Northern Light

by Deb Davies

  “We had two other break-ins last night,” he continued. “There are differences. The other houses were empty. Whoever got in broke a window or popped a lock. The other places, no salmon, no bird shit. Dog shit everywhere. TV smashed at one house, an heirloom clock at the other. Could just be high spirits. It’s hard to patrol areas where houses are built on big lots, especially after summer people have left.”

  He leveled a look at Laurel. “There is no sign of an intruder or obvious sign of forced entry. Claire, you said in your call that someone put a bird in your house as a prank, but they didn’t break a window or damage a screen. You don’t lock up?”

  “We’ve never had to. Honestly, Arnie, how many people around here lock up when they leave the house?” Claire asked.

  “More than used to.” Detective Santana directed a flat look at her.

  “Sorry I snapped,” Laurel said. “Claire did say she’d get an alarm system.”

  “Our department is stretched thin,” Robideu admitted. “I know Claire because George worked on civic projects. He and Claire had some parties. Fundraisers, really. I don’t think that prior acquaintance will prejudice me in this situation, but if at any time, you have concerns, let me know and I’ll get someone else on the case.”

  “I’d like to have you here,” Claire said. “You knew George, and I know he liked you. You won’t think I’m a gutless wonder if I cry when there’s not much wrong. I told Laurel I was working on a ‘new normal,’ whatever that means. But this—well, it isn’t what I had in mind.”

  “You can call me Santana,” his partner said.

  “We’re going to go look at your salmon,” he said. “But after we’ve done a quick look to make sure there aren’t any bodies in the closets, none of you can be here. We’ll check the premises by daylight tomorrow morning, have a second team check for fingerprints, and at least try the tracking dogs. You all go to the closest motel. Call or text to let us know where you are. You’re insured, yes? When you check in—or maybe even on the way to the motel—call or text and get your insurance agent out here. Once you’ve checked in, don’t go anywhere. Claire said the bird was ‘contained.’ Do you need us to bring it out to you?”

  “Uh, no. It’s in the rental car.”

  Arnie’s face remained impassive. “Good place for it. I hate rental car agencies. Tonight, check on the bird, but don’t haunt the parking lot.”

  Charles nodded and stood up. “Can we go in and get our things?”

  “You can’t go in tonight,” Santana said. “But we’ll gather up things for you. Prescription drugs, underwear—we’ve seen it all before.”

  “Thank you. What do I do about Pearl? My cat,” Claire asked.

  “We should take her—er, him—with us,” Charles said. “Don’t leave him here. Awful people hurt pets to get at their owners. Some motels will take cats, or we can sneak him in.”

  “He’s right,” Santana said. “Take her with you.”

  Take her with “us,” Claire thought. Hours ago, Charles had not been part of their little group. And not a cat person. But then, she had also said “my cat.” A day ago, Pearl wasn’t anyone’s cat. If they were in a Disney movie, he could have captured Oscar and dragged him out the cat door. What Pearl had done, as best he could, was keep Claire out of the house until she had help.

  Their traveling possessions ended up including the protesting cat and a broiler pan filled with kitty litter.

  “Can we take the apples?” Charles asked. “They’ve been in Claire’s car all day.”

  “No.” Robideu’s tone was abrupt and dismissive. Then, as if an afterthought, he rubbed his chin and added, “You’re traveling with Jen. Do you two share a room?”

  “I’ve been wondering about that,” Laurel said.

  Charles rubbed his chin stubble.

  “We have shared a room,” Jen said. “But we’re not—we don’t—it’s platonic.”

  “I’m too old for her,” Charles said. “We shared a room at the Doherty Hotel in Clare. They were booked with a convention, so that one room was all they had.” His voice was dry as a Gibson without vermouth.

  “We slept in separate beds,” Jen said, shooting Laurel a venomous look.

  “You are way too old for her,” Laurel said, in what was definitely a warning. “Plus, you now have Oscar.”

  “Oscar. A partner?” Arnie asked.

  “Bird,” Charles corrected.

  “Maybe Oscar is good partner for you.” Laurel looked at Charles.

