Finn-agled Page 10

  “Maybe he needs to go out.” Spencer stood and moved to push the door open.

  “No, wait! He can’t go out that way without a leash, or he’ll take off. The last time he got loose, he followed his nose five miles to Harper’s Pier where Scotty Borges had just dumped a load of lobsters. Not that I’m questioning Garfunkel’s taste in seafood, but one of those babies got ahold of his toe with its pincer and the racket he made until we got it off; well, you would’ve thought he was being drawn and quartered. He’s now banned from the pier for life.”

  “Poor guy.” Spencer reached down to stroke my agitated pooch. “No wonder he made a fuss. I’m sure it hurt.”

  “Not as much as the concussion Scotty got when he conked his head against a piling trying to dodge three-dozen snapping claws. He hadn’t banded the lobsters yet – making a show of it for the tourists was his thing – and as Garfunkel was flinging his paw around trying to detach the insidious creature, he managed to scatter the rest of the crustaceans all over the boardwalk.”

  “Does he typically get this worked up? I thought Bassets are generally low-key unless they’re following a scent.”

  “They are.” For a dog whose greatest achievement to date was scarfing down three Fido bars in less time than it took me to shout “NO!”, then launching himself onto the sofa to sleep off his biscuit coma, his behavior at the moment – whining, pacing, frantically scratching at the door – is puzzling. “This is definitely out of character for him. Maybe he really needs to pee. Come on, Garf. Let’s take a potty break.”

  Now, on any other occasion, Garfunkel would be halfway down the hall before the words left my mouth, his love of belly flopping in the grass number three on his list of top ten doggie pursuits. (I’ll let you figure out his top two.) Not this time. Practically apoplectic, his nails gouging trenches into the eighty-year-old oak door frame, he wouldn’t budge, and both Spencer and I nearly threw our backs out trying.

  On the verge of calling Dad to ask if I could borrow his block and tackle (have I mentioned how solid this particular breed is? Next time, I’m getting a teacup Yorkie) all of a sudden, Garfunkel stopped. With one last, somewhat half-hearted, “Baroo” and a shake of his head, which sent drool flying through the air, he ambled off into the living room, bypassing his bed for a patch of sunlit carpet. Plopping onto the floor, he was snoring within seconds.

  “Huh. That was the oddest thing I’ve ever seen.” Running my hand over the grooves he’d dug into the sheetrock, I sighed. It’s going to take more than a little ‘toothpaste’ spackle to fix the damage to the wall. Plus, the door frame needs to be repaired. That’s gonna put a dent in my savings.

  I peered out through the screen, surveying the street and the meadow beyond. Nothing. Not man nor beast, nor any other creature with a pulse. Even the air was still. Those facts should’ve given me pause because, on any given day, the power lines sag beneath the weight of dozens of feathered vertebrates, and the combined buzzing, chirping, and humming of multi-legged, winged arthropods is loud enough to necessitate my investment in jumbo-sized bottles of Tylenol. “I wonder what set him off?”

  “Who knows?” Spencer shrugged. Have I mentioned how adorable he looks when he shrugs? “Maybe he caught scent of a rabbit or something and his primal instincts kicked in.”

  I snorted. “The only primal instinct Garfunkel has is scarfing down every edible morsel in his path. And, sometimes, inedible ones.”

  Motioning towards the table, Spencer pulled out my chair. “Ready to get back to it?”

  I knew the ‘it’ he was referring to was decrypting the code and not the kanoodling that came very close to happening, but I scooted my chair nearer to his in case I was wrong.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t.

  “I think I’m getting close,” Spencer announced fifteen minutes later, scribbling letters across the bottom of the page, pausing periodically to count spaces on the grid.

  “This reminds me of the game Hangman.” I held my breath as he jotted down the final consonant. “Uh, I don’t think that’s right.”

  We both stared at the jumble of letters on the paper. If anything, they were more confusing than what we’d started with.

  Snuvw Rxyxfxur

  Qep d Pkef gh

  Oijkx Niuijxx

  “I should’ve known I was on the wrong track considering how many ‘exes’ kept popping up.” Balling the sheet of paper in his fist, Spencer tossed it aside to join the first.

