by Libby Howard
“Come on, Mr. Floater. We’ve got to run to MegaMart, then meet our potential new roomie at four. After that we’ve got boxes in the attic to go through. If you’re good, maybe I’ll let you pick the movie tonight.”
Chapter 3
I got a seven-layer bean dip, some pastries for breakfast, and a stash of toilet paper that would probably last me through the apocalypse. With a potential roommate moving in, one had to be prepared for anything. I also picked up the cat food, which had been my original purpose for coming to the gigantic discount store, along with a jumbo-sized box of litter, and some intriguing catnip stuffed toys.
Taco—yes, my cat’s name was Taco—deserved some toys. I’d never had a pet before, but on my way home from the cemetery the day of the funeral, I’d found myself terrified to return to an empty house. I’d detoured to the local animal shelter, arriving an hour before closing to stare at the furry occupants of wire cages, all waiting for new homes. After spending the last decade taking care of Eli, I decided that a dog would be too much for me. I didn’t want something that needed regular walks or an excessive amount of attention. I wanted something that made the house feel less lonely, that would just meander around. Something that would require a minimal amount of care.
So I chose the most aloof cat at the shelter—a gray tabby who stared at me with dispassionate green eyes. The shelter employees had been thrilled. It seemed that spring was kitten season, and they were nearing capacity, which meant the less friendly and affectionate cats might find themselves on a cold metal table with a needle in their leg. It made me feel even more noble for giving this reserved cat a home.
When the paperwork was being filled out, they asked me his name. In spite of my journalist background, I wasn’t the most creative woman in the world. I’d looked out the window in desperation and my eyes had lit on a sign for a nearby fast-food chain. Thus, my new pet was named Taco.
Once home, Taco revealed that his performance at the shelter had been an act and that he was a cat worthy of an Academy Award. My standoffish feline suddenly wanted on my lap every time I sat down. He was constantly weaving around between my legs, jumping on my kitchen counters, sleeping at the end of my bed, patting me awake in the morning with soft paws on my face.
Okay, I loved it. I never thought I would, but within the first twenty-four hours, this darned cat had become my lifeline. I hoped Judge Beck liked cats.
I was just heading to the checkout line when I saw clearance tables with stacks and stacks of books. It was a routine for me to cruise up and down these aisles, buying cookbooks that I’d never use, picking up forty-percent off biographies and the occasional evening read. Eli had always teased me about my romance novels until he realized that he got a heck of a lot more nookie when I was reading them.
Today there was an interesting do-it-yourself book on garden mosaics that I couldn’t resist putting in my basket, and then at the end of the aisle a series of craft books—including a Learn To Knit kit which had knitting needles and a giant ball of colorful yarn.
I looked around as if I expected one of my neighbors to be spying on me and scrutinizing my purchases, then I threw the knitting kit into my cart, sliding it under the cat toys. I was sixty. I was a widow. I’d had cataracts. I’d just adopted a cat. Knitting seemed the next logical step to take in my new life. Plus, I was really interested in making those baby hats for the hospital.
Shopping done, I looped around the rear of the store, heading for the back strip where I’d parked my little Subaru. It wasn’t that I was worried about someone scratching or dinging my fifteen-year-old car that had me parking way out in the sticks, it was my determination to get a little walk in my shopping expedition. In the last ten years, the walk to and from the store had sometimes been my only real bit of fresh air. Now it was just habit. Besides, I always felt like I should leave the closer spaces free for those who were in a hurry or who were struggling with baby strollers.
My cart squeaked as I rolled it over the blacktop past all the other cars and trucks. I nodded at a woman loading several industrial-sized boxes of diapers into her SUV, at a man carrying a forty-pack of festive Easter-themed cupcakes. Once past the other vehicles, nothing caught my eye beyond the familiar shadow that seemed to be following me nearly every day.
“Get lost, Mr. Floater. I’m hoping to see a different spirit, or maybe none at all. Leave me alone.”
