OUT OF THE BLUE

by Caroline Clemmons

He shrugged. “If he is, what of it? Deirdre, over 170 years have gone by. This man”—he tapped the sheet of paper in her lap—“is not the man I work for. Not even close.”

  Thinking about the fact Eogan’s body had been recovered from the rocks and buried, while she’d spun through space calmed her. Eogan was dead. The name was common enough and only a coincidence. “You’re right. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Seeing my name here like this has unnerved me and made me daft.”

  Brendan patted her shoulder again. “Perhaps this man picked up the rock that had hit your forehead and threw it again. Maybe that’s why it came with you but he didn’t.”

  She shuddered. “Praise the saints he didn’t arrive with me. He’d have drowned me for sure.” She ran a hand over the paper, smoothing it out. “Thank you for going to all this trouble. It’s sorry I am to be weepy as a baby.”

  He squeezed her shoulder. “I thought you’d be jubilant and say that this proves you told the truth. If I’d known it would make you sad, I never would have shown it to you.”

  She looked up at him. “I’m that glad you brought it. Now I know I had a proper memorial service and mayhap a stone by Ma’s. Foolish as it sounds, it makes it more bearable somehow, knowing I’ve a marker by hers. But it also shows me I don’t belong anywhere. Even if I were to be sucked back to that time, I wouldn’t be in the right place.”

  She looked up at Brendan again. He was close and she longed to rest her head on his shoulder. But she’d be strong once more instead of giving in to her foolish self. “Not that I ever truly belonged there, but at least I knew the way of things. In truth, there’s nowhere I belong.”

  Speaking the words, though she knew them to be true, brought terrible pain to her heart. She longed for a place where she fit, where those around her respected her. And trusted her. If only this man had faith in her.

  “Don’t even think such a thing.” Blossom grasped both her hands. “You belong here now. You have a job, your cat, a place to live, and us. You’re part of our family now, dear, and don’t ever doubt it.”

  Hope seeped into her heart. “Truly? You think of me as part of your family?”

  “Of course, dear. The minute we met I knew you were special. I’ve always wished Brendan had a sister, and now you’ve come to soothe that need in me for a daughter of my own. I love having you here.” She squeezed Deirdre’s hands and released them.

  “You always know the right thing to say and I thank you for your kindness.” She could think of Blossom as her mother in this new world. But she didn’t feel sisterly toward Brendan. Not at all.

  She turned to look back up at him. The hunger she saw in his eyes didn’t look brotherly. Now wasn’t that lovely? She smiled at him and he grinned down at her.

  Blossom jumped up. “Ahem, I think I’ll do the dishes now. Brendan, you pick a nice movie and put it in the DVD player. Take Deirdre’s mind off,” she paused, then added, “unpleasant things.”

  “Sure, Mom, but I told you I’ll do the dishes.”

  She waved a hand. “No, no. You know I like to be in the kitchen. You sit with Deirdre and enjoy a movie.”

  Brendan let Deirdre choose. She selected one he called a romantic comedy, “Kate and Leopold,” that he said was about people who moved through time.

  He sat beside her and started the movie with the wand he called a remote. With Blossom gone from the room, there was plenty of space on the sofa and Deirdre wondered if she should scoot away. But she liked being close to him and brazenly stayed there.

  After it was over, she asked, “So they made a movie about people experiencing what I did, except these people jumped from a bridge instead of a cliff? I truly hope I don’t go back in time as they did.” She looked up at his handsome self. “Do you think others have had the fate of moving through time?”

  “Who knows? There are a lot of books and movies about time travel. The subject definitely fascinates writers, but maybe you’re the first to actually experience it.” He clicked off the movie player and stood to return the shiny disk to its case.

  She didn’t move except to speak, “Are you conceding that I’m telling the truth then?”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to think. A month ago I would have laughed at anyone who suggested it’s possible.” He nodded at the sheet of paper bearing Father Padric’s fine script. ”There’s the record of where you were, just as you said, and yet now you’re here.”

