No Gun Intended (2 page)

I couldn't help but laugh.

“Oh, honey, it's not very funny. I was called before the board the following week, and one by one, they pissed me off, and I'm afraid I told them all to go fuck themselves. And, here we are.” She rolled her eyes and swallowed some more wine.

Dad put his feet up on the ottoman. “She had a contract, that's the thing, and we're trying to decide what to do next. They can claim that Sylvia didn't behave professionally, but I'm not sure this incident is grounds to fire her. On the other hand, she's not sure she wants to work there after this, are you, honey?”

Mom shook her head. “No, I'm considering other occupations. Like training cadaver dogs.”

I sat up straight. “Huh? You mean dogs that find dead people?”

Mom laughed. “I saw a special on television about them. Pretty impressive. But I'm also considering opening a bakery, or running for mayor, or becoming a plumber.” She laughed again. “I don't know what the hell I'm doing, Bea.”

I stood up and went over to her and kissed the top of her head. “Well, I vote for the dogs. You're a terrible cook, you couldn't win an election with that potty mouth of yours, and I think plumbing pipes are a lot different from the human kind.”

Dad stood up, too. “Going to bed?”

“Yup, I'm whupped. See you in the morning.” I gulped the rest of my bourbon, coughed, hugged him, and headed upstairs.

My parents' guest room is one of the sweetest rooms in the whole world. The walls are painted a lovely butter-yellow, and the double bed is cushy, covered with a duvet that's as warm as a hot bath and as light as a cloud. I knelt on the large hooked rug that covered most of the wide-plank wood floor and unzipped my suitcase, pulling out my flannel PJs and my toiletry kit.

Then I reached for my backpack to pull out my contacts case and glasses.

The cricket wasn't there.

“Damn,” I swore, thinking it must have fallen off when Mom was tossing it into the trunk.

I unzipped it and reached into the front compartment.

And froze.

My hand closed around the metal handle of what felt like a gun.

I pulled it out to be certain.

I don't know much about guns. In fact, I only know about two of them. Mickey has a Glock, and I have a Beretta Nano. Mickey had bought it for me about a month earlier. It's pink. I know, a cutesy color. He picked it out as part of his effort to convince me to own a gun and learn how to use it. But I'm uneasy around guns. We never had one in our house while I was growing up, and I never knew anyone who had a gun—until I met Mickey. So my pink one was still in a box in our closet at home.

This gun in my hand wasn't a Glock or a Nano.

I dropped it on the bed and dug further into the backpack.

It wasn't mine.

It sure as hell looked like mine: Columbia logo, black.

But the only thing in it was the gun and a poufy jacket, which filled out the main compartment nicely.

What the hell?

Mom must have picked this up by mistake while I got my suitcase off the baggage claim carousel.

So, who owned this gun, and where was my backpack?

I sat on the edge of the bed, took a deep breath, and called Mickey.

“Hey! You okay?” he answered.

“Mickey. I have a gun in a backpack that isn't mine.”

“What are you talking about?”

So I told him, and he told me to call the police right away, and I did.

I left the gun and the backpack on the bed, went downstairs, and waited for the cops to show up.

My parents were going to be so sorry I came for a visit.

Chapter Two

It was a little past midnight when the doorbell rang. Dusty barked, and I opened the door to two men in suits flashing badges.

“Ms. Starkey?”

“Yes. Please come in.”

“Detectives Monroe and Dawson.”

I held out my hand to each of them, and they removed their gloves to shake, while Dusty wiggled up against their legs. Dawson squatted beside her to give her some good pets. I liked him.

Monroe immediately started scouting my parents' living room and took out his notebook. I didn't like him so much.

I've got nothing against the police. I fell in love with a police detective, after all. But I've met some bad ones, so I'm quick to size them up. Trust my gut. Tread carefully.

“Detectives, huh? I figured a uniform would respond.”

“We were in the vicinity. Got the call.”

“Where's the gun?” Dawson asked.

“GUN? What the hell is going on here?” Mom had appeared at the foot of the stairs in her bathrobe. Dad was on his way down.

“Mom, Dad, meet detectives Monroe and Dawson. I found a gun in my backpack and called the police. I mean, someone else's backpack.” Dawson stood up.

Mom froze, speechless, possibly for the first time in her life. Dad moved in front of her. “How is that possible, Bea?”

