by Kelty Kells
It’s best for me to wait a bit, collect my bearings, and then try again.
That afternoon, after Dr. Elea has gone home and things at the shop have slowed down, I sit at the counter and stare at the cufflinks. Both sets are out of the cup again, laid out on paper towels.
They’re mocking me. I just know it.
Literally, the cufflinks are right there. All I have to do is touch them, and I’ll know what this is all about. Or at least I’ll have a better idea of it.
I want to talk to Cole. Not that I’ll gain much from doing so, though. Still, maybe I can wheedle something out of him. Maybe he’ll finally admit that he’s behind this mess. I need him to just be honest with me, but I just . . . I can’t bring myself to text him. The truth is, if he’s getting his hands on things linked to murders, then I don’t want to know. Him getting a hold of these objects suggests that he’s involved in the murders somehow.
And that’s a chilling thought.
I keep swinging back and forth on the pendulum of how innocent I think he is in all this. Every time we talk face-to-face, he’s cheerful and sweet. He has always been more than willing to help me in the past, too, and there’s no reason this time should be any different. But of course, if I ask, he’ll just evade the topic or outright deny my questions.
There’s just no getting a straight answer from the guy.
I rest my chin on my folded arms and stare at the cufflinks, trying to decide what to do next.
They look old. Both sets do, actually. They’re obviously antiques, which means I might have some luck finding similar ones online. I doubt, though, that I’ll be able to narrow down the owners just off of a web search.
Trying is better than just sitting here, doing nothing.
We’ve been slow since lunch, anyway. As the week goes on, foot traffic will pick up. Today’s probably my best shot at getting a reading without anyone noticing.
At last, I sit up and pull out my phone to snap a picture of them. I have to get the reading over with. Once I do, I can call Paul and turn these over to him.
Admittedly, though, they don’t look as . . . well, important as the other objects I’ve encountered in the past. These seem almost plain, like I might find something similar in my dad’s bedroom. They’re so innocuous, just sitting there on the counter.
After getting a few pictures, I give in and set my phone aside.
Okay.
Okay, I can do this. I can get a few readings, one from each, and then I can move on with figuring out what sort of crime they’re linked to. Obviously, someone fired a gun. Whether they were aiming to kill someone, though, is up for debate.
Of course they were. Don’t be dumb. The last three times this happened, someone was killed. That means it’s very likely someone was killed this time, too.
I inhale a slow breath, forcing myself to reach for one of the gold cufflinks this time. The enamel one I touched earlier still makes me uneasy. At least I have some idea of what to expect the next time I touch those, but maybe . . . maybe the gold ones will be less volatile and easier to stomach.
I cringe, closing my eyes as my fingertips brush over the nearest gold cufflink.
At first, I don’t hear much.
Rough hands put the cufflink on, the fingers—not mine—twisting the back into place to keep it from slipping out of the shirt cuff. I get the distant sense of movement, and some part of my mind fills in the missing bits. The person—likely a man—putting these on is getting dressed. He’s probably going to some big function, but it’s hard to tell for sure.
The odd thing is how distant the memory feels. It’s as if the person getting dressed did so a long, long time ago. Explaining the sensation of time is hard, though. Mostly I recognize it from having touched numerous old books in the shop. I just get a sense of slowness and a lack of urgency behind the motions, and when I push harder for more, I catch the faint sound of a clock chiming in the background.
One, two, three . . . four.
Four chimes.
Either four in the morning or, more likely, four in the afternoon. Again, I’m just guessing, since I can’t see sunlight or anything else.
The memory fades, followed by BAM! BAM! BAM!
Three gunshots echo through the vision. This time, though, they aren’t right next to my ear. They came from farther off.
My stomach twists, but I hang on tight, trying to ignore the urge to drop the cufflink and pretend this never happened.
No. I owe it to whoever died to follow through until the end.
So I tighten my grip, trying to will more memories to come forth.
