Black Otter Bay (28 page)

Without much enthusiasm, she finished clearing the dinner table and ran water to rinse the dishes. Then she spotted the ring of keys on the kitchen counter. She knew those keys. She'd
seen them today in The Tempest when her mother had used them to lock up the gallery. Abby stacked the plates and glasses in the dishwasher, but her gaze kept slipping over to the key ring, three or four keys bound together on a metal hoop. Her heart fluttered when she realized one of those keys would probably open the fortress of an office she'd been unable to enter.

The cleanup went much faster after that. She told herself it would only take a few minutes to run down to The Tempest, use the keys to get inside, check out the office, and run back. She'd be home long before her mother, and she'd rid herself of the nagging mystery of that locked room. She quickly finished straightening up, pulled her hooded sweatshirt over her head, and fitted her Minnesota Twins cap over her braid. Then, just twenty minutes after Jackie left, Abby slipped out the door to join the early evening pedestrian traffic on Superior Street.

• • • • •

B
ecause of the height of the ridge running behind Duluth, darkness fell quickly over the harbor when the sun set. A chill in the air moved Abby briskly along the sidewalk. Shops on both sides of the street were open, so many that she was overwhelmed by the amount of lights and people and commotion. All the shops and businesses in Black Otter Bay wouldn't cover a single half-block here in Duluth. The tail end of rush hour traffic still clogged the street. Abby dodged away from the curb when a large charter bus, bearing the name of a popular casino south of town, accelerated past.

She turned downhill toward the harbor and Canal Park. Abby found all the activity startling and unfamiliar, in some ways even unnerving, because it was impossible to keep track of everything going on around her. Cars honked, a truck climbing the hill roared through the gears, and foot traffic scurried past in both directions. A man suddenly appeared out of a darkened doorway. He approached, staggering and careening too
close. Abby jumped aside in time to avoid contact with the vomit discoloring the front of his jacket. She lurched into a jog then, down the hill to the tangled mass of freeway overpasses shunting traffic around the heart of downtown. The puzzling network of ponderous slabs of concrete, as well as the megalithic stone and brick buildings of the city swirled overhead, and it was then that she realized her mother had been wrong: the city really did block out the stars. In the woods, when the mysteries of the night awoke, her father had taught her to count on the cheerful guidance of moon and stars to find her way. Their presence on a dark night would calm and reassure her, in much the same way that their absence from the city skyline added to her unease.

Still jogging, she left the noise and confusion of the freeway behind and entered Canal Park, a well-lit, friendlier section of the port city. She slowed to a walk here to match the casual pace of window shoppers out for an evening stroll. Some of the stores were closed, but the ones that were still open, as well as all the restaurants and bars, were abuzz with customers. On the corner she passed the mellow glow of the neighborhood coffee shop, its clientele logged into their laptops or thoroughly engrossed in conversation. Next came Camille's bookstore, which had just closed for the day, and then she was at The Tempest. A few lights inside threw haunting shadows across the artwork. She spotted the little red light on the security system winking its one-eyed glow of surveillance. With the alarm system activated, she knew that no one was inside. Abby took a deep breath to collect herself, then continued walking past the gallery and turned into an alleyway cutting through the block.

It was even darker here in the narrow passage between tall brick buildings. Her tennis shoe–clad footsteps emitted a scuffling echo on the sand-covered concrete alley. Abby was grateful for the covering darkness, but the unfamiliar noises and chaotic nightlife jangled her nerves. How was it, she wondered, that she could walk for miles alone through the woods at night
without a thought for her safety, but a few blocks in the heart of the city scared the devil out of her? She turned at the end of the alley, where it emptied into the parking lot in the middle of the block, and a few more steps brought her to the back door of The Tempest.