I shook my head. “Bad luck, Dad. It seems to follow me around like we're in a Marx Brothers skit together.” I motioned toward the stairs and addressed the cops. “Upstairs. Follow me.” They did, with Dad and Mom right behind them, and Dusty bringing up the rear.

We all crowded into the guest room, and I pointed to the gun and backpack. Mom sat on the bed. “Oh, fuck, Annabelle. Was it that guy? Scranton?”

Dawson put on one of his gloves and picked up the gun. Monroe considered Mom, and then me. “Scranton?”

“Loren Scranton. Sat next to me on the plane. Spilled wine on me. Saw us in baggage claim and gave me twenty-five bucks for my sweater—and I'm sorry, but that was just too Franklin Harty for me, if you know what I mean.” I pointed at my stained sweater, lying in a heap on the floor. Dawson and Monroe frowned. Clearly they didn't know what I meant. “The boss played by Dabney Coleman in
9 to 5
?! He was rich and miserly.”

“How do you know that Scranton is rich?” Monroe asked, regarding my sweater.

“Fancy suit. Anyway, Mom, he was talking to either you or me the whole time. Did you see him pick up my backpack?”

Mom shook her head.

Monroe was scouting out the guest room like it was a safe house for terrorists. “The backpack most probably was dropped from someone coming into baggage claim from outside the airport. It couldn't have passed through security unless a TSA guy was asleep on the job.” His eyes came around and rested on me. “Maybe this someone wanted to give you this gun for some reason?”

My gut was right. I didn't like this guy. “Believe me, no one would want to give
me
a gun. I mean, my boyfriend already did, and that hasn't worked out so well.” As soon as I said that, I was sorry.

Monroe took a step toward me. “Your boyfriend?”

I sighed. “Yes, Mickey, my partner in New York, he's a detective. He bought me one recently. Beretta Nano, for protection. But I haven't used it. Well, just once at a firing range, but I hated it, so it's in a box in the closet.”

“Do you or Mickey know anyone in Portland?” Dawson asked.

“No. No one except my parents, and they haven't lived here that long.” I watched Dawson return the gun to the backpack and pick it up. “Um, by the way, what kind of gun is that?” I wanted to tell Mickey.

“It's a Beretta Bobcat.”

“Wow! They make Bobcats
and
Nanos? They've got someone with a sense of humor in their marketing department!” I flashed a big smile at Dawson and then Monroe to no effect, and then tried it on Mom and Dad, whose pained expressions did not change.

Monroe suggested that we all go downstairs to the living room, where he could get our names and contact information, so we did. After about thirty minutes, they stood up to leave. “Ms. Starkey, you're not leaving town soon, I hope?”

“No, but what do you mean by that? Do you think I have something to do with this? Because I…”

“Just in case we have more questions, or need you to identify any pictures, anything like that,” Dawson interrupted me. “We'll see if we can find the owner based on the serial number. We'll check it for prints, too.” He smiled.

“Okay. I understand.” I sort of understood. Mostly I was thinking about my missing contact lens case, glasses, and Denise Mina's recent mystery, not to mention a lucky cricket. At least I still had my wallet and my Kate Hepburn biography in my purse. “Do you think someone will turn my backpack in to lost-and-found at the airport, or to a police station?”

Monroe and Dawson didn't say anything in response, just gave me a “gee, we're sorry” look, and turned to go. “Let us know if you leave the area.”

Dad opened the door for them. “Thank you, detectives. Will you let us know what you find out?”

Dawson nodded. “Thanks, folks.”

And they were gone.

Mom was still amazingly quiet, sitting on the couch. Dad shut the door and came to me to give me a hug. “It's just a weird, random act, muffinhead. You were in the right place at the wrong time.” He took my face in his hands. “I wish I hadn't left to go park the car.” He kissed my forehead.

“Dad, this is not your fault. No one's fault. Let's try to forget all about it and go to bed.” I turned to Mom. “Right, Mom? Ready to get some sleep?”

Mom came out of her stupor and just about leapt to her feet. “Sleep? Sure. Forget about it? No. We're going to find Loren Scranton and I'm going to give him a piece of my mind and a kick in his balls with the toe of the cowboy boots I just bought.”

“Sylvia, that's absolutely not what you're going to do. The police will handle this.” Dad held his hand out to her. “Come on to bed.”

Mom shifted her eyes from me to Dad and back again. “Well, they better figure it out. I won't have my daughter mixed up with criminals and cops again.” She kissed my cheek as she passed me. “See you in the morning, dear.”