With a movement that looked suspiciously like a bow, my shadow disappeared, leaving me with clear eyesight and amazing peripheral vision. I stopped the cart in the middle of the aisle and waited, feeling foolish and wondering if maybe this was all in my head. Perhaps Doctor Berkowitz had been right and the shadows were only a side effect of my surgery.
Nothing. Just the very back of a parking lot with my Subaru surrounded by acres of empty spaces. Past the parking area was a steep weed-covered hill, then the guardrail and busy street. To my left was an expanse of prickly brush and more weeds leading down to a drainage pond, then up to the interstate. Across the interstate, the truck stop sign blinked. I’d been here thousands of times, parked at the very back of this lot more than I could remember, seen the same surroundings each time I frequented this store, but today was different. Today, something about this place gave me a chill, like it was waiting, dreading, anticipating, like the very air was strung tight as a wire about to break.
I shivered, then continued on to my car, the cart sounding louder than it should on the rough pavement. I wanted to get out of here. I wanted to go home. And inexplicably, I didn’t want to ever come back.
Chapter 4
I was having wine at three o’clock in the afternoon on the front porch with my friend and neighbor, Daisy. Pinot Grigio, to be precise. Daisy was the sort of friend who often proclaimed that it was five o’clock somewhere, so she was heartily supportive of my early booze binge. Taco had been keeping us company, meowing and circling around our ankles until he realized our wine-fest didn’t include any crackers or cheese that he could beg from us. I eyed his round form as he bounded from my porch into the bed of hostas, only his gray tail visible, flickering back and forth among the big green leaves. He was getting fat. I really should look into diet cat food, or maybe stop giving him treats from my own meals. It was hard to resist his earnest pleas for food, though. I was beginning to believe that cats had mind-control abilities. Must give cat some of my baked chicken. Must give cat more baked chicken.
“Are we celebrating or drowning our sorrows?” Daisy asked, pouring a generous amount into my extra-large sized wine goblets. I knew what she meant. Lately, there had been more of the sorrow drowning and a lot less of the celebrating. She was a good friend, always there to let me cry on her shoulder and to refill my glass when the reality of Eli’s death hit me hard, or when I was staring down a stack of bills.
“I’m not sure,” I told her honestly. It seemed a little premature to celebrate my being able to keep the house. For all I knew Judge Beck wouldn’t show, or would hate it, or I would hate him. “I guess I can celebrate my ophthalmologist appointment today. It seems the cataract surgery was a success and I’m good to go.”
I didn’t tell her about the floaters. Although maybe they weren’t floaters at all. Did grief and financial stress cause people to hallucinate? I was beginning to wonder.
Daisy lifted her glass in a toast and downed a hearty mouthful of wine. We were an odd pair to have developed such a close friendship. She was five years younger than me, with a platinum blond curly hairdo that, judging by her roots, was a far cry from the salt-and-pepper nature had delivered. She was lean, athletic, and tan. She taught yoga at the Y, and had a social schedule that a celebrity would envy. She’d never been married, never had children, and under her cheerful, sassy exterior was a hurt I’d never been able to uncover.
“How’s Reality-Show Pierson?” she asked.
J.T. Pierson was my boss, the man who’d been kind enough to hire a former journalist with a big blank of ten years on her resume. I was gra
teful, and I actually enjoyed the work.
“No major television studio has come calling. I think he’s considering starting his own cable access channel, or possibly a YouTube videocast if he doesn’t land a big contract soon.”
Daisy sniffed, taking another sip of the wine. “Isn’t there some client confidentiality or something where he can’t broadcast that stuff? Is he going to change names to protect the not-so-innocent?”
I shrugged. “No idea. It’s all public record, so I’d assume not. That bounty hunter guy does it on his reality show, and they name names in true crime fiction. I’m not lawyer, but I assume it’s all above board.”
