"Yeah, one did," Gage said. "I even married her."
"Oh. Is she still—I mean, are you two ..."
"No."
"Divorced?"
"Died, actually," Gage said.
"Oh. I'm … I'm so sorry."
"It's okay. It's been over seven years."
She nodded, but didn't seem to know what to say, her face much more grim, full of the kind of sympathy that always made Gage uncomfortable. How did they venture into this territory? Maybe it was because she was a kind of blank slate, but there was something disarming about Miranda, something that made him want to lower his guard and open up to her. He rolled down the window a crack, hoping the cool ocean air would also alter the mood.
"It's a long story," he said. "I still miss her, and it still hurts, but just not as much. I can at least carry on something of a normal life now."
"Well, that's … that's good."
"Her name is Janet. Was Janet."
"I'm sure I would have liked her."
"It was impossible not to like her," he said, which was true. She seemed to have the opposite effect on people that he did. Everybody liked Janet.
To change the subject, he asked Miranda if she liked salt water taffy, saying that Barnacle Bluffs had some of the best salt water taffy on the whole western coast. She said she didn't know but she'd be glad to try it. He'd been hoping the quick question would jar a memory loose, but no such luck.