A Shroud of Tattered Sails: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 4)

by Scott William Carter

  "Ah," the man said. "You are commenting on the uniqueness of my head garment, I see."

  "Head garment?" Gage said.

  "The name is Buzz Burgin," the man said. "Actually, I write under the byline Charles E. Burgin, but everyone from the lowest of the low to the highest of the high refers to me as, simply, Buzz. You may too, dear chap. Some have even taken to assigning me the ... the moniker Buzz Purple, due to my fondness for that color, but really, Buzz will do. Do you know the owners of this fine establishment? I would like to confer with one of the guests, and I'm afraid they're not being very helpful."

  "You should at least walk the length of the street," Gage said.

  "Sorry?"

  "That's the second time you've apologized," Gage said. "Really, there's no need."

  "I'm afraid I don't—"

  "To try to blend in," Gage said. "That's what I meant. You should walk a little farther than just the length of the house. You're really calling a lot of attention to yourself. Or was that your purpose?"

  Buzz peered at Gage with his tiny black eyes, the pause between blinks so long that Gage actually found it a bit unnerving. The rain slowed and dissipated, turning into more of a mist. The ocean, not visible from this vantage point, could still be heard over the rooftops, a rhythmic rush of air. Buzz's gaze fell on Gage's cane, and he nodded

  "Ah," he said, "you must be Garrison Gage."

  "I must be," Gage said.

  "I heard about you, my good fellow."

  "If someone referred to me as a good fellow, they were misinformed."

  "The famous detective," Buzz said, chuckling. He touched the corners of his mustache with both hands, not quite twirling it the way a dastardly villain would in an old spaghetti western, but more as if he needed to reassure himself that it was still there. "That business with the God's Wrath cult a couple years back was quite ... quite ... captivating. There was a good series in the Oregonian on it. I've thought of that line of work myself, really. All that cloak and dagger. Seems fascinating."

  "Cheating housewives don't usually wear cloaks," Gage said, "and runaway teens almost never carry daggers."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "There you go again, apologizing."

  "Oh, I see," Buzz said, "you were referring to the usual ... mundane business of a private investigator. Good, good, quite droll. You have a sharp wit, dear chap. I admire that. Now, if you could just help me talk to—"

  "Not going to happen," Gage said.

  Finally, Buzz blinked those dull little eyes of his. "I'm afraid, I'm afraid I don't—"

  "There's no one here who's going to talk to you today."

  "But—but if I could only explain—"

  "You need to be on your way."

  "Well, really," Buzz said, "I am not sure what I have done to elicit such a ... such a ... an insensitive response. I only ask—"

  "Who do you write for?"

  "What?"

  "You claim to be a journalist. Who do you write for?"

  "I am a journalist," Buzz replied indignantly, and the orange hue of his face was quickly turning scarlet. "I seldom wish to toot my own horn—"

  "Of course not."

  "—but I have written for journalistic publications far and wide—"

  "Journalistic?"

  "—as well as my own blog, Peering Into Portland, which, I shall tell you, ranks quite high on all of the search engines—and I have received numerous ... accolades for my ... for my ... incomparable in-depth investigative pieces—"

  "Do you write the same way you speak? With a thesaurus?"

  "What?"

  "It's quite charming. Look, I don't care who you write for. The Oregonian, The New York Times, there's nobody here who will talk to you. There's nothing worth writing about. There's no story, not even one fit for your blog, Peeing in Portland."

  "Peering! Peering!"

  "Whatever. I suggest you get in your purple mobile and head back to the valley."

  The little man's face was now almost the same color as his clothes, and as bloated as an inflated balloon. He took a few seconds to gather himself, huffing and puffing a bit, then started shuffling his way to his station wagon. He only made it a few steps before he turned back.

  "Now, now, you listen," he sputtered, "I am not a man to be ... to be ... taken lightly. I am a writer of some ... some ... renown. Of some merit. I have the power of the pen at my disposal, dear chap. It is a power that even men of ... powerful means—"

  "That's the word power twice in the same sentence. Points deducted for redundancy."

  "Well, really!"

