Hemlock Bay

8

Eureka, California

The Mermaid’s Tail

Lily swallowed a pain pill and looked at herself in the mirror. She’d looked better, no doubt about that. She sighed as she thought back over the months and wondered yet again what had happened to her. Had she looked different when she’d first arrived in Hemlock Bay? She’d been so full of hope, both she and Beth finally free of Jack Crane, on their own, happy. She remembered how they’d walked hand in hand down Main Street, stopping at Scooters Bakery to buy a chocolate croissant for Beth and a raisin scone for herself. She hadn’t realized then that she would soon marry another man she’d believe with all her heart loved both her and Beth, and this one would gouge eleven months out of her life.

Fool.

She’d married yet another man who would have rejoiced at her death, who was prepared to bury her with tears running down his face, a stirring eulogy coming out of his mouth, and joy in his heart.

Two husbands down-never, never again would she ever look at a man who appeared even mildly interested in her. Fact was, she was really bad when it came to choosing men. And the question that had begun to gnaw at her surfaced again. Was Tennyson responsible for Beth’s death?

Lily didn’t think so-she’d been honest the night before about that-but it had happened so quickly and no one had seen anything at all useful. Could Tennyson have been driving that car? And then the awful depression had smashed her, had made her want to lie in a coffin and pull down the lid.

Beth was gone. Forever. Lily pictured her little girl’s face-a replica of her father’s, but finer, softer-so beautiful, that precious little face she saw now only in her mind. She’d just turned six the week before she died. Beth hadn’t been evil to the bone like her father. She’d been all that was innocent and loving, always telling her mother any- and everything until… Lily raised her head and looked at herself again in the mirror. Until what? She thought back to the week before Beth was killed. She had been different, sort of furtive, wary-maybe even scared.

Scared? Beth? No, that didn’t make any sense. But still, Beth had been different just before she died.

No, not died. Beth had been killed. By a hit-and-run driver. The pain settled heavily in Lily’s heart as she wondered if she would ever know the truth.

She shook her head, drank more water from the tap. Her brother and Sherlock had just left, after she’d assured them at least a half dozen times that she still felt calm, didn’t hurt at all. She was fine, go, go, pack up her things in Hemlock Bay. She hoped that Tennyson hadn’t trashed her drawing supplies.

She drew a deep, clean breath. Yes, she wanted her drawing supplies today, as soon as possible. She wanted to hold her #2 red sable brush again, but it would be foolish to buy another one just to use today. No, she’d just buy a small sampler set of pens and pen points, inexpensive ones because it didn’t really matter. Maybe she’d get a Speedball cartooning set, just like the one her folks had given her when she’d wanted to try cartooning so many years before. Those pens would still feel familiar in her hand. And a bottle of India ink, some standard-size, twenty-pound typing paper, durable paper that would last, no matter how many times it was shoved into envelopes or worked on by her and the editors. Yes, just some nice bond paper, not more than a hundred sheets. Usually, since she did political cartoons, she used strips of paper cut from larger sheets of special artist paper, thicker than a postcard-bristol board, it was called, well suited for brushwork. And one bottle of Liquid Paper. She could just see herself-not more than an hour from now-drawing those sharp, pale lines that would become the man of the hour, Senator No Wrinkles Remus, the soon-to-be president of the U.S., from that fine state of West Dementia, where the good senator has managed to divide his state into halves, to conduct the ultimate experiment with gun control. One half of the state has complete gun control, as strict as in England; the other half of West Dementia has no gun control at all. He gives an impassioned speech to the state legislature, with the blessing of the governor, whom he’s blackmailed for taking money from a contractor who is also his nephew: “One year, that’s all we ask,” Remus says, waving his arms to embrace all of them. “Just one year and we’ll know once and for all what the answer is.”

And what happens in the west of West Dementia is that criminals auction off areas to one another since civilians aren’t allowed to own any device that shoots a bullet out of a barrel. Criminals break-and-enter at their leisure, whenever the spirit moves them. Houses, banks, gas stations, 7-Elevens, nothing is safe.

In east West Dementia, every sort of gun abounds, from sleek pistols that fire one round a minute to behemoths that kick out eight hundred zillion rounds a second. There are simply no limits at all. Because of the endless supply, guns are really cheap. What happens surprises everyone: robbery stats go down nearly seventy percent after a good dozen would-be robbers are killed breaking in-to homes, banks, filling stations, 7-Elevens.

On the other side of it, killing abounds. Everything that moves, and doesn’t move, gets shot-deer, rabbits, cars, people. Some people even take to target-shooting in the rivers. Many trout, it is said, die from gunshot wounds.

There are rumors of payoffs from both the National Rifle Association and the Mafia to No Wrinkles Remus, but like his name, no matter what he does-or people believe he does-that face of his remains smooth and absolutely trustworthy.

