Chapter 13

I always thought my automatic writing was based on spiritual connection and forces beyond my control. With thirteen years of practice, tapping into emotions or desires in a dream state and letting my fingers do the talking (as it were), I think I know the pattern. The word ‘I’ hardly ever appears on the page. Here, however, the vowel is almost six inches high.

The pencil tip is broken. Smudges of lead smear my palm as I touch the indentations. Someone or something wants to make a point.

“And he’s mad,” Somehow saying the words out loud I feel better. Anger is an emotion I’m familiar with. It can be managed.

I push off the bed and stare back at the writing. The yellow legal pad with its script stares back. With a sigh, I brush the errant bangs off my forehead. It’s still dark out and I have no concept of time. I turn my back on the enigma and leave the room, barefoot, heading down the stairs.

The lights are on. Nadiya sits on the couch, a stack of typed papers in her hand. For a moment I’m reluctant to disturb her.

Apparently I’m not as quiet and cat-like as I think and she looks up, “Feeling better?”

“Not really,” I admit. Hands in the pockets of my jeans I rock back on my heels. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

“I get to it when the mood strikes me.” She smiles, “Want to know if I snore?”

I recall she used that turn of phase earlier today to give me an alibi. I try not to read anything into the casual statement, “I bet you don’t.”

Nadiya’s green eyes give me the once over. “A betting man, are you? That opens up all kinds of possibilities.”

“We’ll go to Tahoe and play roulette some time.”

She raises an eyebrow at me, but lets my dense attitude slide. “I left you a salad in the fridge.”

“OK. Thanks.”

The five letters S.A.L.A.D. conjure up health food which is not my staple diet. But, I beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen, lacking the strength to come up with anything cleverer in dialogue than the casual acknowledgement. Sure enough as I open the refrigerator door a plate awaits me with a pretty arrangement of vegetables. I find some ceaser salad dressing to drown the poor lettuce to compensate for the beneficial short comings. Setting the dish on the counter, my eyes look through the window at the porch beyond.

A shadow moves.

I find my hand reaching to the wall to flip on the exterior flood light. Mrs. Taylor’s black cat sits on the wood deck. His tail twitches at the disturbance the florescent glow offers.

“Boo,” I say.

The cat doesn’t blink. I can’t shake the suspicion that the shadow I saw a moment ago came from something larger than Fluffy. My fingers find the knob of the silverware drawer. Without conscious thought, I remove a steak knife, holding the wooden handle in my hand, blade point down.

Fluffy stays still. I swear he’s smiling.

I look down and note the knife in my hand. I force myself to put it flat on the counter, refusing to give in to paranoia. When I look up again the cat with its golden eyes is gone.

“Hale?” Nadiya queries, joining me in the kitchen.

My gaze remains focused on the back porch, “Um, hum?”

My editor walks up beside me and looks over my shoulder. What holds my interest is likely a mystery of vacant space and artificial light.

She says, “Detective Olsen is at the front door.”

It’s clear there’s a conspiracy afoot to keep me from eating. Given the hefty portion of vegetables, maybe that’s a good thing.

I hadn’t heard the doorbell, and my brow furrows in confusion. Glancing up at the clock, I note for the first time that it’s close to one in the morning. Nadiya and I walk together to the front foyer. The police officer is alone. She stands at the entrance, her coat unbuttoned, but still on her shoulders.

I ask, “What can I do for you, Beth?”

“I saw the light on - figured you might want an update.”

I’m not used to the police sharing information with me. “Sure,” I agree, making a motion for her to take a seat, but she shakes her head. Already I can tell there’s an ulterior motive for the friendly visit.

Nadiya innocently asks, “So what did you find?”

“We’re relatively certain the body’s of the missing person you suggested we look for, Janet Bartholomew. Her purse was buried in the grave along with her, driver’s license included. The family is in Arizona so it will take a few days to get a positive ID.

“Cause of death is probably asphyxiation. The coffin was made out of plastic of some sort. We’ll send it to the lab for testing, although we suspect it’s custom made. There's some rubber gaskets and metallic paint, possibly something we can trace.”

I nod, “Ever seen anything like it before?”

She snorts, “It’s a bit theatrical. Can’t say we’ve got a serial killer running around putting pretty women in glass coffins. Disney movie was my first impression. Snow White waiting for Prince Charming.”

Nadiya adds, “I think there's a scene in Saw 5 with glass or ice in a coffin, but don’t quote me.”

My editor surprises me with her film reference; I hadn’t taken her for the type. I can read horror, but I can’t watch it. For some strange reason I flash back to the shadow on the porch. The set up is perfect for a stalker scene; remote farm house in the middle of nowhere, and a late night snack by the hero. I had a knife in play gearing up for a classic ‘jump scene’ at the window. Of course, Hollywood would never let that happen since I wasn’t in my underwear, or with my girlfriend necking on the couch.