  “Yes, I am. And do you think I’m telling the truth about what happened?” She stood to look at his face while he answered.

  He didn’t look happy to be asked. Or, mayhap it was the answer that caused his frown. He shrugged. “Unless you’re the world’s best actress and liar, I guess I have to believe it happened.”

  Without thinking, she threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you, thank you. You don’t know how happy it makes me to hear you believe me.”

  He slid his hands around her waist. “Is it so important for me to believe?”

  “Yes. You and Blossom are my only friends. I’ve met other people I like, such as Dave and Polly, but I trust you and Blossom. I’ve yearned especially for you to trust me too.” She slid her arms down to pull away.

  He tugged her back to him then raised her chin to meet his gaze. “I’m not a trusting man, Deirdre. It’s not something that comes easy for me.”

  Hands on his chest, she looked into his lovely blue eyes. “Aye, in very different ways, we’ve both had unusual lives. It’s something we have in common.”

  He slid his hand along her jaw and into her hair. “It’s nice to have things in common.”

  She watched him. His eyes darkened and he lowered his head to kiss her. His lips, when they touched hers, were warm and soft. He brushed them against her mouth, then returned to press more firmly.

  Kissing a man wasn’t at all as she’d expected. Warmth pooled low in her belly and all thoughts flew from her mind except for this man and their kiss. She grasped his shirt in her fists and pulled him closer.

  His tongue slid across her lips. Without thinking—for how could she?—she opened her mouth. He probed her tongue with his and she gasped.

  He pulled away and smiled down at her. “You kiss like a virgin.”

  “There’s the best of reasons for that. I’m not like the women on your television who go with any man who asks.”

  He pushed a lock of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. “You’re not like the women anywhere. Perhaps that’s a good thing.”

  The heat of a flush burned her cheeks and she looked down and turned away. “But here I am in your mother’s home and kissing you like a brazen hussy. It’s sorry I am I’ve dishonored her hospitality.”

  He turned her back toward him. “Just as she hoped. Why do you think she hurried off to do the dishes so suddenly? Or why she slipped away to bed without saying goodnight?”

  Deirdre looked toward the kitchen. No light showed. In fact, this room wasn’t all that bright. Blossom must have turned off the overhead fixture when she left. “She wanted us to kiss?”

  He smiled at her and slid his hands around her back. “She couldn’t have been more obvious if she’d issued written instructions.”

  “You need no instructions. I’d say you could write the directions yourself.”

  He laughed. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  She sighed and pulled away. “But if I want to remain a good girl, I’d best be going off to my room. Otherwise, the temptation of your kisses will have me leading you astray.”

  “That would be...interesting to say the least.”

  “Something to save for another day.” She smiled up at him. “You’ve had a couple you said had been interesting.”

  “That’s right. Good night.” He kissed her forehead.

  She turned to go then looked over her shoulder at him. “Kisses are much nicer on the lips, aren’t they?”

  “Depends who’s involved, but in this case, yes. Much nicer.”

&nbs
p; Deirdre hurried to her room. Warmth enveloped her body and she thought she must glow. What a wonderful, glorious day this had been. She’d done well at her job—except for that change thing. Mildred was her new friend, as well as the other associates at the store.

  After she readied herself for bed, she gathered Cathbad in her arms. Her cat purred as she stroked his fur. As happy as she was, she thought it a wonder she didn’t purr herself.

  “Cathbad, don’t get your hopes too high, but mayhap we might fit in here after all. Himself believes me at last. And he kissed me. Not a peck on the cheek, but the way a man kisses a woman who interests him. Can any other day measure up to this one?”

  Chapter Twenty

  On Sundays, the Sunshine Shoppe opened at noon. Deirdre and his mom dawdled over a leisurely breakfast and the newspaper then left for work about eleven. Brendan fidgeted for what seemed hours, but what his watch indicated was forty-five minutes. He drove to meet Frank at the Dew Drop In, which also opened at noon on Sundays.