  “Mom,” Jen said, “don’t be horrid to Charles. He helped Claire. And not everyone is like Dad.”

  “WHAT DO YOU think of Charles Blakely?” Santana asked as the Bentley and the rental car backed down the driveway.

  “I looked him up on Google while you were getting Claire and Laurel’s clothes. He was a post-doctoral student at Columbia. No one seems to know why he quit, but he’s published a book on birds and some academic papers. Speaks at conferences to get people interested in bird migration routes. Here’s why I think he’s OK: he waves the fee when he’s speaking at predominantly minority colleges. He’s sort of an odd duck, with that piece of shit wallet and an Ivy League accent, but he was still with Jen in the rental car when the bird was discovered in Claire’s house. What did he call that bird? Oven?”

  “Oscar,” Santana said.

  “There is something off about this case.” Robideu had an absent-minded look that Santana knew meant he was worried. “The whole setup is different. The place is occupied, and occupied by someone who’s alone most of the time. Even once her friend comes, neither looks capable of self-defense. If there was a reason to choose them, who goes after people with a raven? Seems more like a scare tactic than anything.”

  “From what I know, sir, that raven was a chancy intimidation tactic. Whoever did it assumed that bird would go for zillion-dollar salmon, and that once it chowed down, it would produce some damage. Ravens aren’t as guano-prone as crows when they’re stressed, but no wild bird wants to be shut up in a house. I’ve seen ravens around here, sometimes flocks of young birds, but they can fill up on roadkill. Lots of deer crossing the road this time of year.”

  “Knock it off with the ‘sir,’ would you, Elaine? I’ve known you since you were eleven years old. What do you know about ravens?”

  “My oldest brother Michael did a wilderness stint. He came back hooked. He says ravens are almost human-smart, but not always smart enough to avoid trucks and cars. Getting sideswiped by a cyclist could have broken that wing. Or an eagle could have done it.”

  “And another driver stops and says, ‘I’ll scoop this bird up with the shovel I just happen to have in the back of my car’? And then, since our perp doesn’t want to keep it, he finds an unlocked domicile, checks out the refrigerator to see what will make a big mess, and pushes Nevermore into Claire’s house?”

  “Maybe we should be asking what kind of geek would use a raven to harass people.”

  Robideu tamped down the feeling, like acid reflux, rising in his chest. He had a soft spot for Claire, and George and his wife had been a couple who had invested in the area. He’d appreciated George’s support for school millages, and Claire seemed to be the type, once planted, to put down generous roots. They were both people he respected. Someone hadn’t waited long after George’s death to pester his widow.

  “You OK, Arnie? Ulcers acting up?”

  Santana took his measure. They’d backed each other up, through thick and thin, for a long time, and he could usually tell when she had cramps, and she could tell when he had headache.

  “Yeah, hell, I’m fine.” He pulled out his Glock as he approached Claire’s house.

  At the motel, Jen curled around Charles. Both were still fully clothed, and the polyester bedspreads they were sandwiched between, which smelled faintly of laundry detergent, were cold.

  “Want to snuggle?” Jen said.

  “You’re too young,” Charles said. “And you want to feel me up to spite your mother.” />
  “I hate you,” Jen said.

  “That sounds safe,” Charles replied, and turned away from her.

  LAUREL AND CLAIRE sat up in their double beds, passing the flask full of cognac Arnie had provided.

  “Do you think he’s sexy?” Laurel asked.

  “Charles? A little.”

  Laurel moved over to Claire’s bed and reached for the flask. “What?” she asked. “Who?”

  “Charles,” Claire said.

  “Actually, I meant Arnie Robideu. I didn’t like him at first, but he seems decent and concerned. I’m asking because he’s got a thing for you.”

  “Laurel, that’s your imagination.” Claire replied, wanting to protect Arnie’s dignity. How had Laurel picked that up so fast? There was no way Arnie would hit on a friend’s wife. Or a woman grieving for a man who had been a friend of his. She reached for the flask.