More’s the pity.

I offer a cynical, “Since Janet was an actress, I’m sure she found the ending fitting.” I look at my guest and push for the other shoe to fall. “Anything else?”

Beth admits, “There’s something I need to show you.”

I followed her out to the driveway and the police car parked there. With a chirp of the automatic remote in her hand, the trunk pops open. Inside is a shovel. In the dim light I notice nothing unusual.

Beth reaches inside and pulls the tool out. She holds the handle, turning it to show a strip of masking tape with MARCUM written by a black Sharpie pen. I remember labeling the shovel for a local school construction project a couple weeks ago, volunteering a few hours. I don’t remember losing it.

“Where did you find that?” I ask the obvious question.

“Leaning against the back side of the Antique store. Couldn’t miss it.”

“Rather sloppy of me to leave it lying around.”

“Yes,” Beth agrees, her tone sarcastic. “Any ideas how it might have gotten there.”

My arm reaches out and then pulls back. Beth notices the movement, “You can touch it. No prints on a wooden handle, and no blood on the metal – so…”

I take the handle, closing my hand over the shaft, but no flash of vision assaults me. The tool feels ordinary, not even familiar, just like any standard shovel. I hand it back to her since I have no plans of ever using it again.

“Fresh out of ideas.”

Beth takes a deep breath, “Did you happen to know Janet Bartholomew? If you did you might as well tell me now, since I’ll dig it up soon enough.”

The assertion that I’m hiding something doesn’t make me nearly as uncomfortable as her choice of verb. The shovel, Nadiya’s talk of treasure hunting, and the grave all make wonder how many parallels I’ll see before this is over.

“I don’t think so,” I say, “I’ve met a lot of people in my life, but her face and name aren’t familiar.”

“I like you, Hale,” Beth shares, “I know you saved Officer Carson’s life in Sacramento. I came in on the tale end of that case, but without you we’d never have caught Tommy Martin’s killer. Got any enemies?”

“Maybe.”

She tosses the shovel back in the trunk. “Better figure out who’s close enough to mess with you on this one, before you get buried yourself.”

I can’t force a smile to show how unconcerned I am. I wince as she closes the hood with a slam.

She slips into the driver’s seat adding, “I’m heading home. I go back on duty at 4 pm tomorrow. Why don’t you plan on coming down to the station then. I think the Chief might want to talk with you.”

I can only imagine the potential discussion. As I watch in silence, she backs out and drives away.

Nadiya’s still inside the house; she’s pretending to work. I can tell she’s just waiting for me since the stack of papers is upside down.

“What did she say?”

“Typical cop warning stuff.”

“Scared yet?”

Now I do smile, “No, should I be?”

Nadiya stands up and walks towards me, “Maybe.”

Stupidly, I say the first thing that pops into my head. “We should go to bed.”

“Ah, promises, promises.”

I find my fingers laced with hers and tug softly, moving towards the stairs. “One of these days.”

She laughs. We both know the flirtation is harmless.

“You need me to tuck you in?” I ask at her door.

“I’m good.”

I snicker, “I’ll bet.” I wink and walk on down the hall. “See you in the morning.”

April 3

7:13 am

The new day dawns and pokes it’s way into my bedroom. I open my eyes and realize that I’m not alone. It takes a minute for consciousness to set in, but even after blinking a few times it’s clear that Nadiya is sitting on the end of my bed.

I prop myself up on one elbow and ask. “What’s the matter?”

“If you wanted me to leave, you could have just said.”

I can tell she’s attempted some sort of light hearted joke which failed miserably. The artificial smile on her face cracks and her hands twist together in her lap. “Something’s going on Hale and I’m not sure what to make of it.”

Words are my specialty, but I’m confused by hers, “I promise we’ll work on the book-”

“It’s not that. This is about the gift downstairs.”

“Gift?”

“The box with my name on it in the kitchen. I found it this morning.”

I fall back on to the pillows and search my mind for ideas. I don’t think it’s her birthday, and I don’t recall leaving anything for her to open. “It’s too early for guessing games.”

Her tone is serious. “I didn’t honestly believe you’d do this, but the only alternative is someone broke in the house last night.”

That wakes me up. Without being self conscious I throw off the covers and pull a pair of sweatpants over my boxers. “You better show me.”

We walk downstairs together. The kitchen is full of sunlight and the smell of coffee. There’s a small white box on the counter, and a discarded red ribbon on the floor.

I pick up the card she mentioned. Sure enough her first name is written after the TO, and the word ‘me’ is written after the FROM. No sloppy sentiment fills the remaining space. The letters are few and printed, making handwriting impossible to match.

I flip open the lid.

Fluffy’s yellow eyes rest on a bed of red tissue paper. Mrs. Taylor’s cat will stare at me no more.