  Bad vibes shot through Brendan when he noticed the cars in the parking lot included a couple of black and whites, the M.E.’s van, and an ambulance. Bystanders clustered in groups. He got out of his car as homicide detective Vince Green emerged from the bar.

  “Hello, Vince.”

  The detective looked up from the notes he’d been writing. “Hey, Hunter. Surprised to see you here.”

  Fearing he knew the answer to his own question, Brendan nodded at the gurney bearing a body bag being loaded into the ambulance. “Who’s the victim?”

  “An old alky named Oily Porter bit the big one. Looks like he’s downed his last bottle.”

  No way Brendan would believe this was a natural death. Nope, that would be too much of a coincidence. “Damn. He die inside the bar?”

  Green jerked a thumb at the building. “Nope. Out back behind the Dumpster. Guy who came in to sweep found the body when he took out the trash a little after ten. Looked like the stiff had been there several hours, probably since the place closed at two.”

  “Any marks on him?”

  “None I could see.” Green nodded toward the Medical Examiner, who was driving away. “M.E. will rule on it but I’d bet the old fart finally potted his liver.”

  Brendan would bet otherwise, but he kept his theory to himself. “Mind if I look where he was found?”

  The detective frowned. “You second guessing me?”

  Brendan held out his hands. “Not at all. I knew Porter is all. In fact, that’s why I’m here. He was supposed to pass me some information.”

  Green’s defensive expression relaxed. “Hey, sorry to hear that. He sure won’t be selling tips again.”

  Brendan started toward the back then turned. “You find anything in his pockets?”

  The officer held up a plastic bag. “Nothing worth the time it took to sift through them. Not even an ID, but the bartender and waitress knew his name.”

  Brendan looked at the clear bag. He spotted a twenty and doubted it could be the one he’d given Frank two days ago. Frank Porter would have boozed that up within hours after he received it. Who else paid Frank? Was it for giving information—or for delivering a message?

  Brendan walked around to the back of the seedy bar. Yellow crime scene tape drew him to an area back of the Dumpster. A few lookers-on stood near the tape speculating on the cause of death.

  White chalk marks indicated where Frank’s body had lain. Brendan felt the loss personally. He couldn’t help thinking Frank was dead due to talking to him two days ago. And for knowing too much about Larry’s murderer.

  Disgusting as Frank Porter’s life had been, Brendan had kind of liked the guy. Who knew what circumstances had driven the man to drink? Brendan stared at the outline of Frank’s body.

  What if Frank had been paid to lure him to town that day so someone could wait for him to drive to the lake? Maybe Frank took money from both sides. The old man wouldn’t have seen that as a breech of trust, especially not since he’d warned Brendan of danger.

  Brendan squatted down to examine the shape on the concrete but saw nothing the crime team had missed. He hadn’t expected to. This was life rather than a novel or television series and he wasn’t Sherlock Holmes or on an episode of CSI. Still, his innate curiosity compelled him to investigate. He stood and strolled toward his car.

  One thing he knew that others might not. Frank had a friend named Mick who knew what was going on, or at least part of it. All Brendan had to do was find Mick.

  Looking at the closed sign on the bar, he decided to return when the police allowed the place to reopen. He could have a drink in Frank’s honor. Perhaps this Mick might be there too.

  He walked back to talk to Green. “How long you keeping the bar closed?”

  “We’re almost through here. Owner said they’ll skip today and reopen tomorrow for the lunch crowd.”

  Brendan remembered the unsanitary appearance and smell inside the bar. Before he caught himself, he asked, “Who’d eat food prepared in this place?”

  “Not me, that’s for damn sure.” The detective laughed. “Maybe that’s what killed Oily.”

  “It’s the kind of place you know you’ll stick to beer from a bottle instead of a draft mug.” Brendan asked casually, “Say, you have an address or next of kin for Porter?”

  “Not yet. We talked to the owner and the people who work here but they couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell us. Seems Porter spent most of his time here.”

  “Yeah, this is where I always met him. Sitting in the back booth.”

  “Guess he stayed close to the booze supply.”