They retreated upstairs and I collapsed in the recliner, pulling my phone out of my pocket to give Mickey an update. I shook my head. When did my mother become a vigilante? And since when did she wear cowboy boots? And what color were they? I love cowboy boots.

Chapter Three

Portland has the reputation of being deluged by constant rain, but that's a myth perhaps perpetuated by residents who wish to keep its charms a secret from possible invaders from too-expensive California. My first morning poured bright sunlight and blue skies through the bedroom windows. I peeked outside at the giant sequoia in my parents' backyard. It hadn't snowed after all. I could hear some construction noises and espied a huge crane on nearby Division Street. Dad had told me that a mess of new apartment buildings and retail shops were going up.

I rolled out of bed, smoothed my flannel pajamas and pulled up my wool socks, combed my hair and stuck it behind my ears, and brushed my teeth. I popped in my lenses, which I had stored in an old case of Mom's I found in the bathroom, and ambled downstairs. Mom was pouring a cup of coffee and humming along to an old Joni Mitchell album that was playing in the den. My parents still listen to vinyl. They've got a closet full of 33s. A veritable library of old rock 'n' roll, as well as jazz and classical stuff. But Joni, well, she's Mom's BFF in make-believe land.

She handed me the cup. “Morning, honey! How'd you sleep?”

“Great. Thanks.” I took a sip. “Aaah. Coffee cake?”

She smiled. “Of course. From a bakery on Division. I'll cut you a piece.”

I sat at the dining room table and took a brief look at the front page of the
Oregonian,
then opted to gaze out the window instead. A squirrel ran along the top of the backyard fence and up the trunk of the mammoth tree. This was like living in the city and the country, all at once.

Mom joined me, putting a plate with a serving of coffee cake in front of me. “Eat up.”

I picked it up with my hands and took a bite. “Yum. This is delish.”

“Don't talk while you're eating.” She leaned on the table with her forearms. “What shall we do today?”

I swallowed. “Whatever you want. Where'd you buy your cowboy boots, and what color are they? Maybe we could go get some more.”

Mom laughed. “Green! A cool little store in the Pearl District. Sure, we can do that. But, it's such a gorgeous day, I thought we'd go to the Japanese Garden. It has become one of our favorite places in Portland. I can't wait to show it to you.”

I took another bite and gave her a thumbs-up.

“I looked him up, by the way,” Mom said.

I swallowed again. “Who?”

“Loren Scranton.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Mom! Who are you, Lis Salander? Are you hacking into computers now?”

“Who's Lis Salander?”

“
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.
Didn't you see that movie? Or read the book? Good stuff.”

Mom shook her head. “No. Anyway, all I did was Google him.” She paused. “Want to know what I found out?”

“Not really.” We stared at each other. “Go ahead. Tell me.”

Mom grinned and jumped up to get a notepad from the kitchen counter, then came back to sit down with me. “He's an accountant!”

“Dangerous guy. Wow.”

“And he lives in Brooklyn!”

“We'd better alert the
New York Times.
”

“And, best of all…” She paused again for effect.

“Please, Mom, I can't stand this suspense. Wait, don't tell me. He's a Boy Scout leader!”

Mom snorted. “No! He's a member of the NRA!”

I laughed. “So are about a billion other people. C'mon, with a name like Loren, I bet he needs a gun to defend himself against bullies.”

Mom dropped her notepad on the table. “Well, he probably owns at least one gun, if he's a member. I think that's an important clue.”

I rubbed my eyes. “Mom, hell, I own a gun, sort of. That doesn't make me a criminal.”

“I know, I know. And we should talk about that some more, I think. It was news to me that Mickey got you a gun. But right now I feel like I'm onto something with this Scranton prick. Maybe something important.” She chewed on her lower lip. “Maybe I could volunteer to help out at the police station. Do research or something.”

I stood up. “Prick? You don't know that. Well, you sort of do. I mean, a rich guy offering twenty-five bucks for a sweater is a true sign of prickdom. Anyway, slow down, Miss Marple.”

She frowned.

“Really, Mom? Agatha Christie? She wrote a ton of mysteries. You should see
4:50 from Paddington.
That movie is a classic. The TV series
Murder, She Wrote
was based on a movie that was based on the first film, and…”

“Annabelle, darling, I have heard of Agatha Christie and Miss Marple, believe it or not. But I don't see why I shouldn't try to help out, and I think you should tell Mickey what I found out about Mr. Scranton.”

