That’s life. Whichever way you turn, fate sticks out a foot to trip you.
—Detour (1945 film)
SEYMOUR WAS RIGHT. Our luck was changing—for the worse.
Misfortune came in the form of a bottomless pothole craftily disguised as a shallow puddle. The front tire blew apart, and the old VW bus skidded onto the muddy shoulder.
Thank goodness nobody was injured. The paintings were well packed and secured, with no harm there. But Seymour, still shaking from the accident, ran off to chase down the “vintage” hubcap that had rolled into a ditch on the opposite side of the road.
“Look out, bonehead!” Brainert screamed as Seymour almost walked into the path of a speeding semi.
Huffing and puffing, Seymour tossed the hubcap beside the flat and ordered “Professor Pip-squeak” to help him get out the spare.
When Brainert saw the extra tire, he flipped. “That spare is in worse shape than the tire you blew!”
“I had it patched last year. So it’s a little bald. So what?”
“And bald is good on wet, slick highways, right?”
“Well, it’s not raining now, is it?”
As if in answer to Seymour’s question, the night clouds opened up, drenching them both. Brainert dived back into the passenger seat, and our dedicated driver gamely jacked up the van to change the tire.
Then high winds began to rock our ride, turning raindrops into horizontal torpedoes that splattered loudly against the windows. Fretting in the back seat, I noticed Seymour’s dashboard-mounted phone spring to life. The glowing image of Harriet McClure seemed to mock us.
“Ready to go?” Seymour asked when he finally climbed behind the wheel.
“Yes, we’re ready,” Brainert said. “Ready to turn around and drive to that motel we passed before we got a flat, because we’re not going to survive the ride home on your questionable tires. Not in this weather!”
“Fine,” Seymour said. “But I’m only agreeing because I’m wet and starving, and there’s an all-night truck stop back there, too.”
THE STUMBULL INN had reasonable rates. Unfortunately, the only vacancies were adjoining, so despite closing and locking the flimsy connecting door, I could still hear the bickering bunkmates in the next room. Not even juicy take-out burgers, hand-cut fries, and old-fashioned milk shakes could keep them quiet for long.
To tune out the racket, I called home and explained why I would not be back until morning. My son yawned his good night and went off to bed. My aunt, however, was in the mood to talk. She was back from her big dinner date (a little tipsy, too) and sanguinely assured me that everything went smooth as glass with our “blue-haired” babysitter, Tracy Mahoney.
“Such a delightful young woman,” she said (surprising the heck out of me). Apparently, over a shared pot of tea, they’d had a lively discussion about Tracy’s favorite childhood fantasy novels. This came about after Aunt Sadie learned the girl had persuaded Spencer to resume reading the Narnia series.
“Did you know she’s an artist, too?” Sadie gushed. “She showed me her sketchbook. The girl is quite talented!”
“I didn’t know.”
“Oh! And I answered a call from a charming man who saw our bookshop featured on that CBS Sunday Morning profile of the Palantines. I agreed to rent him our event space. He’s sending his digital contract in the morning for an open date next week . . .”
Pleased at the new business and my aunt’s complete one-eighty on Tracy (being slightly tipsy didn’t hurt), I finished the call, crawled into bed, and opened the book I’d brought with me—the advance copy of the Palantines’ work.
The oversize volume was a beauty and quite informative. But I was disappointed to find nothing in it about artist Nathan Brock. Plenty of Spicy pulp covers were included, but not the one in Seymour’s VW.
Try as I might, I couldn’t stop thinking about that menacing pockmarked killer, holding his dagger above the luminous blond beauty. Her lifelike expression and brilliant blue eyes left a haunting impression.
Was it the artistry of Brock’s image that struck me? Or simply my curiosity about the so-called crime behind the lurid painting?
Whatever the reason, I felt as though that girl were haunting me, maybe not as powerfully as Harriet haunted Seymour, but I couldn’t shake my curiosity about the naked blonde.
Who was she? How did she come to model for Nathan Brock? And what was the crime associated with the picture? Did that rough-looking man with the dagger kill her in real life? Or was she some kind of femme fatale? And how did Jack get involved?
As I searched the Palantines’ index, to no avail, the thunderstorm kicked up again with a low rumbling in the distance. The hollow, far-off sound made me feel vulnerable in the empty room, and more than a little lonely.
The ghost of Jack Shepard seemed to sense it.
Cozy little flophouse you found here, doll.
I shivered slightly as the temperature around me suddenly dropped. For the first time today, I didn’t mind.
“Is that you, Jack?”
Well, it ain’t Cary Grant.
“I prefer you.”
Ditto. And I hope you know I was pulling your leg about this flophouse being cozy. This is a pretty cheap crib you’ve rented—and I should know ’cause I passed out in plenty.
“It may be cheap, but it’s clean. And the view from the window is supposed to be lovely—not that I can see it right now. When we checked in, Mr. Stumbull told us our windows look out over the river.”
Unless it’s the East River, I’m less than impressed.
“Then let’s talk about something more interesting.” I set aside the Palantines’ book. “There! I’m no longer ‘distracted’ with business. You have my full attention, it’s only ten o’clock, and we have all night here alone. Now will you tell me how you got involved with that Nathan Brock painting?” I snuggled under the covers. “Are you sure that blue-eyed model wasn’t an old flame?”
I swear. But she did get burned.
“Burned or extinguished?”
Both.
A sudden boom of thunder, much louder this time, gave me a start. Pulling the covers closer, I heard Jack say—
Few people know what really happened.
“And you do?”
I should. I was there, working the case.
“All right, then. Who was that beautiful blonde? What was she like? How did she die? Who attacked her? And why?”
Whoa, honey, slow the train down!
I took a breath and waited.
Listen, I could talk your ear off with answers, but I have a better idea. Instead of telling you, why don’t I show you?
“You mean with one of your memories?”
Yeah, how about it? You and me on the town. You hungry? We can start with dinner for two—
“I’m already stuffed.”
After-dinner drinks, then? I know just the place.
“Drinks would be nice . . .” I said on a yawn, which surprised me. A minute ago I was wide-awake. Suddenly I was feeling sleepy. “And you’ll tell me about the girl?” I yawned again. “The girl in the picture?”
Like I said, I’ll do more than tell you. Now, relax and close your eyes . . .