  “I still miss George,” she added. “He was like Arnie. A good guy. A decent man.” She took a deep drink. “I went around with an artsy crowd in college. Everyone slept with everyone, and I did too. I was in a hurry to lose my virginity. I felt like it defined me, and I was sick of it.

  “Then George and I met at an art exhibit, and we went out for coffee, and next we went out for wine, and the time after that, for a drive before a lavish dinner. He was nine years older than I was, finished with college, starting out in business. He wanted to settle down and marry someone who was ‘educated, pretty, a social asset, and a good kisser,’ and he’d decided that someone was me.” She tipped back the flask again.

  “You had boyfriends hanging off you, Claire. How did he wade through them?”

  “He caught me at a time when I’d decided to put sex on hold. I was growing up, and I could see some of my boyfriends had been jerks. One of them actually told me his mother loved to pick up his socks! Like she had a halo I could aspire to inherit. I was serious about taking some time off, and George said he would wait for me, and if I didn’t decide on him, we could still be friends.” Claire shoved the cognac at Laurel, who sipped from the flask.

  “You believed that?” Laurel asked.

  “In retrospect, he was pretty confident. He did wait for me. He waited almost a year, in fact. He took me to museum exhibits I couldn’t afford without him. I’d taken art classes and could give him some background. One day, when he’d said he would pick me up after work, he didn’t come because there had been a problem with wire transcripts. He couldn’t call me because I was outside waiting for him. First, I was worried, and then I was angry, and then I was worried again, and by the time his car swung up to the curb, I’d learned some things about myself. Is there anything left of the cognac?”

  “So, sex?”

  “Not right away. Nothing that night but a hug. After that, he started easing toward intimacy. He’d pet my hair, kiss my ear lobes, nuzzle my thighs, but he was careful not to push me too fast, as though I were inexperienced. Though I’d told him I was, if anything, the opposite. I—I think he seduced me. He never seemed like the younger guys—all ‘let’s do this in a hurry.’ It was as though George had all the time in the world.”

  Claire was one breath away from tears. Laurel shifted so she was on her side, curled around the slab-hard motel pillows, and facing Claire, and passed the cognac back to her.

  “You had a courtship,” Laurel told her. “I’m jealous.”

  “I did. And I don’t know how I go on from here.”

  The two were silent a minute, and Laurel thought Claire had gone to sleep.

  “It wasn’t at all like that with David and me,” Laurel said. “He was my first. You know I didn’t get asked out much in high school, or even in college. Then David came along, a frat boy who wanted me. I’d never even enjoyed being French kissed before, but once we started making love, David could make me come seven ways from Sunday; it didn’t really matter what he did! Later, after we were married, I started to worry. Maybe I wasn’t special at all. Just easy.”

  “Laurel, I’ll swear David was proud of you. He glowed when he was with you.”

  “David was proud of being married to a smart woman. He liked being married to a thin woman, someone who could find a sale dress—size six—and flaunt it at parties. And I will say, he loved being a father. After we had Jen, I don’t think he cheated for a year.”

  “That long, huh?”

  “His wanderlust didn’t bother me so much at first. There were guys at the office who would have jumped my bones, but I thought David would slow down as we got older. After all, my own dad had ‘business trips.’ Before he left, my mom would hide little notes in his suitcase. ‘I love you, baby. I miss you. Hurry home.’ But he and my mother depended on each other as they got older, and I thought it was worth letting David sow some, uh, semen. I assumed he would grow out of it. Now I just wish I could be sure that for at least one sweaty minute, he cared for me.”

  “I never would have guessed about your dad’s ‘business trips.’ He was funny, your dad. I used to wish my family was like yours. Your dad had this understated Cary Grant charm. He could talk to anyone, from bartenders to barristers. Your mom could mix any cocktail and dance any dance step.”

  Laurel found herself wincing a bit when she thought about her parents and their country club charm. She had so not been the daughter they’d expected. Slender as a wraith, late to “bloom.” She’d never had a best friend until Claire moved in—Claire, the pretty Catholic girl who had working-class parents. They walked home together on Claire’s first day of school and found in each other a certain snarkiness and toughness. Claire had dismissed boys who lusted over her by saying, “It’s because I hit puberty early. Big whoop.”