I nodded. “Yup, he probably wouldn't have already checked him out.” I smiled.

Mom rolled her eyes. “Okay, I get it. I'll leave Scranton the dickhead alone for now and you get ready to go to the Japanese Garden.”

“Where's Dad?”

“Outside, in front, raking leaves.” She put my coffee mug and plate in the sink. “He called the airport, by the way, to inquire about your backpack. No one turned it in.”

“Big surprise.”

I skipped up the stairs two at a time and took a shower and blow-dried my hair. I got dressed and had just finished putting on a dark blue beret when my phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, but answered right away. “Hello?”

A quiet female voice answered. “Is this Dr. Starkey?” She sounded young.

“No, this is her daughter. Who is this?”

“I'm looking for the dentist, Beatrice Annabelle Starkey?”

Dentist?
I thought. “Well, I'm Annabelle, but I'm no dentist. Who is this?”

“Your card says Beatrice Annabelle Starkey, DDS.”

I laughed. “That's for Dumpster Diving Specialist. Are you calling from New York?”

“You're a detective?”

I sat on the bed. “Look, you need to tell me who you are and where you got my card…” I stopped. I remembered. I had business cards in my backpack. “My backpack. You found it?”

She paused. “Yes.”

“I need it.”

“Yes. I will give it to you. But I need the other backpack.”

So, what to do. Tell her I didn't have it, tell her the police had it, pretend I didn't know what she was talking about? I opted for the last. “What other backpack?”

“We switched them, right? Don't you have mine?”

“Nope. Just thought someone stole mine at the airport.”

I heard her take a deep breath. “Oh, no.” Her voice was trembling. “What am I going to do?”

“What's your name?”

“Claudia.”

“Claudia, let's meet. You can give me my backpack, and I'll reward you. How about that?”

Now she was crying. “I need more than money.”

“Like what?”

“Your help. I need a detective.”

Now it was my turn to take a deep breath. “Let's meet. I'm about to visit the Japanese Garden. Can you get there? I can be at the entrance in ninety minutes. Will that work?”

She squeaked out a “yes.”

“Bring my backpack, too, right?”

Another squeak, and she hung up.

I'm not a real detective, and I know the first thing I should have done was call Dawson or Monroe and tell them about Claudia. But I wanted to meet her first. Maybe she didn't deserve to be in trouble with the police, whatever trouble she was in. Maybe she was just a kid who got herself into some tight spot. And maybe I wanted to prove to myself—and to my parents and Mickey—that I was back on my feet, strong and able, and ready to meet the world, fearless.

***

I could see why the Japanese Garden had become a favorite retreat for my parents. Positioned at the top of a hill, its design is exquisite, with meandering paths—stone, wooden, gravel—weaving around ponds and in and out of groves of trees, with benches placed in perfect positions for observing, reading, sketching, meditating. It wasn't crowded at all, being a Monday morning. A gallery building, with a deck providing views of a huge Zen garden as well as downtown Portland, featured work by Isamu Noguch. I had never heard of him before, but his sculptures were as soothing to me as the Japanese maples.

We visited the gift shop and I bought Mickey and me some chopsticks with rabbits on them. We like to get Chinese takeout in New York.

We were starting down the steep path out of the garden back to the car, when I told Mom and Dad I had left my debit card in the shop, and that they should keep going and I'd catch up. It was a ruse, but this way I could meet Claudia on my own.

I hustled back up to the garden entrance, looking around for a girl with my backpack. I checked my watch. She was only about five minutes late, but I couldn't hang around for much longer without Mom and Dad worrying what happened to me.

I pulled out my phone to call her. But as I was about to tap her number on the incoming calls log, I saw Dad hurrying up the path toward me.

“Bea! Quick! Your mother…go help her. I'm going to let the park people know. We've called an ambulance. Someone's hurt.” And he ran by me.

I raced down the hill on the curvy path through the thickly wooded evergreens, panting with the effort as well as with increasing dread. I careened around a hairpin turn and stopped short when I saw Mom, kneeling over someone lying in the woods. “Mom! What is it?”

“A young woman.” She was tending to her, stanching some bleeding with her scarf. “Hold this here, will you? Someone assaulted her, clobbered her head.”

I crouched next to Mom and pressed the scarf against the wound, while Mom took her pulse.

“Is she alive?”

Mom nodded.

Then something caught my eye.

A sparkle, lit by a sunbeam.

It was my silver cricket, perched on my backpack, just a few feet down the hill.