A Dance of Cranes Page 2

  “I get what I get.” He lowered his voice and looked around him furtively. “I take it you haven’t found those keys yet.”

  Lindy shook her head. In the turmoil following Domenic’s departure and her temporary move, she had mislaid her keys. It wasn’t catastrophic: Emma’s place had a keyless lock and the car dealer had provided a spare fob when she leased her new Volkswagen Jetta. There was also a spare key to the cottage beneath one of the marram grass planters, if she ever felt like returning to the scene of the crime — the place where Domenic had killed their relationship. But her office keys had also been on her key ring, and revealing to her boss that she’d been careless enough to lose them was out of the question. Eric Chappell had been watching for signs that she’d been damaged by the breakup, that she really did need the time off he had been advocating so insistently. The loss of the office keys would provide him with all the ammunition he needed. Lindy couldn’t imagine what had possessed her to confide in Jeremy in the first place, but her normally sound judgment had been a bit off lately. Chopping off her hair may have been one example; leasing the diesel version of that Jetta certainly was. She suspected enlisting Jeremy’s help with the keys might be another. She was fairly sure he had read more into her whispered confidence than she’d intended; and while he would undoubtedly get the message sooner or later that it was just an innocent request for help, sooner would definitely be better.

  A tall, willowy woman came over to pick up her soy latte. It eluded neither of the women that Jeremy never quite seemed to make it all the way to Claire’s desk to deliver it directly, the way he did with Lindy’s order. “I saw that man again this morning,” she said. “The one I told you had been watching you that day.”

  Jeremy’s interest was immediate. He bent to look through the window and scoured the street intently. “Nobody out there now. Did you say he’s been here before? What day was that, then?”

  Behind Jeremy’s back, Lindy offered her friend a pair of extravagantly-raised eyebrows. “Don’t worry about him,” she said. “As I say, Jeremy, it’s been lovely to chat, but …”

  “I do think you should take it a bit more seriously, Lindy,” said Claire earnestly. “Perhaps even mention it to the police.”

  Lindy gave her a soft smile. “He is the police, Claire. His name’s Sergeant Maik.”

  It was an inadvertent turn in the High Street a couple of days earlier that had allowed Lindy to catch the brief glance of her watcher. He’d ducked out of sight as soon as she spun around, but she’d seen Danny’s bulky form often enough to have no doubt who it was.

  “If you know him, why doesn’t he just come up and say hello? Why keep shadowing you like this?”

  Because somebody asked him to, Claire, thought Lindy. In truth, it seemed like pretty menial fare for Danny Maik, checking up on Lindy and reporting back to his old boss, Detective Chief Inspector Domenic Jejeune. And why bother, anyway? It had been weeks now and there had been no word from Lindy’s ex-boyfriend. He wasn’t coming back. That much was clear. But even if he was having trouble letting go, involving his former sergeant in this silly spying game seemed a bit much. And, it seemed stranger still that a sensible, no-nonsense man like Maik would have agreed to have anything to do with it.

  “Well, as long as you’re sure he’s no threat, Linds,” said Claire uncertainly.

  “No, no threat at all.”

  Despite Lindy’s assurance, Jeremy surveyed the High Street once more. Apparently satisfied, he turned and approached Lindy’s desk as Claire moved away. “Don’t worry, Lindy. I’ll keep an eye out. See you tomorrow.”

  Lindy watched him as he made his way to the door. As cloying as his attention seemed at times, at least it was an indication that somebody out there was interested in her. Disappointment. That was the word. The dissolution of a relationship was never easy on the circle of mutual friends, but the way that lot at the police station were carrying on, you’d have thought it was a contagious disease. Beyond this foolish, furtive surveillance by Danny, there had been no contact from anyone at all. She’d have expected, at the very least, a call from Domenic’s boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Colleen Shepherd. She’d been through her own share of troubled relationships, and she knew how close Lindy and Dom had been. The suggestion of a quiet chat over an afternoon tea wouldn’t have been too much to ask, surely? Lindy might have refused, probably would have, but the offer would have been nice. It would have at least shown that she was still in the thoughts of somebody down at the station.