  I laid a reassuring hand on his arm. “It was a good try, though. This code-breaking stuff isn’t easy.”

  “No, it’s not. Listen, Finn,” Spencer set his pencil down and turned to face me. “I need to talk to you about something.”

  Uh-oh. Eight words that never lead to a happy ending. “You’re not about to tell me you have a wife, six kids, and three French Poodles in New York, are you?”

  “French Poodles? Really? I always saw myself as a German Shepherd sort of guy. Or a Mastiff. Mastiffs are cool. And, Great Danes; you know, because of my name.”

  “How did this become a conversation about dog breeds?”

  “You brought it up.”

  “Well, I’m changing it back. What do you want to tell me?” Please don’t say you’re married. Please don’t say you’re married. Please don’t say you’re mar–

  “I have to go back to New York tonight.”

  Hairline fractures webbed across both my pulmonary organ and the custom Italian tile I’d had installed two summers ago as my heart hit the floor with a thunk. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Nothing less than a jackhammer could damage such fine Sicilian craftsmanship.

  His leaving is worse than finding out he has a wife. Well, almost. And, the way he’s staring at me like he’s trying to figure out how I’ll respond is unnerving. I don’t know how to respond. How does anyone respond to news such as this?

  Nonchalantly?

  Well, it was nice catching up after all of these years. See you at the next class reunion.

  Emotionally?

  Please, Spencer, I beg you. Don’t go. Not after we’ve finally found each other.

  Bitterly?

  You said we’d be together forever. Damn you, Spencer Dane! Damn you to hell!

  Okay, yeah – that last one is over the top.

  I settled for quizzically because the only feeling my brain can process at this moment is confusion. “I thought you were staying in Port New. Tired of small-town living already? Miss those big-city lights? Or is there someone waiting for you in New York?”

  “I am. No. No. And categorically, no.” Reaching for my hand, Spencer frowned when I pulled away and crossed my arms over my chest. “I have a meeting set for nine o’clock tomorrow morning to meet with my publisher. There are a few items in my contract we need to iron out before I begin my next book. Once that’s done, I have to talk to my landlord about letting me out of my lease, close my accounts at the bank, forward my mail, make arrangements with a moving company to haul my stuff here, have lunch with my agent, say goodbye to a few friends…”

  Dare I get my hopes up? “So, you’re really doing this. Moving back home after all of these years?”

  “I am.”

  He is.

  I relaxed a smidge, mostly because my arms are tired. “Why now, Spencer? You have a life in the city. You have friends. You’re around people who do what you do.”

  “That’s the nice thing about how I make my living. I can write anywhere.

  Point taken, but I’m not finished playing Devil’s advocate. “I know, but I thought you loved New York.”

  “I do, Finn. The city’s everything I ever dreamed it could be and more. The culture, the contacts. Gray’s Papaya.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “It’s this fantastic hot dog joint over on Broadway. I’ll take you there sometime.”

  “You will?”

  “Sure. Why not? We’ll make a weekend of it. Invite CJ and Trevor to come along. They didn’t have much of a h
oneymoon what with him shipping out two days after the wedding.”

  Oh. So not a date.

  By the way, CJ’s new husband is in the Navy, and they’d gotten married during his weekend pass. Not that this information is in any way pertinent to the story. Does anyone else feel like this conversation has taken a detour?

  “Are you planning to stay with your folks once you get back?”

  “No. I’ve already rented a place. A sweet, little Cape Cod over on Wampoag. It’ll be ready by the end of the week.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “You should come by once I’m moved in. I’ll make you dinner. Oysters Rockefeller as an appetizer, a little shrimp scampi for the main course. Followed by chocolate lava cake for dessert. Whaddya’ say?”

  Is he flirting with me? It definitely feels like he’s flirting with me. Why else would he make chocolate lava cake? “I’d like that.”

  “Wonderful!” Damn, he has a great smile! “Hey, you never told me about the dead body.”

