The Moon Stands Still

by Sibella Giorello

  “Oh.” He let out a short laugh, running a hand through that wild hair. “Is that all?”

  “Jack, give me a chance to succeed here. With that ash from St. Helens, I can probably track where the money was first buried, before it was moved.”

  “So just hand you all those bills?”

  “And a scanning electron microscope. I don’t have one.”

  “Harmon—”

  “But I know someone who does.”

  “Who?”

  “Lani.”

  “Lani.” He waited a moment. “She keeps this microscope in her crazy trailers?”

  Lani and her husband Mike lived north of Seattle in their own little village of Airstream trailers. “No. There’s one at UW”—University of Washington—“and I’m pretty sure Lani can squeeze me in.”

  “Squeeze you in—or sneak you in?”

  I didn’t reply. Because a closed mouth gathers no foot.

  “You’re right.” He shook his head. “Don’t tell me. I probably don’t want to know.”

  “Today. I need the bills today.”

  “It’s three in the morning.”

  “Then tomorrow.”

  “Saturday?” he asked, incredulous.

  “Perfect. No classes at UW. Lab’s available.”

  “Harmon, do you have an answer for every ques—”

  “Jack, you will not regret getting my soil analysis.”

  He stared at me. “I’m counting on that.”

  Me, too, I wanted to say.

  Me, too.

  30

  I slept late that Friday and drove Madame to the asylum. I heard nothing from Jack and ate dinner with the recuperating and restless Eleanor. During our meal of heart-friendly spinach and skinless chicken, she quoted Tennessee Williams five times.

  Saturday morning, I woke up and realized there was no free lunch.

  “I demand to leave this house,” Eleanor said.

  She wore amethyst-purple woolen slacks paired with a bright yellow leather jacket, like a human being hoping to become an iris.

  “Eleanor, you’re not really dressed to hang around a rock quarry.”

  “As a young girl,” she said, adjusting the rhinestone glasses. “I dreamed of being kidnapped by John Wayne on a dusty horse.”

  As if that answered my concern.

  But now, zooming up I-5 with Eleanor in the passenger seat, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Madame lay perched on the back ledge between our leather chairs. I hoped to find the dog’s astute gaze. It always agreed with me that Eleanor was a piece of work. But Madame barely looked up. She’d hardly eaten since yesterday’s asylum visit. And this morning she only drank some water. Maybe the crazy people were getting to her. I made a note to ask the redheaded nurse Sarah.

  Eleanor began humming a tune.

  Which reminded me. “I need you to promise not to say anything.”

  “Moi?” She placed a gold-ringed hand on the yellow jacket. “I am perfectly capable of remaining silent.”

  “For how long?”

  She glared at the sloping windshield, and resumed humming.

  “Eleanor, humming isn’t silent.”

  She stopped humming.

  I checked my watch.

  One hour and forty-two minutes later—Eleanor silent as winter stone and Madame snoring in her sleep on the ledge—I drove down a rutted road searching for Skykomish Stone and Gravel. The dirt lane wound through tall evergreens whose long and lush boughs were coated with mineral dust, like elegant ladies wearing too much face powder. Which reminded me again. I glanced over. “When I’m interviewing people, please don’t say a word.”

  Eleanor’s chin was rising, high and mighty, but her lipsticked mouth remained closed.

  I almost felt sorry for her. But there was work to do.

  In front of a mammoth rock wall scraped down to its metamorphic foundation, four men stood together near a construction-style trailer. They wore heavyweight jackets and scuffed white hardhats, and seemed to be consulting a map. But as The Ghost came to a stop, all four of them looked up, giving the Italian sports car an appreciative glance. I looked over at the stage maven. Her lips were moving, but not a word was spoken.

  I climbed out. The quarry’s fracturing noise—metal pounding stone—boxed my ears. Rocks cracked like thunder. Machines beeped as if in panic. And the final explosion of sound came from jagged stone tumbling into steel hauling beds. I got out, slung my pack over one shoulder, and opened Eleanor’s door. She looked surprised by my chivalrous move, but actually I was reaching into the glovebox for a pair of blaze-orange earplugs. Shaped like erasers on steroids, they kept me from going deaf at the firing range. I handed the earplugs to her silent highness, but she only recoiled.

