Tiger's Eye (16 page)

He reached into a ceramic box shaped like a treasure chest and pulled out a bottle of aspirin. “I know it might be easier to seek blame somewhere, but sometimes an accident is just an accident.” He popped a couple of pain
relievers and washed them down with water. “Besides, we have other stories to cover right now.”

It was no accident, but I didn’t know how to convince Parker of that. Sure, if I spent time chasing this down it would cut into my work, but there was a bigger story here. And if I cracked it, Shea Parker would be the first one congratulating me.

I stood up and walked over to a photo of the two of them holding an award.

I was twelve years old the first time my father brought Parker home for dinner. Even then, I could see the man was a contrast to my dad. Dad was a bold, confident soul who played until his muscles were sore and worked until his fingers bled.

Shea was polite but cautious, always leaving a sip in the glass and food still on the plate.

For a man who didn’t like to upset the applecart, he sure picked the wrong family to build a business with.

I turned to face him. “I’m not a little girl anymore, Shea. I’m a hungry reporter with a seething need in my gut to follow this thing, wherever it may lead. So if I have to work twenty-four seven on this, I will. With or without your help.”

Parker sighed and sat back in his chair. He winced, either from the sunburn or my stubbornness; I couldn’t be certain. He stood up, joined me at the photograph, and just stared at it for a moment. Finally he said, “He was the first person I met when I came here from Madison. It’s hard to blend into a small town.” He adjusted the picture. “All it took was one beer and a friendship was born. People said we were crazy to go into publishing, but your dad, he
didn’t let the naysayers get to him. He had gumption. And everything he touched turned to gold.” He sighed. “What do you want me to do?”

“His files.”

He looked at me funny for a moment and not just because of the sunburn.

“What?”

“Stacy, all his files were destroyed five years ago when the basement flooded.”

Chapter 21

“Life is like a dog sled team. If you ain’t the lead dog, the scenery never changes.”

—Lewis Grizzard

Just one freaking time I would like to have a banner day where everything goes according to plan.

This was not that day.

At my insistence, Parker escorted me to the archive room, and sure as Shinola, it was empty.

I tossed my head back and yelled, “Dammit!” I ran my fingers through my hair and took a deep breath. “Well, at least I can go through the soft copies of the articles he wrote around that time.”

Parker was unusually quiet. He studied a crack in the concrete.

“Don’t tell me—”

He wrinkled his forehead and frowned. “I don’t know where he kept his personal backups. He took disks home every night, but the main files we collected from his desk after his death were stored in the basement.”

I wanted to punch something. So I did.

Parker doubled over and said, “Ow. That was uncalled for.”

“Well.” I looked around at the empty basement. My father had to have left some trace of his work. Maybe Birdie would know where? “I guess I’ll get to work on the dog story.”

I spent a couple of hours calling back the numbers left on the answering machine from stunned pet owners. After several interviews, I wrote the story, including a profile of Keesha. Gladys drove Derek to the inn to snap a photo of her to run alongside the text in hopes that someone would recognize the pretty pooch. I didn’t know if the dog had been stolen, but it was one scenario since no one had claimed her yet.

Then I made a quick call to the vet—prompted by one of the interviewees, who explained that his dog had been microchipped for the express purpose of identifying the pup if he ever got lost. Apparently it was some sort of chip inserted into the dog’s skin that, when scanned, would show up in a database that held the family’s contact information.

Hopefully some good would come out of this disastrous weekend. The thought that perhaps I may have at least saved an innocent dog from Goddess knows what gave me some comfort.

Some. Not much.

I was edgy, anxious, and I didn’t know where to focus that energy. My office wasn’t exactly spacious, but I stood up and paced it anyway after I sent the piece to Parker. What next? It was driving me absolutely crazy that there were no leads in my father’s death. There was no proof that
it was murder, but surely the messages, the visions—the dead men talking—weren’t all for naught.

The sun shone through the window brightly at this time of day and my attention was drawn to the far wall where the three muses sword hung. The gift from Birdie was embedded with tiny crystals that refracted the light brilliantly, splashing miniature rainbows across the wall.