  Talk about killing the mood.

  I filled him in on my early morning meeting with the Port New detectives and yet-to-be-identified cadaver. “Zara disagrees, but the man who murdered that woman is the same one who attacked me. I just know it!”

  To his credit, Spencer mulled over my theory for a full minute before shooting it down. “If it is the same guy, he obviously has no qualms about resorting to murder, so why leave behind a witness?”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “I’m just saying, though the timing is curious, the two are most likely unrelated.”

  “It’s that ‘most likely’ that makes me nervous.”

  “C’mere.” Spencer pulled me into his arms, holding me close. “Nothing’s going to happen to you while I’m around.”

  Tempted to point out that he was leaving in a few short hours, I quashed the impulse and lost myself in his embrace.

  And then it happened.

  Chapter Nine

  I’m not one to kiss and tell, but yowza! That man knows how to use his lips! Every teenaged fantasy I’d ever had about Spencer and me making out paled in comparison to the real thing. By the time he left for New York a few hours later, we were both in need of copious amounts of lip balm. Now, all I had to do was get through the week without him.

  On Monday morning, the shop was swamped, leaving me little time to ruminate over our yet-to-be-decided-upon future, though a permanent grin was affixed to my face.

  “I have to tell you, honey; you have the most beautiful smile. It lights up the entire room.” Weighed down by no less than ten shopping bags, a sixty-year-old retiree from Pennsylvania – no, I’m not clairvoyant; her shirt proclaimed her ‘Nifty Sixty and Retired; Penbrance Elementary School; Penbrance, Pennsylvania’ – hefted a cast iron ink well onto the counter.

  “Thank you. Here, let me help you with that.”

  “Oh, no. That’s alright. I’ve got it. Besides, my husband is roaming around in here somewhere. I’ll make him carry it to the car.” Handing me a stack of bills, Nifty remarked, “If you don’t mind my saying so, whoever put that look on your face must be pretty special.”

  My grin widened. “He is. He definitely is.”

  “Then hold onto him. I’ve been with my Aldo for forty-seven years – we met when we were thirteen, can you believe that? – and not a day goes by that I don’t thank my lucky stars for every single one of them.”

  A life to aspire to even if Spencer and I are getting a late start.

  The day flew by, a steady stream of customers keeping me busy – lunch consisted of stale peanut butter crackers for me and a Fido bar for Garfunkel – and before I knew it, it was closing time. As I locked up, it occurred to me how much had happened between this Monday and last.

  I came into possession – and subsequently lost – a rare, heirloom-quality antique; I found a secret code in said antique which I’ve yet to decrypt; Spencer came back into my life; I was strangled by an unknown assailant; asked to identify a dead body; spent a night in the hospital; attended a wedding; Spencer kissed me…(please note, these are not listed in order of importance). Talk about a busy week!

  Unbeknownst to me, this one was about to get even more eventful.

  My first inkling that I was being followed occurred on the drive over to Grandma Lena’s house for dinner. Traffic was light – most folks hit up the local restaurants and bars at this time of day – so it wasn’t difficult to spot the white Corolla pacing me from a few car lengths back. I couldn’t make out the driver, but there was something familiar about the vehicle like I’d seen it somewhere before.

  I know what you’re thinking. There must be dozens of white Corollas out there, plus – Hello – this is a tourist town. No doubt the vehicle in question sported plates from New Jersey or Delaware or Nebraska. Hey, people in Nebraska like to vacation, too. But, while that’s the most logical explanation, my radar is humming like a cop’s at a speed trap.

  The sedan directly behind me turned right onto Sand Dune, leaving only the Bushman’s Grocery delivery van between me and the mystery driver. A quarter-mile up, the van pulled off into the Clamdigger Shack parking lot, leaving nothing but open road between me and the Corolla.

  Now, here’s the weird thing. The driver didn’t close the gap. He stayed three car-lengths behind me, matching his speed to mine. When I accelerated briefly, he did the same. Lowering Lance’s RPMs to just under the speed limit…you guessed it. The other car slowed down, too.

