1 Lost Under a Ladder

by Linda O. Johnston

  That either satisfied the woman or she’d run out of her microscopic supply of energy, since she said nothing more, just blinked and let her head loll sideways. I looked around for something to use as a pillow. Dog or cat beds? I saw nothing immediately, and the paramedics arrived so quickly, heralded by blasts from a siren, that it felt as if they must have been waiting a block away for me to call. Another good thing about this small a town, I supposed.

  I heard them enter the store and stood, running to the doorway from where I’d entered this back room. “In here,” I called, pushing the dog-bone drapery to one side and gesturing to the man and woman in white jackets who carried medical bags. I had to duck out of the way to avoid being stomped on during their enthusiastic entry.

  I’d let go of Pluckie’s leash, but she came over to stand by me, confusion making her cock her sweet head as she watched the activity, her fluffy tail wagging slightly, back and forth.

  “It’s okay, girl.” I stooped to pet her as I watched. “You did good.”

  The woman on the floor remained alert enough to talk a bit. The EMTs did what they usually do, I supposed, from what I’d seen their fictional counterparts do on TV.

  I hadn’t been there for my fiancé, Warren, when emergency help had arrived for him. It had been too late anyway.

  “Hey, Martha,” said the female EMT as she fastened a cuff to check blood pressure around the woman’s arm. “Can you tell us what happened?”

  I didn’t hear what she said, since it was drowned out by another siren outside. More help arriving?

  In a minute, two uniformed cops ran inside. I was standing in the store by then with Pluckie, wanting to stay out of the way. “Are you the person who called for help?” asked one of them, a lanky kid with a ruddy face and overbite beneath his buzz-cut hair. His counterpart rushed into the back room.

  “Yes,” I said.

  He whipped a small notebook from his pocket, along with an electronic thing that was probably a recorder. “Give me your name, please.”

  “Rory Chasen.” I also responded to the rest of his questions more or less honestly. Yes, I was here as a tourist. I could say that with a straight face, even if I had an agenda that most tourists didn’t have.

  Or did they? Many probably came looking for answers. Just not the kind I was after.

  “Okay, ma’am. Tell me the reason for your call, what you saw.”

  Ma’am? I supposed that was just normal courtesy, but I sure hoped I didn’t look ancient in my mid-thirties. But no matter how young this cop looked, he had to be beyond high school age to have received police training and a job with the local department.

  And did he think a crime had been committed here, or was this standard operating procedure? I hadn’t seen anything but an apparently ill woman, but maybe there was more than I’d perceived.

  I told the cop all I could remember from the time I entered the store till he arrived with the other police officer. Almost everything, at least. I didn’t know the ill woman, whom the EMTs had called Martha—and I didn’t repeat what she had said about a black and white dog, and how obvious it was, therefore, that she would be fine.

  Why? I wasn’t sure, but it sounded so hokey to me.

  On the other hand, in a town that survived because of superstitions, maybe that was exactly what this guy needed for his notes: a supposed omen of some kind.

  I couldn’t help it. I ended with, “Do you think she was the victim of a crime, officer?”

  “No, ma’am. At least I don’t have any reason to think so. Not yet at least. We just needed to check—” His last couple of words fell from his mouth as if he’d forgotten what he was saying. He was looking over my shoulder, suddenly frozen.

  I turned to see what he was looking at and just caught his shaky salute out of the corner of my eye.

  A man had stepped inside the shop behind me, so I hadn’t noticed. Pluckie had, though. She was standing up, facing him and wagging her tail.

  “What’s wrong with Martha?” the guy demanded, hurrying toward us. “Is she okay?”

  He was tall, with the broadest shoulders I’d ever seen expanding the top of his button-down blue shirt. I assumed, from the way his sleeves bulged, that he was also muscular, but he had a tapered waist and slim-fitting black pants. He brushed past me and looked at the note-taking cop with what appeared to be pain in his brilliant blue eyes.