  I yelled in her ear. “You need them. Or you’ll go deaf.”

  Reluctantly, she pushed the plugs into her ears and got out. Madame followed us, her black tail wagging. Maybe she was fine, just a little tired. “Stay close,” I told her.

  One of the hardhats had broken away from the group. He was a short man with a blockish body and square face, as if quarried from this same basin. His blue eyes seemed entranced as he headed straight for Eleanor.

  “Howdy, ma’am.” He shouted over the noise and tipped his hardhat. “Help you?”

  Whether it was because of the pounding noise or the bright orange plugs protruding from her ears, or the vow of silence, for once Eleanor didn’t reply.

  The man raised his voice. “Ma’am?”

  Eleanor’s ringed hand swooped toward me, the way an emcee introduces the next cabaret act. Bewildered, the man turned toward me. I took a moment to admire how one old woman could be perfectly silent—and still remain a distraction.

  “Hi,” I said, raising my voice, shouting over the rock crusher. “I’m looking for the manager.”

  “You’re lookin’ at him.” He glanced once more at Eleanor, yelling again. “We don’t handle retail. Wholesale only. You need landscaping, I know some guys.”

  I handed him my card. Just as nearly everyone else did, he stared at it a long time. Forensic geologist sounded oddly sketchy to people, even people who work with rocks. Like some profession that sounded scientific but could be entirely made up. I raised my voice again. “Somewhere we could talk—somewhere quiet?”

  He looked up, still bewildered, but now some crucial cable had connected in his brain. “What?”

  “I’ve got some questions!” I yelled.

  “Oh.” He waited a moment, letting the idea sink in, before gesturing to the hardhats still gathered by the rock wall. He held up five fingers—meaning five minutes, I guessed—and opened the trailer door, holding it for all three of us. But Madame stood rigid, waiting for my command.

  “It’s alright,” I told her.

  She trotted inside.

  The trailer muted some of the pounding mechanisms. But Eleanor kept her earplugs in. They protruded from the sides of her head like Frankenstein’s neck bolts.

  I extended my hand to him. “Raleigh Harmon. And you’re…?”

  “Lionel.”

  “Lionel, this is Eleanor.” Who didn’t hear me. “And that’s Madame.” The dog lay down on the rubber doormat.

  “Okay.” Lionel tossed my card on a metal desk cluttered with paperwork. “What can I help you gals with?”

  “How long have you worked here?”

  Lionel hesitated. “Eleven years. Why?”

  I slid my pack off my shoulder, unzipped the large compartment, and hefted out the pegmatite. “I’m wondering if you could help me identify this rock. Specifically, if it came from your quarry.”

  His bewilderment times’d itself by two. “How come?”

  I deployed my Southern smile. The one that said, We’re just having a nice conversation. “Does it look like one of your pegmatites?”

  “What did that rock do?”

  “The rock itself? Nothing.”

  “Hey, look. When our products leave these premises, we’re not respon
sible for anything that happens.” He glanced at Eleanor, but she gazed at him like she’d had a lobotomy. His bewilderment returned. “All the trucks are supposed to cover their loads—it’s the law. But I can’t make ’em do that. If that rock hit your nice car out there, you need to take it up with the trucking company.”

  “I understand the situation.” Now I deployed my investigator smile. The one that said Somebody’s definitely in trouble but let’s hope it’s not you. “You sell only wholesale, never retail?”

  “I’m not sayin’ any more until you tell me what this’s about.”

  I raised the pegmatite again. “This rock was used to murder a fourteen-year-old girl.”

  “Holy crap.” He drew a dusty hand over his mouth. “What’re you asking me for?”

  “I’m trying to locate the quarry that produced it.” I paused, gazing directly into his troubled blue eyes. “I’d like a list of your wholesale customers. If there’s ever been retail, I’m sure you’ll tell me. Wouldn’t you, Lionel?”

  “Are you prosecuting us for something?”

