Dying to Read (14 page)

Although she’d found a textbook on microbiology back in college once, and she hadn’t felt inclined to buy a magnifying glass and start prowling the campus looking for exotic organisms.

“Have you considered that poking around in murder could be just a tiny bit dangerous? That murderers tend to object, possibly unpleasantly, to finding a PI, even”—he shot her a sideways glance—“an attractive one, on their tail?”

Cate flashed him her most ingratiating smile. “Maybe that’s why I wanted you along.”

Flattery did not alter his lack of enthusiasm for her sleuthing efforts. “Are you thinking about becoming a full-fledged private investigator?”

“Uncle Joe will probably close Belmont Investigations and fully retire now, so I’m still looking for a real job.”

He nodded as if he approved of that. “What do you usually do?”

Good question, Cate thought glumly. “I’ve been a Christmas elf, a costumed sign waver, and a stuffer of flyers under windshield wipers since I’ve been in Eugene.”

“An admirable flexibility,” Mitch said.

“Okay, I started out to be a teacher. My Aunt Delphie is a wonderful teacher. She still hears from students she had years ago. I saw teaching as a really worthwhile goal in life. Aunt Delphie encouraged me, even helped with my college expenses, and I got a degree in education.”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

“But I discovered that, even if teaching may be the most noble profession in the world, and even if I liked the kids, I was not an effective teacher.” She paused. “You might even say I was a lousy teacher.”

“Maybe it was just the school. You could give it another try somewhere else.”

“I was sick to my stomach on the way to school every morning. Some people like Aunt Delphie are Teachers. Capital
T
. I’m not.”

“A borrowed dream that didn’t work.”

Cate had never thought of it exactly that way, but, bottom line, Mitch had nailed it. She’d latched on to Aunt Delphie’s dream for her life, and it sank like her dad’s old boat going down in the river one summer. They’d had life jackets to cope with the boat disaster, but no life jacket was available when her teaching career sank. She’d been disappointed with herself for failing as a teacher, saddened that she’d also disappointed Aunt Delphie.

“So what have you been doing since teaching”—he paused and then phrased it diplomatically as they passed a slow-moving log truck—“didn’t work out?”

Cate told him about the companies where her jobs also hadn’t “worked out,” how she’d come to Eugene at Uncle Joe’s and Rebecca’s invitation, and found a job market tighter than the Gap jeans she’d once splurged on and now couldn’t zip up. “So, at the moment, except for this temporary job Uncle Joe gave me, I seem to be basically unemployable.”

“Beverly tells me God can do great things even with a crummy situation,” Mitch said.

Not exactly a direct-from-the-Bible quotation, but “crummy situation”? Yeah, that fit. A job history that read like a self-help book on how to fail without really trying. A history of relationships scripted for a bad chick flick.

When Cate didn’t comment, Mitch asked, “Was there a husband in there somewhere?”

“No. A fiancé for a while.”

“Someone you met down in California?”

“We knew each other in grade school, but his dad transferred to serve as pastor at a church in another small town nearby. So we didn’t go to the same high school or college. Then, down in San Diego, we ran into each other at a church event. My mom and his even became friends back home.”

“A guy with a pastor for a father. Both of you with Christian beliefs. Parents who were friends. Sounds like a program for happily-ever-after.”

Cate had certainly believed they were headed for happily-ever-after. “Kyle had slipped away from his Christian beliefs while he was in college. But he’d just lost a job and was feeling kind of lost, and he’d started going to this big church that I already attended. After we got together, we were involved in a lot of church activities together.” They’d also prayed together and talked about how they could serve God with their lives.

“Very admirable.”

“Then Kyle got a new, better job than the one he’d lost, a management position with a big satellite TV company. But he had to travel a lot, so he didn’t have much time for church activities after that.”

“So you had an ugly breakup? And it soured you on men forever?”

Cate turned to look at him, startled. “Why would you think that?”

He just shrugged, but she remembered his earlier comment about his impression of her “unavailability.”

Her breakup with Kyle was dumb, really. An argument over a cappuccino machine started it. Kyle wanted one, the most expensive model on the market. Cate said they should be saving money to buy a house when they were married instead of buying overpriced gadgets. He grudgingly bought a cheaper cappuccino machine. He had some people from the satellite company over one evening. The machine turned out cappuccino that not only tasted as if it were made with a combination of sour milk and battery acid, it also shot a stream of foamy spray into the cleavage of a guest leaning over to look at the machine. Kyle blamed Cate. Cate said he hadn’t followed the instructions. Kyle accused her of sabotaging his career. She accused him of being too interested in that cleavage. Later, words such as “unsupportive,” “know-it-all,” and “unsophisticated” were tossed around.