  She shrugged aside her resentment and brought herself back to the present. She stood by the window, sipping her coffee absently, watching the people moving along the street outside, oblivious to their surroundings, to the emotional earthquakes that might be ready to shake them to their foundations at any moment. The pain of the breakup with Dom had been almost paralyzing at first, but the rawness of the feelings was dulling slightly with each passing day. Perhaps it helped now, with distance, that she could understand some of the reasons for Domenic’s sudden departure. He was tormented by the guilt over a boy’s death that he felt he could have prevented. Compounding it, he felt he had let so many people down. His findings in the case had been mistaken, allowing them all to believe in a solution that he now knew was wrong. For a while, Lindy had tried to convince herself that there was some hope in the anaemic comments he had left with her about his return. He wasn’t sure. Maybe. Perhaps. But one word stood out, the one that had cut so deeply: Alone. He had things he needed to work out alone. It was the word that told her Domenic could no longer find what he needed from her, or their relationship. The word that told her it was over between them.

  Lindy focused again on a sunny Saltmarsh High Street, busy with midmorning activity. So many of the places flashed memories at her. The trattoria where she and Domenic had shared an occasional glass of Chablis, the travel agency where they’d stood shoulder to shoulder and considered tropical destinations they might visit, if he could ever get time off work. A sudden wave of sadness swept over her. It doesn’t come when you’re ready for it, she thought, when you’ve steeled yourself and are prepared to handle it. It lies in wait, ready to ambush you when you’re distracted by other things. So, you have to be on the alert, prepared at all times. But it was so wearying, this constant vigilance. It wrung you out, until eventually you couldn’t do anything but let your guard down. And then sorrow snuck in, delivering its stab of pain before melting away again like the coward it was.

  She gave a deep, soul-shuddering sigh. No more. No more sadness, no more dwelling on the past, or what might have been. It was time to move on. She’d have a quiet night in tonight, and in the morning, she’d find a way to tell Danny Maik that he could end his watching brief. Perhaps she’d just go up to him and deliver the message straight to the sergeant’s stoic, world-weary face. I’m okay, Danny, really I am. Look at me, footloose and fancy-free, without a care in the world. Well, perhaps one care. She still had to find those bloody keys.

  4

  Juan “Traz” Perez took a long drink of his Lone Star beer and considered his reflection in the neon-framed mirror behind the bar. Even without the disturbing hue the blue light gave his complexion, the expression that looked back at him was a long way from the easygoing one he usually wore. Three days ago, he was a Saint Lucia resident with loose plans for a trip back home to Canada. One text message later, here he was in the south of Texas, preparing to embark on a task he didn’t really understand, but one that troubled him just the same.

  The bar was called the Stock Pond, and it billed itself as Amblin’s Favourite Watering Hole. There wasn’t much water in evidence, but Traz believed they’d got the other part of the description pretty much spot on. He’d been hoping a casual beer or two might give him the chance to collect his thoughts, but he’d known as soon as he set foot in here that this wasn’t going to be the place for quiet reflection. On the stage behind him, a morose guitar player was sharing his three-chord anguish with the half-empty roo
m. He had just concluded a song called “I’m Gonna Put a Bar in My Car and Drive Myself to Drink,” and while Traz could have pointed out there were a number of levels on which this might be inadvisable, if the singer’s circuit consisted of many places like this, he could at least understand the man’s sentiment.

  He looked over his shoulder and listened to a few bars of the singer’s newest offering before turning away again with a slight wince. The woman who had just taken the vacant bar stool beside him offered a sympathetic smile. “Country and Western oldies not your thing?”

  “It’s not even the end of the third verse, and already his truck has broken down, his dog has died, and his truck’s broken down again.” Traz shook his head. “Makes you wonder why he doesn’t get a more reliable truck.”