  "Yes, really. Now go. And if I see one word about any of this on your blog, Peeping Into Portland—"

  "Peering!"

  "—I'm going to come find you. Got it?" When the little man didn't answer, Gage used his cane to give Buzz a little push. "Got it? Or should we go look up some words in the thesaurus to see if we can make you understand?"

  Gage had barely put any force behind the push at all, but Buzz grasped at his chest and gaped at Gage as if he had been stabbed with a bayonet. It was such an over the top response that Gage couldn't help but give him another push, this one harder. Buzz stumbled backward, arms freewheeling, and barely managed to keep himself upright. His purple fedora spiraled off his head, revealing a bald head that retained a slight purple shade from the hat's dye. As Buzz groped for his hat, Gage thought of one of the sea lions he'd seen on the rocks a while back, bobbing and flopping around on the rocks.

  Gathering himself, Buzz tried to protest again, but Gage limped forward and aimed to give him another prod, prompting the little man to flee for his car. Not satisfied his message had truly sunk in yet, Gage followed. The man was not a fast runner. In fact, it really could not even be called running, more of a jittery waddle, and even limping on his bad knee Gage managed a couple more pushes in Buzz's back, each one eliciting a terrified shriek from the reporter, before Buzz escaped into his station wagon. While Gage watched, Buzz fumbled with his keys and finally got the car running.

  "You will regret this!" he shouted through the closed window. "I have never—never been treated in such a ... such a ..."

  Gage lifted his cane, aiming it at the glass.

  Whatever word Charles E. Burgin was going to come up with in that moment, Gage would never know. The purple man put his purple car in gear and squealed down the street, kicking up some pebbles that pinged against the grille of Gage's van. He watched the man go, watched until he was sure the station wagon disappeared around the bend and he was sure it wasn't coming back, and only then did he turn toward the Turret House. That's when he saw he had an audience standing in the open front door—Zoe and Eve.

  Zoe was shaking her head, bemused, and Eve, who couldn't be rude to someone even if she tried, wore the kind of aghast expression that he imagined her children, now grown, had seen on a frequent basis when they got into trouble. If they got into trouble. Most people would be hard pressed to disappoint someone like Eve more than once or twice. He imagined it would feel a bit like disappointing Mother Teresa. Tended to stick with you.

  Still, there was only one thing to do after such a performance, and with a clearly captivated audience waiting for his response.

  He bowed.

  * * *

  Afraid the little purple reporter might return, Gage parked himself by the living room window in one of the rocking chairs and watched the street.

  Sunlight pierced the gray cloud cover, and, like hands brushing the clouds aside, the sky began to clear. Alex was already at the store, and Zoe busied herself tidying the rooms, but Eve brought him a cup of coffee and the two made small talk for a few minutes, mostly chatting about the casino's plans to add a second hotel and what that would do for the other hotels in the area. Miranda, her face pink and her hair still wet from a shower, showed up shortly thereafter, and Eve insisted on making breakfast for both of them—ham and cheese omelets, with freshly squeezed orange juice and cranberry scones she'd just baked that morning
. The buttery warmth of the scones, just the right combination of sugar and tartness, was so delicious it took all of his will power to stop at two.

  Dr. Tatyana Brunner called the Turret House line and asked if she might stop by on her way to work and check on Miranda. She showed up a few minutes later, and, despite Eve's repeated pleas that she join the table, begged off by saying she'd already had a full breakfast.

  "It does smell quite wonderful, though," she said. "It reminds me of the syrniki my mother used to make."

  She wore a white silk scarf tied loosely over a powder-blue V-neck shirt, striking the perfect balance between professional and welcoming. The pleated charcoal gray pants, the pearl earrings, the faint hue of blue eye shadow—just as before, was a technically perfect ensemble, but she wore it as if someone out of central casting had picked it out for her, with little passion or personality. The leather satchel hung on her shoulder as if she had forgotten it was there. Only the diamond and gold CK necklace seemed part of her, and she fidgeted with it while gazing at the scones, as if she was clearly having second thoughts about passing them up.