“The Cappuccino Conflict?” Mitch suggested after she’d given him a minus-cleavage version of the breakup.

The Cappuccino Conflict. Yes. “I thought we’d get back together. The whole thing just exploded all out of proportion. But before we got things straightened out, he got a surprise offer for a transfer to the company headquarters in Atlanta, and two weeks later he was gone.”

“Apparently his career hadn’t been sabotaged.”

She nodded, but she’d suddenly had enough of putting her past failures with both Kyle and her career under a microscope. And she wasn’t about to go into a study of the guys she’d dated after Kyle. “What about you?”

“No wife. Not even a fiancée.”

“Working with computers was what you always wanted to do?” Cate asked.

“Pretty much. In high school I hacked into some sites I had no business being in, and got into big trouble. My folks were ready to ban computers forever, but one of my teachers was generous enough to think the hacking showed a certain potential and helped me get a college scholarship. Then Lance and I got together and have done pretty well with our own business.”

“The Computer Solutions Dudes.”

“We’re in Eugene because that’s where Lance was originally from.”

“It must be nice to have your life’s work all mapped out.” Cate felt a little wistful. Here she was, almost thirty, still wondering what she was going to be when she grew up.

“Life’s work?” Mitch sounded startled, as if he hadn’t really thought of it as a lifetime commitment.

At the junction with Highway 101, without having to look at the map, Mitch turned north. A scent of ocean had teased them for some miles, but here it hit with an invigorating blast of salt-and-sea. Cate sniffed with the delight a visit to the coast always brought her. The scent hinted at exotic, far-off places across the ocean, adventures on the high seas, pirates and buried treasure. A stiff breeze swirled dissipating wisps of fog overhead, with glimpses of blue sky and sunshine. Sunlight lit patches of Scotch broom as if the golden blossoms were a special treasure deserving a spotlight, even though most coast locals considered them troublesome weeds.

A little after 10:00, Mitch turned the SUV into the parking lot of a café and gift shop. “Here it is.” He pointed to a sign on the far side of the highway. “Murphy Bay.”

Cate looked down the highway, which was also the main street of town. An assortment of stores and houses, gas station, church, and two motels. A bit shabby, perhaps, but all with a certain weather-beaten charm. A wind sock in the shape of a red dragon danced atop a pole outside an antique store. No bay that she could see. A good-sized hill to the west apparently blocked view of the ocean.

“Now what?” Mitch asked.

Deflation unexpectedly whooshed through Cate. Back home, finding Texie in a small town of 514 sounded as simple as picking white-furred Octavia out of a lineup of calico felines. She’d locate cowgirl-garbed Texie and ask her insightful questions that would produce a confession of her guilt or would lead Cate to a guilty Radford. The mystery of Amelia’s death would be solved. Even though Uncle Joe had given her the temporary PI job out of charity, and didn’t want her investigating this, he’d be impressed. But now that she was here, it felt more like the old needle-in-a-haystack quandary. She may have studied Uncle Joe’s books, but what did she really know about investigating anything? The police apparently weren’t suspicious of Amelia’s death, so why should she be?

Mitch seemed to be waiting for instructions, and she couldn’t think of any. “You think this is all some wild goose chase.”

Mitch grinned. “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather chase wild geese with than you.”

Maybe this should simply be a fun trip to the coast. Find the bay, take a hike on the beach, get to know Mitch better. But once more that image of Amelia lying dead at the foot of the stairs jumped out and grabbed her. Surely it wasn’t just an accident that Cate had been the one to find her. It meant something.

“How about we go have a cup of coffee?” Mitch motioned to the café, where a metal wind chime jingled cheerfully at the main door.

“I have coffee in the Thermos.”

“You’re missing the point. Don’t hard-boiled detectives always go to some dark, smoky place and run into some sleazy character with exactly the information they need?”

“I think the sleazy guy is usually in a sleazy bar, but maybe this will work.”