  “Just tracking the rock.”

  He kept glancing at Eleanor. She was gazing out the back window where plastic blinds hung crookedly, exposing a triangular view of the scarred rock wall. To her right, Madame was still on the doormat, but each time the rock pounder struck, her paws twitched. Nerves, I decided. The asylum was turning her into a nervous wreck. I turned to Lionel. “You’re certain there’s never been any retail sales here—ever?”

  “Well, scroungers.”

  “Scroungers.”

  “You know, people combing through stuff. What all the trucks leave behind.”

  “So you do have some retail business.”

  “I wouldn’t call it business. They don’t pay us anything.”

  “You’re running a charity?”

  “Course not.” He frowned, his eyebrows driving a triangular wedge into his square face. “But it saves us from having to clean up the mess. Some of the scroungers find some nice stones—hey—are you with the tax department?”

  “No, sir.”

  He glanced at Eleanor again. The next rock hammer slammed into stone, and I suddenly realized his interest. Eleanor reeked of wealth—her tailored clothing, her bejeweled rings, her Italian sports car. He probably thought I was her secretary or something.

  “Speaking of nice stones.” I lifted the pegmatite once more, my bicep burning from the weight. “Something was cored from this rock. Any idea what it might’ve been?”

  He shrugged.

  “Lionel, you must have some idea.”

  “But I don’t have to talk to you.”

  “That’s how you want to play this?”

  He hesitated. “Yeah.”

  “Okay.” I lowered my voice to a growl. Madame rose from the mat by the door, slowly making her way to my side. “Lionel—alright if I call you Lionel?”

  Lionel glanced at Madame. Her ears pricked at my low tone.

  “Lionel, I’m not here to get you in trouble. But if you don’t cooperate with me, then I’ll get a subpoena and have the police go through your customer list.”

  Madame prowled closer, inches from his ankles.

  He watched her. “I still don’t got to talk to you.”

  “No. You don’t. But when your customers hear that a rock that might’ve come from your quarry was used to kill a beautiful and talented fourteen-year-old girl…” I smiled, cruelly. “Well. You know what I’m saying. You’re not exactly selling something exclusive. For most people, rocks are rocks.”

  He looked down at the dog. “Is she going to bite me?”

  “Only if I tell her to.” I smiled again, pointing at the pegmatite’s coring mark. “What was the crystal here, Lionel?”

  “Tourmaline.”

  “My, that was fast.” I looked at the dog. “Good girl. Go sit.”

  She walked back to the door mat and sat. Lionel watched her.

  “Lionel.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re certain it was tourmaline?”

  “Those crystal people are a weird bunch. You should go bug them. I had one lady pull up here crystals glued to her dashboard. Know what she told me?”

  Probably. Because my Aunt Charlotte belonged to that weird bunch. “What did she tell you?”

  “That tourmaline keeps people safe.” He gave a huffy grunt that matched his blockish body. “I told her, Yeah? Wait til your car gets hit, see if those crystals don’t go flying in your face.”

  I lowered the rock, cradling it in my arms. Lionel was the cagey type, even cunning. He’d masterfully just shifted my inquiry from the quarry to the weird crystal people having car accidents. “When do the crystal scroungers come around?”

  “They don’t. Not anymore.”

  I smiled.

  He looked almost scared. “What.”

  “You figured out tourmaline crystals are worth some nice money.”

  “Hey, like I said, we’re not running a charity.”

  “Let’s get back to this pegmatite.” I raised the rock, pointing to the coring cavity. “There was a hefty crystal here.”

  “So?”

  “So three or four carats of chromium tourmaline brings a good payoff. But I’m guessing by this coring mark that the crystal here would’ve been more like ten—maybe even fifteen carats. That’s easily a five-digit sale.”

  His eyebrows shot up.

  “Lionel, don’t play dumb.” I reached for Eleanor, lifting her right hand. “The gemstone on her second finger, is it an emerald or a chromium tourmaline?”

  He glanced at the ring. Eleanor fluttered her fingers. The gemstone sparkled.

  “Tourmaline,” he said. “That looks like our tourmaline.”