She was grinning like a madwoman. She rubbed her hands together. She wanted to draw No Wrinkles Remus-now, right this minute, as soon as she could get a pen between her fingers. She didn’t need a drawing table, the small circular Victorian table in her room would be perfect. The sun was coming in at exactly the right angle.

She just didn’t want to wait. Lily grabbed her purse, her leather jacket, and headed out of the bed-and-breakfast. Mrs. Blade, standing behind the small counter downstairs, waved her on. Lily didn’t know Eureka well, but she knew to go to Wallace Street. A whole bunch of artists lived over in the waterfront section of town, and a couple of them ran art supply stores.

The day was cloudy, nearly cold enough to see your breath, a chilly breeze swirling about in the fallen autumn leaves that strengthened the salty ocean taste when you breathed in. She managed to snag a taxi across the street that was letting off an old man in front of an apartment building.

The driver was Ukrainian, had lived in Eureka for six years, and his high-schooler son liked to doodle, even on toilet paper, he said, which made you wonder what sort of poisoning you could get using that toilet paper. He knew just where to go.

It was Sol Arthur’s art supply shop. She was in and out in thirty minutes, smiling from ear to ear as she shifted the wrapped packages in her arms. She had maybe eleven dollars left in her purse-goodness, eleven whole dollars left in the world. She wondered what had happened to her credit cards. She would ask Dillon to deal with it.

She stood on the curb looking up and down the street. No way would a taxi magically appear now even though she was ready to part with another four dollars from her stash. No, no taxi. Such good lightning luck didn’t strike twice. A bus, she thought, watching one slowly huff toward her. The bed-and-breakfast wasn’t all that far from here, and the bus was heading in the right direction. She jaywalked, but not before she was sure that no cars were coming from either direction. There weren’t a whole lot of people on the street.

No Wrinkles Remus is looking particularly handsome and wicked, right there, full-blown in her mind again. He looks annoyed when a colleague hits on a staffer Remus himself fancies, his absolute joy when he discovers that the wife of a senator cheated on her husband with one of his former senior aides.

She was singing when the bus-twenty years old if not older, belching smoke-lumbered toward her. She saw the driver, an old coot, grinning at her. He had on headphones and was chair-dancing to the music. Maybe she was the only passenger he’d seen in a while.

She climbed on board, banging her packages about as she found change in her wallet. When she turned to find a seat, she saw that the bus was empty.

“Not many folk out today?”

He grinned at her and pulled off his headphones. She repeated her question. He said, “Nah, all of ’em down at the cemetery for the big burying.”

“Whose big burying?”

“Ferdy Malloy, the minister at the Baptist Church. Kicked it, just last Friday.”

She’d been lying in the hospital last Friday, not feeling so hot.

“Natural causes, I hope?”

“You can think that if you want, but everyone knows that his missus probably booted him to the other side. Tough old broad is Mabel, tougher than Ferdy, and mean. No one dared to ask for an autopsy, and so they’re planting Ferdy in the ground right about now.”

“Well,” Lily said, then couldn’t think of another thing. “Oh, yes, I’m at The Mermaid’s Tail. Do you go near there?”

“Ain’t nobody on board to tell me not to. I’ll take you right to the front door. Watch that third step, though, board’s rotted.”

“Thank you, I’ll be careful.”

The driver put his headphones back on and began bouncing up and down in the seat. He stopped two blocks down, just in front of Rover’s Drive-In with the best hamburgers west of the Sillow River, sandwiched next to a storefront that advertised three justices of the peace, who were also notaries, on duty 24/7.

Lily closed her eyes. The bus started up again. No Wrinkles Remus was in her mind again, playing another angle.

“Hey.”

She looked up to see a young man swinging into the seat next to her. He simply lifted off the packages, set them on the seat opposite, and sat down.

For a moment, Lily was simply too surprised to think. She stared at the young man, no older than twenty, his black hair long, greasy, and tied back in a ratty ponytail. He had three silver hoops marching up his left ear.

He was wearing opaque sunglasses, an Orioles cap on his head, turned backward, and a roomy black leather jacket.

“My packages,” she said, cocking her head to one side. “Why did you put them over there?”

He grinned at her, and she saw a gold tooth toward the back of his mouth.

“You’re awful pretty. I wanted to sit next to you. I wanted to get real close to you.”

“No, I’m not particularly pretty. I’d like you to move. Lots of seat choice, since the bus is empty.”

“Nope, I’m staying right here. Maybe I’ll even get a little closer. Like I said, you’re real pretty.”

Lily looked up at the bus driver, but he was really into his rock ’n’ roll, bouncing so heavily on the seat that the bus was swerving a bit to the left, then back to the right.

Lily didn’t want trouble, she really didn’t. “All right,” she said and smiled at him. “I’ll move.”

“I don’t think so,” he said, his voice barely a whisper now, and he grabbed her arm to hold her still.

“Let go of me, buster, now.”

