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Saturday morning, I closed the bedroom door quietly so Alex could sleep longer and turned to find the little rascal curled up on the couch. Last night he’d crept up there as soon as my back was turned, so why would I think he’d sleep all night on his makeshift bed on the floor? Besides, now that he’d had a bath, what difference did it make? I’d long given up trying to keep dogs off furniture.
After breakfast I cut out a bagful of mats from his coat, but my unprofessional trim made him look awfully raggedy. On his morning walk, passersby glanced oddly at him or offered something noncommittal like, “Oh, I see you have a new dog.” I found myself rooting for the little guy. Maybe his coat would grow out soon, and he’d look good enough for someone to adopt him.
Alex was still asleep when we returned. I was dying to show him the note I’d gotten in the mail—I was asleep when he got home—but that would have to wait. I let the dog off his leash, put down some extra food, and hurried to open the store. Another busy Saturday when my mind was elsewhere. Not just the money laundering and the recent murders, but more personally, I wondered why Alex was away until after midnight. Of course, I told myself, he’d always kept late hours, and his body clock traveled with him.
Around eleven o’clock, he joined me downstairs, looking beat. He remained mysterious about his day away, but we’d agreed years ago to give each other plenty of space. I wasn’t really worried about his philandering again, and his health had been fine since his treatment for prostate cancer several years ago. I knew he wouldn’t come down here to secretly go to the doctor; our medical care was far inferior to what he could find in D.C.
“Whose overgrown rat is that running around your apartment?
“Oh, that’s Rascal.”
“You’ve named it?”
“Well, he is a rascal. And having a proper name makes an ad more effective, easier to find him a good home.”
He mumbled something I didn’t quite catch, though I definitely heard already has. But he was wrong; I was in no position to take on the care and welfare of a dog. I’d always felt as though I’d neglected Jake once I bought the store. I’d given him a good life in D.C., but down here, I spent too many hours inside the store, afraid to let him hang out in back because of random visits by the health inspector.
I brought Alex a cup of perked coffee and showed him the mysterious note from my mailbox. The evening before, after retrieving it from my mailbox, I’d cleared off the kitchen table so I could study it with a large magnifying glass.
Whoever sent it had gone to a lot of trouble to tear words from a newspaper in different sized fonts. Seemed like a lot of drama and toil, but I guess a whistleblower couldn’t be careful enough. And I had to admit the note had style; it piqued my interest.
When I showed it to Alex, the look on his face cried Really? “Go on, take a closer look,” I said.
The note was oversized with a large photo of the burning building we’d feared had taken Nigel’s life. Just six words below that: SO MUCH BIGGER THAN YOU THINK!
“So what?” Alex asked. “You already knew that. What are you supposed to do now?”
Alex was right. I didn’t have a clue about what to do with this strange proclamation from some mysterious—and perhaps disgruntled—whistleblower. But I also sensed something off with Alex, his usual reporterly demeanor missing in action. I took back the note, folded it, and returned it to the envelope. I asked him what he was up to today.
“Just got to run out again.”
“When will you be back?” My patience was stretching thin.
“When I come back to take you to the best dinner you’ve ever eaten at the Inn at Jonas Mountain.” Normally, I’d be delighted, but this sounded more like asking forgiveness than generosity. But then I thought, Oh, to hell with all the suspicion. I loved eating out, especially on Saturday night after a long work week.
––––––––
Even on a busy day at the store, there were always lulls, and around three o’clock it was so quiet, I struggled to stay awake. I went in the back, put the kettle on, and picked up the magnifying glass. As a last-ditch effort to glean something from the mysterious note, I closely studied each word. I didn’t find anything special in the first five words, but on the sixth, I caught a break. Just a small one: THINK (the exclamation point had been cut out separately) seemed to be from a headline, and in a small font at the very top I could just make out the letters “BSERVER.” Had to be from the Charlotte Observer, which told me something. The person was from around here, generally speaking. Perhaps fairly literate, someone who actually read a newspaper from a town known for its banking and finance.
After the initial rush, though, I heard a voice in my head repeat Alex’s question: SO WHAT? What can I do with this? Thanks a lot, whistleblower, for just stirring up trouble. No way could I start an investigation as the Mountain Weekly food columnist. Gone were my credentials and my bravado for such undertakings, even if my curiosity was as strong as ever.
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All that was forgotten on the trip up the Blue Ridge Parkway, decked out in its lush wardrobe of summertime green embroidered with sprays of wildflowers.
Even after so many years living in the mountains, I still felt conspicuous in Alex’s Mercedes as it puttered up the parkway. But the smooth ride soothed my jangled nerves, as did the bottle of Champagne we ordered at the inn. No special celebration other than it was Saturday night and neither one of us had to work the next day. I ordered the mountain trout dinner, and Alex tried the chicken scallopini.
We talked some about the message I’d received, but neither of us had any fresh ideas about what to do next. I decided to let it go, the proverbial brick wall. After dinner and a couple of cups of coffee, I was good to drive. We got home safely and, as they say around here, hit the hay.
I awoke Sunday morning with an idea floating through my head: place a classified ad in the Observer online. So much for giving up on my hard-to-figure whistleblower. But then again, why not give it a try? Roll the dice and see what happened. And while I was at it, I could place an ad about Rascal.
I got up, turned on the Rancilio, and headed over to my computer. The Observer offered several choices of where to place my ad—legal, real estate, or just wanted. I hedged my bets and chose both “legal” and “real estate wanted.” Editing my words a time or two delivered a cheaper yet more effective ad: NOT FAIR, MR. BIGGER THAN YOU THINK! TELL ME MORE. Rascal’s ad included a photo and some details along with my phone number.
It was a long shot the whistleblower would ever see the ad, let alone reply, but I felt better for trying. I paid for an entire week to boost my chances on both ads. I told myself that if I hadn’t heard from the whistleblower after seven days, the hunt was over.
I wasn’t clear on which way I hoped it would go.