  “Thank you.” I let go of her hand. “Now where’s your customer list?”

  31

  My phone burst into song as we drove away from the quarry. Usually the ringtone provoked a comment from Eleanor—Jack had pre-programmed Tijuana brass into a phone the FBI planned to throw away.

  But as the ringtone played, Eleanor only stared out the window.

  “You can take out the earplugs.” I slid my finger over the screen that read unidentified caller. “Hi, Jack.”

  “What are you doing right now?” he asked.

  “Babysitting Helen Keller.”

  He hesitated, then seemed to decide not to pursue that line of questioning. “I have the bills.”

  “Bills—plural?”

  “Yes.”

  “Both sets?”

  “Harmon, your window of opportunity’s already closing.”

  Driving a sports car like The Ghost through Seattle’s traffic-jammed highways was like racing a thoroughbred down a crowded sidewalk. Engine growling, I wove through the chain of putt-putting vehicles, my right foot leaping from gas pedal to brake while my left foot worked the clutch. Eleanor gripped the sides of her seat.

  “I am truly impressed,” I said, zipping around a healthier-than-thou Prius that was saving the planet from people like me. “But you can talk now. Go ahead, say something.”

  She continued taking The Fifth.

  “Eleanor, I know that guy insulted you by getting your gemstone wrong. But believe me, green tourmalines look like emeralds. And sometimes they’re even worth more money.”

  Her chin lifted, I waited.

  But patience wasn’t my best trait.

  “Spit it out!” I gunned the gas pedal. “What does Tennessee say?”

  No words came. Not even a significant scowl of disdain. I glanced in the rearview, hoping to catch Madame, but her eyes were half-closed.

  “Fine, but that was your last chance.” I zoomed for the exit ramp to 45th Avenue, speeding toward the UW campus. “No talking in the lab.”

  Founded in 1861, the University of Washington built its first classrooms in the same Gothic architecture style of Ivy League campuses. Stern stone facades with mullioned casement windows and cornerstone gargoyles. The Oceanography Buildi
ng was one of those early landmarks, set on the edge of Lake Union. I parked in the empty faculty lot, prayed I didn’t get a ticket, and slung my pack over my shoulder, apologizing to the dog.

  “I promise to be back soon.”

  She didn’t even raise her head.

  Meanwhile, Silent Eleanor had stepped out of the car and was glaring at the building. But the mullioned glass panes glared right back, like an arrogant academic who disapproved of rhinestone glasses, not to mention bright orange earplugs.

  “First floor,” I said, hurrying and pointing at the building’s brick-arched doorway.

  Lani was waiting just outside the teaching lab, all five-feet-nothing of her bouncing foot-to-foot, her round face haloed by spiked black hair. Beside her, stoic as the stonework outside, stood Jack. He did not appear happy. So I decided not to look at him.

  Lani’s voice echoed down the empty hall. “Thank you, thank you, this made my Saturday!”

  I nodded and cursed my impatience, unable to resist the urge to sneak a look at Jack. His eyes—the eyes that could shift from blue to green and back again—they were the color of clouded aventurine. I’d seen that off-turquoise color often when we first worked together. Back when we hated each other. Fine.

  “Where’s Grant?” I asked him.

  “Who?” Lani’s wire-rimmed glasses glinted as her head bobbed side-to-side, counterpointing the bouncing feet. “Grant—do I know him?” She looked at Jack, me, Eleanor. Then stopped bouncing. “Why is Eleanor wearing earplugs—is she okay?”

  “She’s fine.” I led Silent Stage into the empty lab.

  She sniffed the air. The university’s oldest marine biology lab smelled of dried kelp and formaldehyde. The sealed slate counters were retrofitted with electrical outlets, one for each of the adjoining microscopes waiting at each station. “Lani, let’s get started.”

  “Goody, goody.” Lani scurried, closing the door, pulling down its roller shade, twisting the lock. “If I get fired, you’ll hire me. Right, Raleigh?”

  “Of course. But you’d have to move in with Eleanor, too.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t make enough to pay rent. Even rent on an Airstream.”