  “Or a more reliable dog. His sweetheart’s gonna be leaving him any time now, too,” said the woman. “Hardly surprising though, with the run of luck he’s on. I mean, who’d want to hang around a loser like that?” She held up her bottle by the neck and chinked Traz’s glass. “Verity, by the way. Verity Brown. My friends call me Verry.”

  As she turned to watch the singer, Traz took the opportunity to study the woman in detail. She wore a lip ring, and her fingernails were individually painted with tiny designs, but her chopped auburn hair had a lustrous shine and her suntanned skin glowed healthily. There were no signs that sitting in Amblin’s Favourite Watering Hole was a long-time habit for this woman. Perhaps her bright eyes held a touch of discontent, but just because people took their troubles to a bar didn’t necessarily mean they were open to sharing them. Besides, Traz had enough problems of his own just now. He looked toward the stage, where a haze of blue smoke hung over the empty dance floor.

  “They still allow smoking in here? Is that even legal anymore?”

  “This is south Texas,” she reminded him. “They don’t take kindly down here to folks tellin’ them what they can and can’t do. I take it you’re new in town.”

  Traz nodded. “Flew in today. I came to visit the Aransas Wildlife Refuge.”

  “You’re a bird watcher, huh?” She didn’t sound overly impressed. “Down here doing the South Texas circuit?”

  Traz shook his head regretfully. “I’m driving north in the morning, so unfortunately, I won’t have a chance to see any of the other sites around here.”

  The woman’s slightly skewed expression could have indicated a number of things, a comment on his itinerary among them. For a birder to come here for a single day in Aransas and then drive out without taking in the Gulf Coast’s other rich birding opportunities suggested either very bad planning or another agenda. But if Verity Brown had any further interest in the matter, she masked it with a long drink from her bottle. She waved the empty in the bartender’s direction, gesturing for two more.

  The final notes of the song were greeted with what could only generously be called applause, but more enthusiasm accompanied the announcement of the next tune. Traz pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and closed his eyes.

  “If you don’t mind my saying,” said the woman, “I wouldn’t exactly have you figured for a place where the set list includes songs like ‘I’d Rather Have a Bottle in Front of Me than a Frontal Lobotomy’.”

  “What gave me away?”

  “Well, for one thing, you’re way too neat to be a cowboy. Don’t get me wrong, some of these guys clean up pretty good when they put their minds to it, but you take things to a whole ’nother level.”

  Traz gave her an ironic smile. “Thanks, I think.” It said something about the alienation he felt in this part of the world that he was genuinely unsure if the woman’s comment on his well-groomed appearance was a compliment or not.

  The bartender set two opened beers on the bar before them. Verity handed one to Traz and cast him a quizzical look. “I’m curious. How’d you manage to book a car to drive on out of here, if you only got in this morning? I tried a couple of days back and all the rental agencies were cleaned out for the week.”

  “This drive’s not a rental. Some snowbird has been down here restoring a car over the winter, and now he’s flown back and he needed somebody to take it up to Saskatchewan for him. There’s an agency that arranges these things. A few of them, I guess.”

  The singer ended his set to more lukewarm applause and told the audience he would be taking a short break. As far as Traz was concerned, it was the best thing he’d heard through the P.A. system since he’d walked in, but as the singer trudged off stage to slump dispiritedly against the far end of the bar, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the man. However difficult Traz’s own task was going to be over the next few days, at least he knew his efforts wouldn’t go unappreciated.

  The audience, such as it was, broke up and people moved off in various directions to stretch their legs. Verity smiled and nodded to some of the people as they passed, exchanging pleasantries with one or two.

  “You’re obviously from here,” said Traz.

  “Not originally. I was born and raised in Lafayette, Louisiana, but I don’t get back there much these days. What you call snowbirds, they call ‘winter Texans’ down here. I come here in autumn and do some research over the winter months, but once my subjects leave in the spring, I head up to a place called Scenic, South Dakota.”