Nothing else comes to me, and when I’ve given it my all without any new developments, I set the cufflink down with a soft exhale.
“Okay. Weird, but not unhelpful, I guess.”
Judging by the difference in closeness from the gunfire, I can guess that these cufflinks were worn by whomever was shot at. The other person, the shooter, was probably wearing the green and gold ones. At the very least, they were on someone much closer to the shooter, but the volume suggests very close proximity.
I’m still not entirely ready to read those memories again, so I reach for the second gold cufflink, hoping to get more from it.
To my surprise, I do.
It’s vague, though, just the sound of a wooden drawer opening and footsteps. Heels? They don’t sound tall. Maybe a man’s dress shoes or a woman in kitten heels? Hey, I’m not an expert on how shoes sound. All I can do is guess.
I make a note to stop by Target that evening if I get the time. Maybe I can check out the shoes there and get a better idea of what kind the person was wearing.
That’s all I get, though. No name, no words. Nothing as useful as the last few memories. After pushing, I get another play through of the three gunshots, but that’s it.
Finally, I release the cufflink. It clatters back onto the counter.
Now the other two are left. I just have to get over my fear of the loud gunshots. If I can push past those, maybe I’ll get a better idea of what happened and who was killed.
My hand shakes as I reach for the first one.
Again, almost instantly, three deafening gunshots fire off so close to me that my ears ring. I squeeze tighter, gritting my teeth and trying to force myself through the vision. BAM! BAM! BAM! The shots echo through my mind, making my vision swim and my heart slam against my ribs.
Ringing swallows my hearing, but I catch something else, something strange and very unexpected.
“Good god! Pa! Pa!” The voice is breathless, heavy, and familiar.
Oh so familiar.
Uncle Angus.
For a long while, I just sit and stare at the enamel and ruby cufflinks. My uncle’s heavy voice echoes in my mind. I can’t get past those words, the way he said them right before that final shot was fired.
He couldn’t have killed someone, could he? No way. He’s not that kind of guy. Besides, if he had committed a murder, he’d be in jail. Wouldn’t he?
Not if he was never convicted.
That’s another thing. No one has ever mentioned Uncle Angus being involved in any sort of crime. Certainly nothing this bad, anyway. I’d have heard about it. My mom would have told me, right? Her or maybe one of my great aunts or uncles before they passed.
Maybe they wouldn’t have. After all, what’s in the past can’t be changed. It could be that the family was too embarrassed by whatever happened, or maybe whatever I’m getting from the cufflinks wasn’t actually a big deal. But how long ago was this?
My gut tells me it wasn’t recent, but if no one’s told me about Uncle Angus being involved in a murder, then there’s a good chance that this, whatever it is, just happened. That doesn’t seem right, though. Then again, it’s hard to parse out when events took place, especially without any visuals.
The only way to know for sure is to ask him.
I’m . . . not sure that’s the best idea, though. I don’t want to come off as confrontational or accidenta
lly hurt his feelings. Besides, my uncle is ninety three. How could he shoot someone? He doesn’t even have his driver’s license anymore! There’s no way for him to leave the house alone, not unless he’s just going for a walk. Even then, my mom usually goes with him, or he calls my aunts to join him. Who carries a gun with them on a walk in Mooring Cove, anyway?
He’s not exactly physically stable enough to go out and shoot a gun, either.
In the end, I’m left with a single option: Call my mom and get some answers. I tug my phone off of the countertop. A quick glance around the shop shows that I have one customer who has come in to browse. I wave, but before I can say anything, he shuffles out the front door.
Maybe it’s for the best. It’s getting late, anyway, and I want some privacy while I ask my mom about this.
The phone rings once.
Twice.
Three times.
Oh, come on. I know she’s home. Well, probably. She and my dad travel a lot, but from what they last told me, their next trip isn’t until mid-January. She should be home.
“Hello?” Her voice carries over the line.