Inside, sunshine streamed through an east-facing window, and a fragrance of coffee and pastries wafted over maroon-padded plastic seats that lined a counter. A middle-aged woman in a pink uniform came over to take their order. The blond bun at the back of her head was watermelon size, but she didn’t look sleazy.

Cate asked for iced tea and Mitch ordered coffee. Before the woman went away, Cate said, “I’m looking for a friend who’s staying here in town, but I’m not sure where. She’s an older woman, blonde, petite, and she usually wears cowgirl-type clothes?”

“Honey, we get all types here during tourist season. They come in wearing everything from shorts skimpy enough to make me want to throw a sheet over them, to T-shirts saying ‘Membership Chairman, Alien Astronauts, Inc.’ But a cowgirl? That doesn’t ring any bells.”

“How about a real estate agent named Lorilyn?”

“Oh her, yeah. Lantzer’s Real Estate, down by the beauty shop.” She waved a generously sized arm toward the south end of town.

Cate’s confidence bounced back. Hey, maybe being a private investigator wasn’t so difficult after all.

They finished their iced tea and coffee, and a minute later found the real estate office, stuck between the beauty shop and a hardware store, where the front window held fishing net and wire cages that Cate recognized as crab pots. A sign that simply said “Closed,” without indication of an opening any time in the near future, hung inside the door.

The all-too-familiar “Now what?” snagged Cate again.

“Go next door,” Mitch suggested. “Aren’t beauty shops a universal gathering and distribution point of all female knowledge?”

Cate slid out of the SUV and pushed open the door of the beauty salon, half expecting she might be grabbed and herded into a chair for corrective hair surgery. The young, dark-haired woman did give that wayward spike of red hair a speculative glance, but she didn’t offer emergency aid.

“Hi. I’m wondering about the real estate office next door?” Cate asked.

“Lori had to go down to Reedsport today. She’ll probably be in the office if she gets back in time, or you can catch her at home later.”

“Actually, it’s a friend who’s been staying with Lori that I’m looking for.”

“Neva?”

Cate started to say no, but it occurred to her that if Texie was serious about hiding out here, she might be using a different name. “Yes, that’s her.”

“She might have gone to Reedsport with Lori. More likely, she’s there at the house. She doesn’t get out much. It’s the big blue house on Denzler Street. Turn left at the next corner.”

Doesn’t get out much.
Interesting. “Thank you.”

Cate passed the instructions along to Mitch, and a few minutes later he braked in front of a three-story blue house, appealingly quaint, with maple trees, bushes with big balls of blue blooms, and a high hedge of shrubbery. Cate didn’t ask Mitch to come along, but he opened the door of the SUV and followed her up the stepping-stone walkway. She felt unexpectedly apprehensive as she rang the bell, suddenly glad Mitch was beside her.

No answer to the bell. Was she disappointed or relieved? She wasn’t certain.

“Let’s go pick up something for lunch, find the bay, and come back later,” Mitch suggested.

“I brought sandwiches. And some macaroni salad and chips. And some pickles and tomatoes and deviled eggs.”

“A woman who’s prepared. I like that.”

They stopped at the gas station to ask for directions to the bay, and a few minutes later, down a rutted dirt road on the far side of the hill, they found it. “Bay” was something of an exaggeration for the inward bend in the rocky shoreline, but there was a narrow strip of sandy beach strewn with kelp and a couple of battered picnic tables on a grassy bluff. White spray shot over offshore rocks, surf attacked and retreated, gulls shrieked and dipped. They deposited their lunch on a table, and Cate took off her shoes, rolled up her jeans, and raced for the strip of beach.

She closed her eyes and dug her toes in the damp sand. Oh, much too long since she’d done that! Southern California beaches were wonderful, but the rugged Oregon coast had an appeal all its own.

They waded in the cold surf, inspected starfish clinging to rocks, studied odd creatures in a tide pool, squished the hollow bulbs on the strands of kelp, and tossed globs of sea foam at each other. They searched the pebbly areas for shells and agates. Mitch insisted only true agates were “keepers,” which limited his take to two small stones. Cate gaily filled her pockets with pretty rocks, agates or not. Mitch told her about growing up in Tennessee, never seeing the sea until he was grown. They ate their lunch, tossing scraps to seagulls that expertly caught them in midair, walked to a jumble of rocks at the far end of the beach, and finally stretched out on a blanket in the grass by the picnic table. They decided they’d go back to the real estate office about 4:00.