  "Are you sure?" Gage asked. "You haven't lived until you've tried one of these." He grabbed another one, and, making the mistake of thinking it was a bit smaller than it looked, shoved the whole thing in his mouth. "Mmm ... good."

  Tatyana arched her left eyebrow at him. "I'm not sure watching you eat makes it more appetizing."

  "No?" Gage said, and that was all he could manage, because his mouth was still too full to say anything else.

  "We will give you the benefit of the doubt," Tatyana said, "that it is the irresistible nature of Eve's cooking that makes you lose your table manners."

  Gage may have made a fool of himself, but he liked the way her eyes lit up when she delivered one of her little zingers. Unlike her clothes, her wit seemed entirely hers, when she was most comfortable with herself and with others. Before he could manage to swallow enough to offer a rejoinder, she'd already asked Miranda if she could perform an exam in private and the two of them disappeared upstairs. Eve, admonishing him, shook her head and retreated to her office to do some paperwork, leaving Gage alone with the rest of the scones. He managed to control himself this time, though his resolve was beginning to fade by the time Miranda and Tatyana returned ten minutes later.

  "All square?" he asked.

  "I'm fine," Miranda said. "Physically, anyway."

  "Yes," Tatyana said. "Nothing wrong with her balance, heart rate, blood pressure, or any other vitals. Her memory …" She shrugged. "A visit to a psychiatrist might be in order if her memory does not return in a day or two. I know a good one in Eugene who has some past experience with memory issues, but it is a bit of a drive."

  "Oh, not yet," Miranda said.

  "All right. Well, I better be going. I have a shift starting in just a few—"

  "What are you doing for dinner tonight?" Miranda asked.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Eve and Alex are doing a dinner for family and friends. I'd have to ask, but I bet they'd like you to come."

  "Oh, no," Tatyana said, "I really should pass. I have—I have a lot to do, and I—"

  "Let me ask."

  "No, please—"

  "Be right back."

  Miranda disappeared through the swinging door, leaving Gage and Tatyana alone in the kitchen. She rested her hand on the oak table, looking at him, and for a moment he sensed the attraction between them, the same attraction he'd sensed when they'd passed each other in the grocery store as strangers. It made him think of the way Zoe and that young cop acted around each other, the hyper-awareness of each other's bodies. Was she aware of it, too?

  "You'd be more than welcome," Gage said.

  "Are you sure? I would not be ..."

  "Imposing? No."

  "I'm—I'm not sure why anyone would ... Well, I am just the doctor. It's not like I know anyone here."

  "That'll change after tonight."

  She let her gaze linger, and he liked the way it lingered. He liked the uncertainty too. It spoke of a vulnerability that she didn't often reveal, a crack in that perfectly composed exterior. Both Miranda and Eve returned, and, as Gage expected, Eve exceeded Miranda's enthusiasm in her invitation to Tatyana to attend dinner. Any remaining resistance on Tatyana's part was no match for Eve's overwhelming hospitality, and Tatyana quickly went from saying no to asking if she could bring anything.

  "No, no, no, " Eve said, grabbing Tatyana's arm, "just bring your merry self. But you can bring a guest, too, if you like. Do you have a husband or a, um, a boyfriend?"

  "No," Tatyana said. "No, I ... nothing like that, it would just be me. I hope—I hope that's all right."

  "Of course it's all right, my dear!" Eve said. "It's more than all right. It's wonderful!"

  "All right. Well, I better be going."

  "Of course, dear. Let me show you to the door."

  Gage couldn't be sure, but he thought he detected a wink from Eve in his direction. Fortunately, Tatyana didn't seem to catch it. Was everyone trying to set him up around here? Gage glanced at Miranda, and she was grinning slyly too, but there was something else in her eyes, a flash of pain or jealousy, an emotion that startled him with how naked and primal it was, even if he couldn't read it entirely.

  It was gone so fast he wasn't sure it was even there.