  “What’s the big attraction in Scenic?”

  “Not much of anything anymore. It’s a ghost town. Kinda sad and kinda scary at the same time. But my grandmother has a farm just on the outskirts. As a place to sit on your front porch on a summer’s night, listening to the crickets and watching the sun set, it’s about as good as it gets. ’Course, whether I can ever get there is a whole ’nother question.”

  “Can’t you get a flight?”

  Verity shook her head and sipped her drink again. “I need to take a bunch of lab equipment along with me. I’d rather not run the risk that some bored airport worker thinks Fragile is some kinda secret code for Indestructible. Please Try.” She smiled sadly and nodded towards the singer at the end of the bar. “You know, you listen to enough of his songs, you might come to believe all of life’s problems can be solved by sitting in a bar and having one more cold beer.” Verity raised her bottle and took another long drink. “Just not mine, I guess.”

  Traz scrolled through his phone and turned it towards her. “This is the agency that set up my drive delivery. Perhaps if you call them in the morning, they might have something for you.”

  “Yeah,” said Verity ruefully, “’cause my luck’s been running that way.” But she put the number into her phone anyway. She scooted off the bar stool, heading for a door beneath a sign that read Fillies.

  While he waited for the return of the woman he was already finding strangely captivating, Traz thought once more about his task. Three thousand miles. Forty-eight hours of driving time. A week out of his life. And for what? He didn’t know. He’d been sent only a series of coordinates that tracked straight north for the first half of his journey and then veered off to the northwest for the second part. He had no idea what he was going to find when he reached each of his checkpoints. The implication had been that this was all going to make sense at some point. But at the moment, it made none to him. He packed away his doubts when he saw Verity returning and offered her one of his best smiles. In her absence, at least one light had gone on for him.

  “Your subjects leave town after the winter, you said. As in migrate. You’re studying birds, aren’t you? And down here, that probably means Whooping Cranes.”

  “Avian genetics, specializing in migratory imprinting.” Verity eyed him warily. “And there’s that look. The one that says an accent like this has no business in the company of such fancy-soundin’ words.”

  “No, not at all.” But Traz’s guilty grin suggested the thought had at least crossed his mind. “But, working with Whooping Cranes, I mean, wow,” he said, giving it a little extra by way of apology, “that must be great.”

  “It is,” she c
onceded, “but now the birds have mostly moved on for the season, I’d kinda like to do the same. Instead it looks like I’m gonna be stuck here listening to this guy’s tales of woe for a few more days yet.”

  “You know, I’m heading that way myself,” said Traz casually. “Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, then the Dakotas. Leaving tomorrow, bright and early. There’d be room for one more. And a few fragile packages.” He raised his eyebrows, perhaps not even sure himself how serious the offer was.

  “You seem nice enough and all,” she said uneasily, “but driving across the country with somebody I just met in a cowboy bar isn’t right up there at the top of my bucket list, if you know what I mean. Thanks all the same, but my rent is paid to the end of the month, so all waiting’s gonna cost me is time. And now the birds have all but gone, I have plenty of that.”

  Traz nodded his understanding. “Probably wouldn’t have worked out anyway. I’ll be making some stops along the way. If you were looking to get to Scenic in a hurry, I wouldn’t be your best bet.”

  The woman seemed grateful that he hadn’t taken the rejection to heart. She indicated the singer, beginning to make his way slowly from the bar back towards the stage. “We should get another round in before he starts,” she said. “He tends to feature some gospel songs toward the end of the night. Trust me, ‘Dropkick me, Jesus, Through the Goalposts of Life’ is not something you want to experience with a clear head.”

  A clear head was not something either of them needed to worry about by the time they stumbled from their shared taxi into the motel’s neon-lit forecourt. They had packed in a couple more beers and even a brief swirl around the dance floor during the singer’s last set, and as they watched the departing lights of the taxi, both would have admitted the night had turned out a good deal better than they’d been expecting.