  “Don’t know, sir. I was just—”

  “Interviewing a potential witness? Fine. I’ll check on her.” He was already inside the back room by the time he finished speaking.

  “Witness?” I asked the cop who remained with me. “Then you do think a crime was committed?”

  He shrugged a shoulder—a much slighter one than those on the guy who’d just disappeared. “We don’t know one wasn’t, and this is Martha’s place,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Just a few more questions.” He looked at me pleadingly.

  I wondered what he would do if I said no. I considered it. I really wanted to see what was happening with Martha. But I gave a brief nod.

  No, no one else appeared to be in the shop when I entered, although I’d seen some people and a dog leaving. No, I saw no indication of what had caused the woman’s problem.

  Then—“Was there any sign of superstitions at work here? I mean, I realize you might not know, since you’re not from around here, but any broken mirrors? Birds flying inside? Anything like that?”

  What would he say if I told him about the woman’s comments on how she knew she’d be fine, thanks to seeing a black and white dog? Would he subject Pluckie to a doggy interrogation?

  “Um … no.”

  He looked relieved. “Good. I’m not officially supposed to ask that, but around here, well … we always do.”

  “I get it,” I said. And I did. This was the unique town of Destiny. “Anything else?” I made sure my icy stare suggested that there’d better not be anything else. And there wasn’t.

  Signaling to Pluckie to join me by a soft tug on her leash, I sidled around the cop, who was just finishing his notes, and reentered the back room.

  Martha lay on a gurney now. It hadn’t been wheeled in through the shop and past me, but a rear door was open at the far side of the storeroom. Beyond appeared to be an alley. I could see another building’s concrete block wall across a wide gap of space.

  Martha’s face was obscured by a plastic mask, and an oxygen tank was strapped to a narrow pole on the gurney. One EMT was fussing with how the thing was connected, and the other EMT must have gone outside since I didn’t see her. The cop who’d rushed in here seemed to be perusing the shelving and boxes that lined the room, and the one who’d talked to me followed me in and started doing the same.

  I figured they were looking for evidence of a crime, no matter what the cop who’d interviewed me had said. Would they find any? I still assumed that the woman had just had some kind of medical emergency, but what did I know?

  The man who’d rushed past me stood beside her now, holding her hand. “You’re going to be fine, Martha,” he said softly. The glaze in her eyes lifted a little, and she nodded. She aimed a glance toward me, then downward, as if she expected me to confirm what he said—and the reason for it.

  Pluckie just sat down beside me. Martha couldn’t possibly see her, but she must have figured my dog was there.

  The man apparently realized what she was attempting to convey, since he looked down and smiled. “A strange dog,” he said, then smiled at me. “That’s good luck, especially around here. That’s why this is the Lucky Dog Boutique. Lots of strange dogs come into this place, and Martha’s home is upstairs.”

  Somehow, I felt comfortable relaying to him what I’d been reluctant to say to the young cop interviewing me. “A black and white dog this time, while she was on her way to a business meeting, she said. She knew she’d be all right.”


  “A business meeting?” He looked at me inquisitively, as if I had further answers for him.

  I shrugged. “That’s what she said.”

  He glanced at her, but she obviously wasn’t going to explain. He looked back at me. That was when the two paramedics joined up again near the gurney.

  “We need to take her to the hospital now, Chief,” they said to the man. “Okay?”

  “Absolutely.” He looked down at her as they started wheeling her out. “I’ll come visit you in a little while, Martha,” he said. “Feel better fast.”

  Which she possibly would, in a hospital.

  I was curious now, though. Chief ?

  “Anything interesting?” he asked the two uniformed cops who seemed to be slowing down in their scrutiny of the room.

  “No, sir,” said the one who’d come in here first.

  “Good. I appreciate your taking special care here, though.”

  “Any time, sir,” said the kid who’d questioned me.