  “At least you aren’t flat as an ironing board,” Laurel had told her.

  “You’re elegant,” Claire answered. “If you parted your hair on the side and didn’t always wear glasses—you could take them off when you don’t have to see the chalkboard—and you unbuttoned the top buttons on these Peter Pan-collared blouses and maybe added a hair scarf…” She’d pulled the scarf out of her own hair and tied it around Laurel’s head so Laurel’s bangs fluffed out. It made Laurel’s head feel sweaty, but when she ran home and examined herself in a mirror, she did feel glamorous.

  As time passed, she became a tolerated member of the “in” crowd. She never decided if her popularity had bloomed because she had grown into her features, or because Claire always included her in any class activity and made it clear she wouldn’t participate if Laurel wasn’t invited. Laurel had loved being at Claire’s house. Her father worked overtime, and her mother was warm and accepting. Claire, her five brothers, and her sister hung out, watched television programs together, deflated each other’s egos, and told raunchy jokes. Claire loved being at Laurel’s, because, as she’d once said, “Your house has real art on the walls. Not just dime store prints.”

  “Your parents had class,” Claire muttered, picking at the motel bedspread. “How could they not be in love?”

  “You never saw them throwing plates at each other. Then—it would have been when we were in high school—I think my mom had a miscarriage. She tried to hide it from me, but there were bloody—I mean really bloody—sheets in the back of her closet. I found them when she asked me to get her slippers. Dad wasn’t home, and he didn’t come home until a week later, because he was staying with a woman friend. Then, there was a long, brittle spell when none of his charm was charming and Mom mixed stronger drinks and got drunk at their parties.”

  “But they stayed together,” Claire said stubbornly. “Just like my parents did. But then, my parents are Catholic. Bread and butter, those two. But they’re doing all right. They bought in with one of my sisters on a condominium in Florida. Mom watches the grandkids; Dad drives his golf cart to the grocery store.”

  “My parents’ relationship got better when my dad lost his job,” Laurel said. “They moved into a smaller house, downshifted to one rattle-trap car, and spent more time together. After Dad’s first stroke
, he was never really articulate, but he teared up when anyone mentioned my mother. He knew she was dead.”

  “Would you get involved with someone again?” Claire asked her.

  “Physically? Maybe. Emotionally? I’ll never risk that again. What about you? Not now, I mean, but sometime in the future.”

  “Not for a long time, that’s for sure. First, I want to figure out who I am.”

  She let her hand slide down toward her pubic bone, to see if there was the slightest tingle, a ghost-like chime of the sex she and George had shared. Her fingers touched Pearl’s warm, softly purring shape. Far from being a pain, the cat had eaten dry cat food, used a litter tray, and was giving himself a thorough and satisfying bath. Pearl, at least, had adjusted to his new normal.

  “Do you think your parents loved each other?” she asked Laurel.

  “I don’t have a clue. Do yours?”

  “What does that mean, anyway?” Claire asked. “Love, as people get older?”

  She rolled up like a hedgehog, taking Laurel’s covers. Laurel pulled her pillowcase off her pillow to cover her own shoulders and scooched closer to Claire, glad for her warmth.

  “WE’RE NOT FINDING a damn thing except glove prints and sloppy boot prints,” Arnie told Elaine. “After the crew is in tomorrow, Claire will need a cleaning service. Hell, she needs a new rug. And that sofa is stripped down to the frame on one side. Her insurance agent had better get here to take pictures. Who would have thought one lousy bird could make such a mess?”

  They’d covered the house twice, including the cellar, and now camped outside. The wind was coming from the west and smelled of white pine and fir.

  Elaine reached up to rub Arnie’s shoulders. She had a girlfriend at home, but she’d grown up with five brothers who, from the time they were kids, hid concerns by tensing muscles and clenching teeth.

  “Look at the constellations,” she told him. “It’s hard to see the patterns. If we concentrate, we’ll figure this out.”