“Mom,” I say, leaning against the countertop. “Hey, uh. I was calling to ask you something. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Oh, I suppose, though Marjorie and me are supposed to go for a walk downtown today. Main Street sales and all.”
“Gotcha. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time, then.” I suck in a deep breath, glancing down at the cufflinks on the counter. They look so harmless, just sitting there. “So, uh.”
She’s doing something, but it’s hard to tell what. Rustling carries over the line. “Just spit it out, dear.”
Right. “Did . . . did Uncle Angus ever . . .?” I swallow, trying to figure out a way around the awkward silence coming from her end of the line. “Has he ever shot anyone?”
“What? No! Of course not!”
“Never?”
“No, don’t be silly.”
“But . . . but did he, you know, own a gun?”
She scoffs, and on the other end of the line, something else rustles as she adjusts the phone’s position. “Yes, all of my aunts and uncles did. Your grandpa, too. I think I even have one of his shotguns down in the basement.”
Okay, so that doesn’t look good for my uncle. Him not having a gun might have helped, but now that I know he owns one, I’m more unsure than ever. No. He couldn’t have hurt anyone. He wouldn’t. There has to be another explanation for this. Still, I need to press; I need to make absolutely sure that Uncle Angus wasn’t involved in . . . whatever it is I keep getting visions of. “Do you know what kind he owns?”
“Why? What’s this all about?” Concern laces her words, and she shifts the phone again. In the distance, I hear the drain plug pop off. She’s probably just wrapping up last night’s dishes before going out.
“I just . . . was wondering.”
“Mhm, sure.” After a disappointed exhale, she adds, “Well, he owns an old Colt revolver and a bolt-action rifle. A twenty-two? Do you want to just ask him?”
I hesitate, still trying to wrap my head around the whole thing. Either I can hang up and figure this out another way or I can just do the easy thing and talk to him. Finally, I say, “Yeah, actually. If you could pass the phone to him, I’d really appreciate it.”
“Sure. Just don’t wear him out too much, okay? He’s had a long day and hasn’t been sleeping well.”
That’s not good to hear. On the one hand, he just might be struggling to sleep because of his age. On the other, though, something more sinister could be keeping him up. A chill tingles across my arms and up the back of my neck. “Yeah, okay. I’ll try not to.”
“Give me a minute to find him.”
The line shifts as she pulls away, and I wait patiently, gazing down at the last cufflink in front of me. I still need to figure out what secrets it has to offer. Maybe it’ll tell me something the others didn’t, but I sort of doubt it. As soon as the phone call ends, I’ll find out, though.
“’Lo?” My uncle’s voice carries over the line, deep and gruff. He really does sound exhausted.
“Hey, Uncle Angus,” I say, attention shifting away from the cufflinks. “How are you doing today?”
“Oh, not so bad. How’s yourself?”
“All right. Hey, um, why I called . . . I wanted to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
“No, I don’t sees why I should. Go on. Shoot.”
I flinch at the poor choice of wording. Of course he couldn’t possibly know what I’ve been through today, so I try not to read into it. Okay, start slow. “Do you own any firearms?”
“Oh, I think so.”
“You think so?”
“Gotta Colt revolver ’round here somewheres, and my pa’s old rifle what he took me hunting with. Think I got my brother’s shotgun, too. Why? You need one?”
“N-no,” I say quickly. “Nope. No.” The thought of owning a gun isn’t appealing to me in the least. Yes, I’ve fired a few before; I even went hunting with Uncle Angus and my dad as a kid, before we all realized that I just couldn’t stomach it. Guns just aren’t for me. “I just, uh . . . I just . . .” I close my eyes, trying to breathe through the uncertainty. Accusing him is going to sound absolutely ridiculous, not to mention hurtful.
I don’t want to hurt him, but I need answers. I need to know what this is all about. He’s the only one who I can turn to right now.
“Have you ever shot anyone? Just . . . even by accident?”