  I sometimes jump to conclusions, like it or not. My assumptions now were that this guy was the others’ superior officer. Martha was his mother, or he had some kind of close relationship with her. As a result, no one was taking any chances on a major issue not getting addressed if Martha was the subject of a 911 call.

  No one wanted to displease the chief, which concerned me a little when I suddenly was alone with him in this back room, after the cops followed the EMTs relocating Martha.

  At first he, like his apparent subordinates, scanned the room as if looking for answers, possibly evidence of some nasty person coming in and waving a superstition wand, or whatever they did here in Destiny, and making Martha ill.

  What was I doing here? I suddenly had an urge to flee, to return to the B&B, retrieve all my stuff, and drive south fast—home to L.A. I didn’t believe in any of this. People who did—well, to me, they might be a few slices short of a loaf. Fixated on unreality.

  On the other hand, there was that ladder that Warren had walked under before … I shook my head.

  “Thanks for being here,” the man said, looking at me. “I’ve only lived in Destiny for a couple of years, but Martha has treated me like a son. If anything really bad happened to her—” He broke off, his troubled look segueing suddenly into a smile that made his unusual blue eyes sparkle. “I’m Justin Halbertson, by the way. Police Chief of Destiny—and that’s quite a responsibility, as I’m sure you can imagine.” He looked at me expectantly.

  “I’m Rory Chasen, Destiny tourist. And imagine? Yes, around here people apparently imagine a lot.”

  His deep bark of laughter made me smile. “Guess I’d better lock up.” He looked outside, then closed the back door and turned the latch. “They’re still out there getting Martha situated. They’d be gone a lot faster if they thought she needed immediate treatment, so that’s a good sign. Anyway, let’s go out the front.”

  I nodded, and he gallantly waved Pluckie and me through the door from the storeroom into the boutique before following and closing it.

  “Cute, lucky dog there,” he said, and stooped briefly to give Pluckie a pat on her head. That active tail of hers started waving again. She’s a real people-lover and attention sponge. She was now buddies with the chief for life.

  “That’s Pluckie,” I told him. “She’s been lucky for me, but I didn’t know till now that that’s her destiny.”

  He grinned. “Definitely, around here. My own dog, Killer, is a Doberman. Sweet guy but not the subject of any superstitions I know about.” Standing, he patrolled the shop as if looking for people hiding behind displays, then motioned toward the front entry to the store. “Shall we?”

  I was fine with leaving—only when I opened the door I saw that a large crowd overflowed the sidewalk and onto the street.

  “What’s going on with Martha?” asked a senior citizen wearing a “Destiny, Home of Superstitions” T-shirt and jeans, probably a local. A lot of those around him echoed the question until it turned into a roar.

  Justin raised his hands as if he were a conductor leading an orchestra, and when he lowered them the sound abated.

  “The paramedics took her out the back door. I think the ambulance is still there, but they’re about to leave. It’s not clear yet what’s wrong with her, but it’s a medical issue.”

  “How can we find out more?” asked a lady about half the first inquisitor’s age. She was wearing a bright red T-shirt with a black cat grinning evilly on it.

  Chief Halbertson seemed right at home in managing the crowd. He made suggestions, then asked them all to disperse for now. “I’ll have the Department’s IT guys put something on the town’s website as we get more information about her condition,” he promised them.

  Another nice thing about a small town, I supposed. I doubted that would happen in Los Angeles about a mere shopkeeper, at least not on an official website.

  A siren started up again. It sounded as if it came from behind us. In a moment, the ambulance drove surprisingly slowly from the street to the right, then turned left onto Destiny Boulevard behind the crowd.

  “Everyone hold your breath,” called the old guy in the Destiny shirt. “At least till you look over there.” He seemed to point toward Pluckie. A lot of people in the crowd nodded, appeared to visibly suck in their breath, then smiled in our direction. After that, people start walking away as the ambulance disappeared in the distance.

  “What’s that all about?” I asked.

  Justin smiled and shook his head. “You won’t be surprised to hear it’s another superstition. This town is full of them.”