With J.T. Pierson, one never knew, although I felt a bit guilty thinking such bad thoughts about the man who’d hired me when it seemed no one else would. He was kind, but he did walk the edge of what might be considered ethical behavior. I’d been a journalist for almost thirty years. I’d skirted those edges before, even though I liked to consider myself a fairly moral person. When it came to finding out the truth, or delivering justice, sometimes one needed to put a toe into dangerous waters.
I was sure I’d be toeing those waters regularly in my current job, too. As of last week, I was employed to do skip-tracing for Pierson Investigative and Recovery Services. I found people and turned them over to the authorities and/or their creditors to be held accountable for debt or other legal matters. I loved the research, and J.T. kept me busy with an endless stream of bad-debt and bounced check traces while he handled the bail-jumpers. That meant he worked with the police while I sat in front of a computer all day. It was an ideal work arrangement.
“Hey.” Daisy had a gleam in her blue eyes as she sat the wine glass down and leaned forward. “Think Pierson knows anything about the sex scandal? I’m dying to know who Caryn Swanson’s girls were. I’m betting that Suzette Garnet is one. And I can’t wait to find out who’s in that black book.”
Everyone wanted to know the answers to these questions. Especially Daisy who loved being in-the-know in our small town. “She’s using us for bail, but I don’t get involved in that side of the business. J.T. did say that Madam Caryn claims she doesn’t keep client lists. According to her, she is a go-between for a fee. The girls keep their own lists, if they choose. And she’s refusing to identify her ‘girls’.”
I knew this because J.T. was just as much of a gossip as Daisy.
My friend snorted. “Right. What kind of Madam doesn’t keep a list, especially when she can use it in a plea bargain? I wonder if she’ll turn over any of her ‘girls’ once she realizes she’s facing jail time?”
I gulped my wine, wondering if I was going to become one of those old ladies who gossiped about the neighbors all the time, thinking that every young, attractive woman in stilettos, like Suzette Garnet, was a prostitute. Next thing I knew, I’d be shouting at people to get off my lawn and harassing the newsboy.
I was mid-swallow, glass still lifted when I saw the man climbing the wide wooden steps to my porch. It was four and this was my potential roommate. Nathanial Beck looked fortyish, too young to be a judge, but Locust Point was a small town and Milford, the county seat, wasn’t huge compared to larger cities. His was an appointed position, and it was completely reasonable to assume a lawyer with a solid career and reputation could find himself a small-county judge at forty.
Or he was older, and just looked good. He did look good with blond, sun-streaked hair and darker eyebrows in a tanned face. Those eyebrows practically hit the roof when he saw us…saw me.
Sweet mother of a biscuit. Here was a judge, my potential boarder, arriving to find me and Daisy Mercer boozing it up on my front porch. So much for being an upstanding landlord who could show steady and decent character in his custody case.
I scooted the glass of wine aside and stood, shaking his hand. He had a firm handshake, his wrist ornamented with a heavy, expensive watch. It wasn’t like the diamond-studded Rolex that J.T. flashed around. This watch looked like you could drag it fifty leagues under the sea and it would still keep amazingly accurate time.
“I’m Kay Carrera.” I gestured to my companion, who, instead of standing and greeting my guest, stared open-mouthed, a raised glass of Pinot Grigio in her hand. “This is my friend and neighbor, Daisy Mercer.”
“I’m Nathanial Beck. Carson told me that you were considering taking in renters. If this is a bad time…” His voice trailed off. His gaze shifted to Daisy, then to the bottle of wine—the nearly empty bottle of wine.
I heard Daisy’s teeth click as she shut her mouth, then the clink of her wine glass on the table. “Oh, no. I was just leaving. We were celebrating…. celebrating something.”
Great. Thanks a lot, Daisy.
“I just had cataract surgery and the doctor gave me the all clear this morning.” I smiled up at him. “I haven’t had much cause to celebrate lately.” My smile wobbled.