“I don’t think so. You know, I really don’t want to hurt you. It’s too bad because, like I said, you’re real pretty. A shame, but hey, I need money, you know?”

“You want to rob me?”

“Yeah, don’t worry that I’ll do anything else. I just want your wallet.” But he pulled a switchblade out of his inside jacket pocket, pressed a small button, and a very sharp blade flew out, long and thin, glittering.

She was afraid now, her heart pumping, bile rising in her throat. “Put the knife away. I’ll give you all my money. I don’t have much, but I’ll give you all I’ve got.”

He didn’t answer because he saw that the bus was slowing for the next stop. He said, low, “Sorry, no time for the money.”

He was going to kill her. The knife was coming right at her chest. She tightened, felt the stitches straining, but it didn’t matter.

“You fool,” she said. She drove her elbow right into his Adam’s apple, then right under his chin, knocking his head back, cutting off his breath. Still he held the knife, not four inches from her chest.

Twist left, make yourself a smaller target.

She turned, then did a right forearm hammer, thumb down smashing the inside of his right forearm.

Attack the person, not the weapon.

She grabbed his wrist with her left hand and did a right back forearm hammer to his throat. He grabbed his throat, gagging and wheezing for breath, and she slammed her fist into his chest, right over his heart. She grabbed his wrist and felt the knife slide out of his fingers, heard it thunk hard on the floor of the bus and slide beneath the seat in front of them.

The guy was in big trouble, couldn’t breathe, and she said, “Don’t you ever come near me again, you bastard.” And she smashed the flat of her palm against his ear.

He yelled, but it only came out as a gurgle since he still couldn’t draw a decent breath.

The bus had stopped right in front of The Mermaid’s Tail. The driver waved to her in the rearview mirror, still listening to his music, still chair-dancing. She didn’t know what to do. Call the cops? Then it was taken out of her hands. The young man lurched up, knowing he was in deep trouble, scooped up his knife, waved it toward the bus driver, who was now staring back at the two of them wide-eyed, no longer dancing. He waved the knife at her once, then ran to the front of the bus, jumped to the ground, and was running fast down the street, turning quickly into an alley.

The bus driver yelled.

“It’s okay,” Lily said, gathering her bags together. “He was a mugger. I’m all right.”

“We need to get the cops.”

The last thing Lily wanted was to have to deal with the cops. The guy was gone. She felt suddenly very weak; her heart was pounding hard and loud. But her shoulders were straight. She was taller than she’d been just five minutes before. It hadn’t been much more than five minutes when she’d first gotten onto that empty bus, and then the young guy had come on and sat down beside her.

It didn’t matter that she felt like all her stitches were pulling, that her ribs ached and there were jabs of pain. She’d done it. She’d saved herself. She’d flattened the guy with the knife. She hadn’t forgotten all the moves her brother had taught her after she’d finally told him about Jack and what he’d done.

Dillon had said, squeezing her so hard she thought her ribs would cave in, “Dammit, Lily, I’m not about to let you ever be helpless again. No more victim, ever.” And he’d taught her how to fight, with two-year-old Beth shrieking and clapping as she looked on, swinging her teddy bear by its leg.

But he hadn’t been able to teach her for real-how to handle the bubbling fear that pulsed through her body when that knife was just a finger-length away. But she’d dealt with the fear, the brain-numbing shutdown. She’d done it.

She walked, straight and tall, her stitches pulling just a bit now, into The Mermaid’s Tail.

“Hello,” she called out, smiling at Mrs. Blade, who was working a crossword puzzle behind the counter.

“You look like you won the lottery, Mrs. Frasier. Hey, do you know a five-letter word for a monster assassin?”

“Hmmm. It could be me, you know, but Lily is only four letters. Sorry, Mrs. Blade.” Lily laughed and hauled her packages up the stairs.

“I’ve got it,” Mrs. Blade called out. “The monster assassin is a ‘slayer.’ You know, ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer.’ ”

“That’s six letters, Mrs. Blade.”

“Well, drat.”

Upstairs in her room, Lily arranged the small Victorian table at just the right angle to the bright sun. She carefully unwrapped all her supplies and arranged them. She knew she was on an adrenaline high, but it didn’t matter. She felt wonderful. Then she stopped cold.

Her Sarah Elliott paintings. She had to go right now to the Eureka Art Museum and make sure the paintings, all eight of them, were still there. How could she have thought only of drawing Remus?

No, she was being ridiculous. She could simply call Mr. Monk, ask him about her paintings. But what if he wasn’t trustworthy-no one else had proved the least trustworthy to date-he could lie to her.

Tennyson or his father could have stolen them last night after they’d left the house. Mr. Monk could have helped them.

No, someone would have notified her if the paintings were gone. Or maybe they would just call Elcott Frasier or Tennyson. No, they were her paintings, but she was sick, wasn’t she? Another suicide attempt. Incapable of dealing with something so stressful.

She was out the door again in three minutes.