She climbed a couple of open-mesh iron stair treads and turned around on the landing to peer down the length of the block of businesses. While the storefronts were well-kept and painted in vibrant colors, here in back everything was dark and dingy. The parking lot was a potholed gravel bed with no markings, but more than a few mud puddles. Cars were parked in a haphazard manner, sharing space with storage sheds, electric power lines, and overflowing dumpsters. From across the way Abby heard the amplified sound of a rock and roll band, and voices and laughter filtered through to her between guitar riffs. It was well lit over there, too, which made it seem even darker on this side of the block. The row of back doors was quiet and hidden away in the shadows, and a sense of mystery or suspense seemed to hang in the cooling night air. Then she heard footsteps down the alleyway behind her.

Abby pulled the key ring from her pocket. Her heart was racing, but it was her fingers that caused her problems. They were frozen by the surge of adrenaline, and shook like lifeless twigs. She had no idea which key opened the door, so she jabbed blindly at the deadbolt with the first key her fingers managed to manipulate. The footsteps were running now, nearing the corner. Desperate, Abby turned the key upside down and tried again, but her fingers were useless in the dark. As the footsteps rounded the rear corner of The Tempest, she backed herself into a dark shadow on the door and stood completely still.

“Marcy!” she cried when she saw her friend race around the corner.

Her sudden call caused Marcy to scream, stopping her dead in her tracks. “Where are you?” she demanded, squinting around in the dark.

Abby bounced down the steps. She could breathe again. She ran to Marcy and asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I saw you from across the street. I was going back to my motel. Wait until you hear what happened to me.” The cool night air and excitement painted a brilliant blush on Marcy's cheeks. “What on earth are you doing sneaking around back here?”

Abby held up the ring of keys. “I'm going inside to look around.” From under her smile of joy at the sight of her friend, Abby feigned a glare of anger and swatted Marcy on the shoulder. “You scared me half to death, Marcella Soderstrom!”

“Sorry. But that's what you get for sneaking around in the dark.” Marcy scanned the parking lot, the puddles, and all the trash. “It's spooky back here,” she said. “Does your mother know what you're doing?”

Abby rolled her eyes and returned to the stairs.

“That's what I thought,” Marcy called after her. “Speaking of Jackie, I saw her a little while ago. I'm sure she has no idea what you're up to.”

Abby stopped on the landing. “You saw my mom?”

Marcy climbed the metal steps behind her. “I was up at the casino. She came in, but just to check the bus schedule. She got on the charter headed south.”

“Did she see you?”

“No. Why?”

Abby worked with the keys again. She saw no point in telling Marcy that her mother had lied about her plans for the evening. “You're in my light,” she said, hipping Marcy to the side.

It took a few tries, but the door finally opened. “Wait here while I shut off the alarm system.”

“You know, I won a bunch of money,” Marcy called, but Abby was already deep inside the darkness of the gallery. In the sudden stillness, the sounds of music and laughter from the bar wafted across the parking lot, but here on this side not a soul could be seen. Marcy peered into the dark corners and
hiding places in the parking lot. She'd meant it when she'd said it was spooky out here. She didn't like standing alone on the landing, but just as she turned back to the door, Abby grabbed her arm and pulled her inside. The door slid shut with a click behind them.

The Tempest was dark and still, long and narrow like a cavern, with a brooding silence that could be hiding almost anything. Abby held Marcy's hand when she asked, “So, how much money did you win?”

“I don't know. I gave it to some old Indian woman. I had to get out of there because security was after me.”

“Security?”

“It's a complicated story.”

Abby shook her head. “You're crazy, Marcy. But I'm glad you're here. Come on.” She led her friend through the maze of artwork to the office door.

“There was this guy in the casino,” Marcy explained, following close on Abby's heels. “A big guy. He looked to be in charge or something. Actually, he looked like a gangster, like he should be in
The Sopranos
.”

Abby paused at the office door and looked at her. “What's
The Sopranos
?”

“Well, you know, like the mafia or something. A gangster.”

“Is he the guy who threw you out?”

“Oh, no. He's more important than that. He called security on me because I spilled my beer on him.”

Abby's eyebrow went up.