His hazel eyes widened. I saw something in his expression besides sympathy, something that I thought might be a hint of wistfulness. “Of course. I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Carrera. Please accept my condolences on the passing of your husband.”
I felt guilty, like I was using the death of my spouse to turn his view of me from boozing lush to one of a sad widow trying to find a moment of celebration in a sea of grief. But my words were true. I hadn’t celebrated much of anything in the last decade, and although Daisy was always happy to come over and help me drown my sorrows in a bottle of wine, for the last few years these parties-on-the-porch had been a rare occurrence.
The grief came crushing back like the planet’s gravity had increased a hundredfold. My eyes burned with tears at his words of condolence, at the thought of all I’d lost. Eli hadn’t been gone a month and I was still so very raw inside.
Daisy clattered in her high heels down the porch steps, promising to call me later. I blinked away the tears and gestured to the front door. “Please. Come in and let me show you around.”
The front door was actually front doors—as in plural. They were narrow, oak, with little brass nobs and old-fashioned keyholes. Anyone wider than a broomstick had to open both of them or risk banging hips and shoulders against the jamb. They were an absolute pain when you were carrying groceries or a duffle bag—or when you were a six foot one judge with the shoulders of an Olympic swimmer.
“Charming,” he commented as he wedged himself sideways through the opening.
They were, which was why Eli and I had left them instead of replacing them with a modern, normal-width doorway. I walked ahead, through what had originally been a formal parlor and was now much less formal sitting area. Built-in bookshelves were packed with fiction and nonfiction. Two recliners flanked a marble-topped table. The bow window had a pillow-filled seat with additional bookshelves underneath. Judge Beck nodded, his face expressionless. I waited a moment, then led him into the corner room that Eli and I had turned into our television area. I still got no reaction from the judge, so I proceeded to guide him into the dining room with my Aunt Hazel’s giant mahogany table and chairs. Unable to take the silence, I started to babble about the original leaded glass windows and shutters. When Eli and I had bought the house, several of the windows had been replaced with modern, energy efficient ones. We’d spent many nights searching internet listings and getting quotes from contractors before we decided to take the plunge and rip out the modern windows, replacing them with antique ones that we found mostly at auctions and estate sales.
It had been a labor of love haunting the auctions up and down the coast, sometimes having to ship big heavy windows across several states, but when I looked out through the wavy glass to a bright and slightly distorted view, I felt like I was looking backward through the lens of time. Yes, my heating and air-conditioning costs were obscene, but it had been worth it.
“The kitchen has all modern appliances. We had the entire house rewired when we purchased it, and much of the plumbing is updated. The stereo in the TV room pipes music throughout the lower floor and even ou
tside to the porch and the gazebo out back.”
He nodded again. I was beginning to sweat at this point, worried that he hated it. How could he hate my beautiful home? It would be like hating a part of me.
“The house is three stories,” I told him, retracing our steps to the front of the hallway to ascend the wide staircase. I ran my hand along the thick carved wood banister, reassured by the feel of the smooth, time-worn oak. “The top floor has two smaller bedrooms and a sitting area, while the second floor has four bedrooms including the master suite. The master is the only room with an in-suite bathroom, but there is a full bath at the end of the hall on each floor.”
I showed him the three bedrooms on the second floor, deciding that he really didn’t want to see the master suite where I was staying—where Eli and I had stayed until the accident after which the TV room had housed a giant bed with controls and side rails; a bed that adjusted with a tap of a button. I hated having it in there. I hated the ugliness of it in my home. I hated that I couldn’t manage to get Eli up and down the stairs by myself. I hated everything it stood for—the sudden loss of my beloved husband to this invalid, this man I felt I didn’t know. I hated it, but when they had come to take it away, I’d wept.
We had decorated and furnished all six bedrooms, even after we’d discovered that children weren’t in our future. The bedrooms had come in handy for visitors or when friends wanted to stay after a particularly indulgent party. They weren’t huge by modern standards, but I hoped the judge would find them acceptable.