  The light ahead was yellow, and the thought of stopping with this nefarious driver behind me just about sent me into cardiac arrest. For a split second, I considered running it and claiming it was a good yellow if I got pulled over, but my foot instinctively hit the brake when it turned red. A glance in the rearview mirror showed the Corolla stopped at the same distance it’s been for the entire drive. If that doesn’t say ‘suspicious’, I don’t know what does.

  I pulled out my cell to call Zara, but her voice came to me before I turned it on.

  “So, a vehicle is traveling behind you on the same road, several lengths back, and has made no attempt to hit you or force you to stop or run you off the road. In fact, this car is not even close enough for you to make out the driver. What crime would you like me to charge him or her with?”

  I hate when Zara’s right. Even imaginary Zara. The driver undoubtedly is someone who’s vigilant about obeying traffic laws. Simple as that. Besides, Grandma Lena’s house is only a few blocks away. Slim chance of anything happening between here and there, which isn’t to say that the breath I released upon pulling into my grandparents’ driveway wasn’t loud enough to wake Garfunkel, asleep in the passenger seat. Shutting off the engine, I watched in the rearview mirror until the Corolla drove past without slowing. Whew. Just in case it circled back around, I waited another minute before getting out of the car.

  “Finn! What are you doing? You’re holding up dinner!”

  Leave it to Grandma Lena to interrupt my vigil.

  A late night visiting with family left no time to work on the code once I returned home, though I did speak with Spencer. He filled me in on his meeting with his publisher and lunch with his agent, and I regaled him with tales about my customers and their purchases.

  What? Did I tell him my suspicions about being followed? Nah, why mention that? He’d just say the same thing imaginary Zara had.

  Tuesday morning was the opposite of Monday. By 11:30, only three people had come into the shop, and two left without buying anything. With no expectation that the second half of the day would be any better than the first, closing up early held a certain appeal. I could work on the code and catch up on the laundry I hadn’t washed on Sunday while Spencer and I were otherwise occupied. A quick glance at the empty register kiboshed that plan, so I settled for an extended lunch instead.

  “Hey. What’s wrong with you?” Zara sat down opposite me at an umbrellaed table in front of Dough Knots. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I’
m being followed.” I didn’t intend to spring it on her like this, but the situation had escalated since yesterday.

  “Oh? Followed how?”

  Describing the events of the previous evening to Zara in great detail, starting with the white Corolla and ending with Grandma Lena scolding me because the kielbasa was cold, I called a time out when our food arrived to toss Garfunkel a Fido bar, which he feasted on with the decorum of a lion devouring an antelope.

  “Did you get the plate number?” Zara asked, slathering tartar sauce on her fish sandwich.

  Dang! Why hadn’t I thought of that? “No.”

  “And you didn’t see the driver. And the car stayed behind you the entire time and didn’t make any aggressive moves toward you.”

  “Forgive me, but isn’t that the definition of ‘following’?”

  Zara shut her eyes and rubbed her forehead.

  “Do you have a headache?”

  “Not yet.” Dipping a fry in ketchup, she thought for a moment. “Okay, answer me this. Why would someone be following you in the first place?”

  The most logical explanation is that someone’s after the code, but I can’t tell her that because I haven’t yet told her of its existence. And, I can’t tell her that whoever stole the writing box did so because he or she knew the code was inside because she thinks the box was taken as an afterthought, whereas I’m certain that particular relic was the thief’s objective all along.

  Dang, this is getting confusing. Maybe I’ll take a dip later. The ocean does look inviting. Calm surf. Crystal clear water. Not many tourists on the beach, probably because of the recent shark sightings.

  “Finn?”

  “Huh?” Pulling my attention from the sea, I fibbed. “I don’t know.”

  “In my experience, a person doesn’t follow another person without some sort of motive.”

  Come clean, Finn. Get it all out. Lay your cards on the table. Spill the beans. Confess your sins. Zara’s your friend and will understand why you’ve kept vital information from her. She won’t be angry that you’ve impeded her investigation. Not even a little miffed.