  Brendan said goodbye and climbed into his loan car. Green was a good cop, but police time devoted to Frank Porter would be minimal. They were short of officers and an old bum would not rate many investigative man-hours. Not even if the M.E. declared it murder. If Frank’s killer were found, it likely would be up to Brendan.

  He figured Frank had to have a place nearby. For an alcoholic on the skids, he at least changed shirts and shaved occasionally. Since he didn’t carry a pack like a homeless person, he went somewhere to sleep and switch clothes. The question was where?

  Brendan stopped by his condo and picked up his mail and more clothes, books, and a few other things. At this rate, he’d soon have all his personal stuff at his mom’s.

  He loaded the car and backed out of the garage. Before he closed the garage door, he remembered the food in the fridge. Not that much, but he ought to clean it out. Otherwise, when he came back he’d regret it.

  He pulled back in and dashed inside. Dumping milk didn’t take long. He dropped cold cuts, beer, and bread into a grocery bag and carried it to the car. As he backed onto the street, he decided to leave his mail carrier a note he’d be gone a few more days. At the street side mailbox, he punched button to close the garage door and stepped out of the car. The minute the door touched down, his home exploded.

  The force slammed him to the concrete. He must have lain there dazed a few minutes. Next thing he knew a neighbor stood over him saying fire trucks were on the way.

  He sat up, and then staggered to his feet. The explosion had breached the firewall between the condos. Smoke poured from the roof of the dwellings on either side of his.

  He surveyed the crowd in the street. Mrs. Findley held her beloved cat. Mr. and Mrs. Alexander had their dogs. At least the homeowners were accounted for.

  Mrs. Findley accused, “I thought living next to a policeman made me safer.”

  What could he say? Sirens screamed then his neighbors and he watched firefighters battle the spreading flames.

  After what seemed hours, a fireman yelled, “Pull back and contain the fire on each side.”

  In the event someone mentioned it to his mother, Brendan called the shop to let her know he wasn’t in the condo when the fire started. Then he called the cop shop and did the same.

  He recalled that Deirdre had wandered through his house two days ago. Could she have planted explosives? He di
dn’t see how, but she could have told someone about his home’s arrangement. She knew about the garage door opener, didn’t she? She’d been fascinated—or pretended to be.

  Was she a con artist and actress or was she who she claimed? Her claims were incredible, yet at times he believed her tale. He argued with himself while he watched the blaze devour his home and its contents.

  Thank goodness his paintings were on loan to the Radford museum. He was heavily insured, but no amount of insurance could replace old masters’ work. He might as well make the loan indefinite. Obviously, the paintings would be safer in the museum than in his home.

  When the firemen began rolling up their hoses, only smoldering ashes remained of Brendan’s home. All he owned was now in his rental car and at his mother’s house. Lucky for him, he at least had a roof over his head at his mom’s.

  He offered to pay for his neighbors’ stay at Radford’s best hotel while they organized their insurance claim.

  The fire chief took his statement and asked, “You have any idea what started this?”

  Brendan nodded. “Had to be a bomb tied to the garage door’s closing. That’s when the explosion occurred.”

  After more questions, the chief said, “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Hunter.”

  Like that was a surprise.

  Back at his mother’s house, he unloaded the groceries and took what he’d packed—and he was grateful he had that much—to his room. His only room. He sat on the bed, unable to believe the morning. The week.

  Run off the road by an SUV—not an accident.

  Frank dead, no accident.

  His own condo torched, not an accident.

  He wasn’t a man who believed in coincidences.

  Someone had stepped up getting rid of him. If, as he usually did, he’d closed the garage door when he’d driven into the garage, he’d be dead. If he’d been seen by whoever ran him off the road, he’d be as dead as Larry and Frank. Nosiree, none of this was coincidence. But who planned it?

  He left the bedroom and headed toward the other end of the house. In the living room Badcat dozed in a patch of sun on the special padded windowsill rest Blossom had purchased for the cat. In a shaft of light from the same window, Prince slept on a cushioned floor mat. Brendan left the animals napping and strode into the kitchen.