“Heavens no. Don’t wanna do no one no harm. What’s this about?”
“I, uh, found something. In my coffee.” It’s best to just be honest with him. Of everyone I know, he’ll understand what’s going on the best. I clutch the phone, adjusting the position against my ear and turning my back to the front. Thankfully, the shop is still empty. “Cufflinks, actually. And . . . and the, uh, the vision I get from them? It shows you. Well, I mean, I hear you . . .”
My uncle goes quiet for a long few seconds.
The silence just makes me jittery and anxious. How am I supposed to take it? Silence doesn’t always equate to guilt, of course, but the cold pit growing in my chest says otherwise. My immediate reaction is to ignore it. He can’t possibly have been involved in whatever’s going on. No way, no how.
Finally, he sighs, the sounds making the line crackle. “Don’t know nothing about no cufflinks.”
I frown. “Don’t you have a pair?”
“Aye, the one from my wedding, sure.”
The lump in my throat makes it hard to talk. “Where are they?”
“In my drawer, upstairs. Karen, you’re making me anxious. What’s this about?”
I close my eyes, taking a long, shaking breath to calm myself down. Finally, I say, “Well, I . . . got these cufflinks in my coffee.”
“Got that. What d’they look like?”
“Oh, uh. One set is gold with a diamond in the center, and the other is like . . . rose gold with green enamel and a ruby?”
He hums, sounding thoughtful. “Ain’t that inneresting. Get anything from them?”
“Yeah, uh . . . they showed me a murder, I think. Maybe. It’s . . . really hard to tell, if I’m honest. And . . . and, well, you were in my vision.”
A long pause follows.
“Well, ain’t that something.”
Please. Please let him be innocent. “You’ve never shot anyone? Ever?”
“No, but I been shot at.”
Chapter 4
Shot at?
Shot at?!
I gape at the phone, mouth hanging open in shock. “Hang on. You’ve been shot at? When? What happened?”
His voice carries over, weaker and quieter than before. “Let’s talk about this in person. Don’t wanna hold this conversation over the phone. Just come by after work.”
“Sure, but—”
“Karen. Trust me. This is a better conversation done in person.”
“Yeah. Okay. Okay,
I’ll . . . I’ll be by around six.”
He grunts and hangs up. Slowly, I set my phone on the counter. My hands are shaking, and my skin feels clammy and cold. Everything about this screams bad. Something bad happened. That has to be why my uncle doesn’t want to talk about it. That has to be why these cufflinks showed up in my coffee this morning. There’s no other explanation. Not that I can think of.
But how recent was it?
I rub my hands over my face and try not to freak out. This is a lot to take in, almost too much to handle. How am I supposed to be okay with this? How am I supposed to get through the next few hours without losing my mind?
And what in the world am I supposed to do with these cufflinks?
I still don’t know what happened or who got hurt, but these are still evidence for some sort of crime. Possibly old evidence, sure, but evidence nonetheless. What in the world am I going to do with them? Keeping them means I’m cutting the Mooring Cove Sheriff’s Office out of the picture. It means that I’m going to try and solve this without them, and it means . . .
It means I’m risking obstructing justice.
I swallow hard, tapping my fingernails against the wood-grain laminate countertop. Ever since I found the emerald necklace in my espresso a few months ago, I’ve been biting my nails to the quick over the smallest thing. The ragged and uneven edges of my nails catch on a crack in the laminate.
I wince, pulling my hand away to check for damage. Probably I shouldn’t bite my nails anymore, but my anxiety is through the roof these days, and my conversation with Uncle Angus isn’t helping matters.
My mind’s racing.
I really should reach out to Paul.
Just . . . after I get my final vision. I have one cufflink left to read, and this time, I’m somewhat prepared for the loud gunshots. Maybe I’ll be able to get something more than that this time.
I reach for the last cufflink and tentatively wrap my fingers around it.