  “Explain this one,” I said. “Or is it made up?”

  “That does happen around here,” Justin acknowledged. “People create their own, sometimes to fill whatever need they have at any time, especially to impress tourists. But I’ve heard this one before, as odd as it seems. If you see an ambulance, you need to hold your breath until you see a dog. Otherwise, the person inside the ambulance may die. And most of the people who were here are townsfolk. Martha’s friends.”

  “I see.” Sort of. People around here believed enough to follow what superstitions told them. At least some did. Others might have been concerned about not looking like they conformed to the group mentality around here.

  “You sound dubious,” he said. “Do you believe in superstitions? If not, what brought you here?”

  I wasn’t about to blurt out the truth to him, or to anybody. At least not yet. Even if my quest for answers made me just one of the gang here, I didn’t want to admit to having even the slightest belief in superstitions.

  Instead, I chose an easier route. “Curiosity, mainly. I read a book about superstitions and Destiny. It was written by one of your local citizens, I think. It’s called—”

  “The Destiny of Superstitions, of course. And you know what? The author is one of the co-owners of that store there.” He pointed to the shop nearest the Lucky Dog Boutique in the direction where the ambulance had gone. The bookstore had a red brick façade and upstairs dormer windows.

  “I noticed the store,” I told him, not admitting it had been my primary reason for being here. “It looks interesting. I thought I’d stop in there while I’m in town and check it out.”

  “Now’s a good time,” Justin said. “I see one of the owners near the door, probably trying to find out what happened here. I’d be glad to introduce you. Interested?”

  “Sure,” I said, wondering if I’d soon be sorry. “I’d be delighted.”

  three

  Kenneth Tarzal was one of the tallest men I’d ever seen.

  I wondered if there were any superstitions about tall men. If so, he’d probably know them. But I wasn’t about to ask him.

  Nor would I ask him—right now, at least—about the superstition I’d come to Destiny to learn more about so I could finally cast it to the dee
pest depths of my mind, never to think of it again. I hoped.

  He had included that superstition—walking under a ladder— in his book, of course. Anyone who’d ever heard of superstitions knew of that one. But was there more to it? Anything to give it a hint of reality?

  Anything to show how absurd it was?

  “How do you do, Rory?” Tarzal said in a deep, inquiring voice. My distraction must have been obvious.

  “I’m fine, Kenneth,” I responded jovially, holding out my hand, which he shook once determinedly, then released.

  “He’d rather be called Tarzal,” Justin informed me, and the man nodded and smiled.

  “Sorry. I’m fine, Tarzal,” I said. I understood nicknames. My real name is Aurora, but I prefer Rory.

  Justin and I stood just inside the door to a shop that definitely answered to the label of “bookstore.” There were dark wooden shelves brimming with books everywhere, lining all four walls while framing windows and doors. More tall bookcases, also filled with books, took up most of the space in between. They couldn’t all be about superstitions, could they?

  The display nearest to the door consisted of a table with stacks of copies of The Destiny of Superstitions laid out artistically with books leaning against one another. Not surprising. Tarzal’s name was prominent on the covers, which also displayed rabbits’ feet and shamrocks.

  What appeared to be a small enclosed office with windows jutted into the room. And of course mirrors hung on the few spaces along the wall not covered by bookshelves. This was, after all, the Broken Mirror Bookstore—although these mirrors had only what appeared to be painted-on cracks down their centers and were otherwise intact. Picture frames holding five-dollar bills had been hung on either side of them. I wondered about their significance.

  Tarzal had remained in front of us, which initially blocked us from proceeding very far into the shop. Now he became our host, bowing us in.

  He was clad in khaki trousers and a soft plaid sports coat with a beige shirt beneath, a laid-back scholarly outfit. I gauged him to be in his forties, with bifocals and light brown hair that coordinated with his outfit. He had so many deep grooves and planes in his face that it looked nearly like a skull.