“I know, it sounds crazy. But this guy really scared me. He wore dark sunglasses, even inside the casino, and a flat top haircut.”

Abby's eyes narrowed. “A flat top? You mean like a crew cut?”

“Yep.”

“And it stuck straight up on top?” Abby held her hand several inches over her head. “Kind of like a Mohawk?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

The girl thought about it, and then asked, “Was he wearing a suit coat? Like a black blazer or something?”

“Yes! Exactly! And a black shirt, too. How did you know?”

Abby hesitated before answering. “I think I've seen him before. I think he's one of Randall's business partners.”

“Oh, that's bad, Abby. That's real bad. This guy is not someone you want to mess around with.”

Abby ignored her, instead holding up the ring of keys to inspect them.

Having told Abby about the man in the casino, Marcy's fear flared up again, so she tried another argument. “I really don't think we should be here.”

“It's okay. We're not doing anything wrong.”

“You want to tell that to Randall? Remember that gun of his?”

“We'll only be a minute. I just want to see what's in the office.”

The door before them was completely shrouded in darkness. Abby knew where the lights were but feared attracting attention by using them. Once again she struggled with the keys, and with Marcy crowding up tight against her back, Abby's frustration quickly mounted. She finally gave up, banged on the door with a fist, and then pressed an ear against it to listen. “Ben?” she called in a hoarse whisper, even though she knew her voice couldn't be heard inside.

A small light suddenly appeared on the door, and Abby turned to see Marcy holding a miniature LED penlight. “Girl Scouts,” Marcy explained. “Always be prepared. Mrs. Bean was our scout leader. I always thought she did it because she never had children of her own.”

Abby's expression glazed over in pure confusion. Marcy's words were so out of the moment that they came at her like a foreign language. Finally, she shook her head and held the keys up between them. “Hold that light over here.”

Marcy watched as Abby fingered through the ring of keys. “What were you saying about Ben?” she asked.

Abby didn't answer. In a moment the door quietly eased open, and Abby stuck her head into the darkened room, calling softly, “Ben?”

The room was pitch black. Abby snaked her hand along the wall until she found the light switch. “Come on,” she said, pulling Marcy inside with her.

After closing the door to hide the light, Marcy locked it, and they stood side by side looking around the office. The room was actually quite large, just as Abby had imagined, but it was only the one big room, with nowhere to hide—and more importantly, with no sign of her brother. She walked around the desk, opening and closing drawers, feeling the futility of her efforts mounting.

Marcy clicked the computer on while Abby wandered over to the file cabinet. Marcy asked, “What are we looking for?”

“Ben,” Abby answered, yanking the top drawer open.

“What?”

“We're looking for signs of Ben.” She fingered through files with labels for artist information, billings, contracts, and sales receipts. She pulled out the file of receipts and laid it open across the top of the drawer of files.

Marcy said, “If I knew the password, we could look at their books. I always wondered how this place made enough money to stay in business.”

“Oh, yeah, like you know anything about bookkeeping.”

“I beg your pardon,” Marcy said, smirking. “Who do you think keeps the books for the café?”

Abby found herself grinning at her friend. “Really?” She had to admit that Marcy looked comfortable behind the computer. She studied the monitor with a gleam in her eye, clicking away on the keyboard like she knew what she was doing and belonged there. Abby returned to the file and found the latest receipts, including the one her mother had bragged about at
dinner. She paused, staring at the receipt, and then over her shoulder blurted, “Try Fitzgerald.”

“For a password? Really? Okay.” And than a moment later, “Nope, too long. Six characters or less.”

“How about Edmund?”

Marcy typed away. “Oh, my God, Abby. That's a bingo, girl!”

Abby smiled. She didn't expect Marcy would find anything in the computer, but it was amusing to see her settling in behind the monitor, concentration wrinkling her brow. Abby returned to looking through the files. She pulled out the most recent receipt, the thousand-dollar credit card transaction for the
Fitzgerald
painting. Fingering through the rest of the file revealed only a few small purchases over the last several weeks.