  * * *

  Tired of making phone calls, Gage decided to stay with Miranda to see if the two of them could unearth any of her memories. She seemed amenable to the idea, but he sensed hesitancy on her part, perhaps even a bit of trepidation, so he suggested that they just play some games and see what might get jogged loose in her mind if they didn't go at it directly. She'd remembered something about getting a traffic ticket, and, of course, there was her reaction to the man in the suit at the outlet mall. Gage hoped for something similar, perhaps more specific, a clue that would lead him in the right direction.

  He suggested chess, and she agreed, but when they set up their pieces at the glass table in the corner of the living room, it was obvious from the start that she had no idea how to play. While he was fine teaching her, he was really hoping that familiarity with something she had played before would connect her to other memories. There was a box of checkers in a little driftwood box, and when he took them out, her eyes lit up with delight. Checkers it was then.

  She played well, and with relish, but even three games didn't clear up any of her mental fog. They tried cards. Poker, his game of choice, was a mystery to her, but she seemed intimately familiar with the game of hearts. They played a couple hands and she won them all. With the morning work done, Eve and Zoe joined them for a half hour, and Miranda beat them, too. She was a reluctant winner, though, apologizing each time she won, to the point where it actually began to annoy Gage, especially when he sensed that she was starting to throw games at the end.

  They made small talk, but nothing substantial came of it. Current events, politics, she seemed to have some recollection of these things, but when he asked her how she knew about them her face grew cloudy. Eve left to make turkey sandwiches for everyone, despite their insistence that they weren't hungry, but she said it was no bother, she was going to make something for Alex anyway and take it to him at the store. Zoe went to help her.

  "Another game?" Gage asked.

  "I guess," Miranda said.

  "Getting tired of it?"

  "A little. I like playing with you, though."

  "You want something? A glass of wine?"

  "Oh, I don't drink."

  He stared at her.

  "Huh," she said. "I don't even know how I know that. But it's true. I don't drink."

  "Do you think it was for religious reasons? Or maybe you were an alcoholic?"

  "I don't know. I'm sorry."

  "It's okay. It's something, though. See? We just keep at it, and little bits of your past emerge. How about a board game? We haven't tried any of those. A lot of people played board games as kids. Maybe it will help you re
member."

  When she agreed, Gage opened the armoire behind him and started reading off some of the board games inside. Monopoly. Candyland. Scrabble. She was noncommittal to all of these, as well as the other half dozen stacked on top of one another. The lower shelf was packed with puzzles, mostly of Oregon coast scenes, the cardboard boxes chipped and well-worn from all the use. He asked if she wanted to do a puzzle of the lighthouse at Cape Blanco, warning her that there was a good chance a piece or two was missing.

  When she didn't answer, he turned and saw that her face had paled and her eyes had flat-lined.

  "What is it?" he asked.

  "No," she said.

  "No puzzles?"

  She shook her head.

  "You remember something?" he asked.

  "I don't ... I don't know."

  "Tell me."

  She started to say something, then shook her head. Gage prodded her gently, telling if her that if there was even the slightest memory, even an image, she should tell him. She swallowed hard, then said there was no memory. It was just a feeling. What feeling? She didn't know that either, not exactly, but it was like when you'd gotten sick to your stomach after eating a certain kind of food and you saw that food again. It was like that. Gage didn't know what to make it of it. They'd played games for several hours and this was all they could come up with, a strange revulsion to puzzles? She was the puzzle, one with almost all the pieces missing and not even the slightest clue what the image was supposed to look like.

  She must have sensed his frustration, because she said, "I'm really sorry."

  "Don't apologize," Gage said. "Remember?"

  "I know. It's just ..."

  "It'll come back in time. Come on, let's go for a walk on the beach. The ocean air does wonders for the soul."

  She tossed on the Oregon Coast pullover and the sandals he'd bought her and the two of them ventured out the back door, across the pea-gravel path, and down the many steps to the sand below. The sweatshirt was a good idea, as was Gage's leather jacket. The sky might have cleared, the clouds retreating into the distance like chastened predators, but the wind ripped over the sand with a cold bite. When they got a little distance from the cliff face, where the gusts gathered with greater fervor, the wind died enough that he was at least able to stop holding his fedora to his head.