I shuffled over Thor and put my hand on the hilt, receiving an instant static shock. I yanked away for a second. My eyes were drawn to the inscription on the blade.
The Divine lies in these three: Justice, Knowledge, Mercy.

I gripped it with both hands and flipped it over to read the back.

Follow your instincts. Trust in your power. Defend your honor.

I set off to do just that.

I grabbed Thor’s travel bag and loaded it into the car. Thor hopped into the backseat and I rolled all the windows down. Then I drove to Muddy Waters coffee shop on Main Street. They had a great selection of premade salads and sandwiches, and since I had other plans for my lunch hour, I didn’t want to waste it waiting for my food to be prepared.

The veggie panini looked good in the glass case so I chose that along with a couple of bottles of water. Iris was already there helping with the lunch crowd. I was just about to pay her when I heard Cinnamon call my name.

I turned to see her sitting at a round glass table supported by old Singer sewing machine stands. She was sitting next to Brian from the Hell Hounds and, I assumed, his band members. My cousin waved me over.

I pasted a smile on my face, recalling the image I received when I shook Brian’s hand. “Hi there.”

Cinnamon said, “This is my cousin, Stacy.”

Brian said, “We met yesterday. How are you feeling?”

The question came with concern. There was no malice that I could measure from him.

“Fine, thanks.” I held up my sandwich bag. “Just getting a quick bite.”

Cin said, “Why don’t you join us?”

A woman with a skull tattoo on her back and a shock of white hair with trails of black running through it was sitting in front of me. She didn’t turn around as she said, “You should.” She put her hand on Brian’s knee, indicating that he was her property.

“Actually, I can’t.” I tilted my head toward the door. “Thor’s waiting for me.”

Brian said to one of his bandmates, “Man, you have to see this dog. He’s as big as a horse.”

The guy was somewhere in his forties with spiky hair that I guessed hadn’t changed since Billy Idol dominated the rock charts. His eyes were red and hazy as he said, “Yeah, I remember a big dog right before the gig.” He nodded as if the event had happened in years past rather than a few days ago.

A fourth band member pulled up a chair and nodded at me. He looked more like an accountant than a rocker. “These bathrooms here are cleaner than any I’ve ever been in.” He unscrewed the cap on a bottle of Perrier and sipped.

I wanted to stick around just to get some information, but Thor was waiting for me and I had at least one other
stop to make before I went back to work. Plus, it was only a matter of time before Leo caught up to me.

“How long are you guys in town?” I asked.

“We’re taking off tomorrow,” Brian said.

Cinnamon said, “They’ll be playing again tonight. Stop by the bar.”

I said I would and hurried out the door.

Leo texted me just as I pulled past the thick wrought-iron gates of the cemetery.

We need to talk.

I texted back.
K. Be there ASAP.

I powered the phone off, stuffed it in my pocket, and grabbed a blanket from the trunk.

Thor and I followed the meandering gravel path past a statue of the Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus. The headstones near the front of the grounds were so old the names and dates had weathered away from years of being battered by rain, snow, sleet, and hail. Some of the stones had partially crumbled into the earth. Others, mostly those from the last few decades, were carved from shiny marble or heavy granite. Fresh flowers had been sprinkled throughout the landscape—roses, daisies, gladiolas. Occasionally I came across a grave with a potted palm or a fern. Remembrance offerings from loved ones.

It took ten minutes for Thor and me to reach my father’s gravesite.

It was easy to spot when we did because the regal tiger was sprawled across it. As we grew closer, she melted away.

“No, wait! Mom!”

But it was too late. She was gone.

I didn’t know how my mother was transporting her spirit guide to me from the Old Country, or if she was somehow sending me the illusion of one, but when I saw the ghostly beast there, I knew that my mother was attempting to communicate with my father.

Had she succeeded?

And if she had, what was she telling him?

Thor sat down next to me, leaning just a bit, and panting.

“Come on, boy.”

There was a towering oak nearby and I set his dishes up beneath it, then filled them with food and water. He got busy slurping up the refreshments and I shook the blanket out and laid it on my father’s resting site. I pulled out a penny and placed it on the smooth, gray stone. My offering.

“Hi, Dad. I know I haven’t visited in a while.” I unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite, searching for the words. The vinegar dressing was both bitter and sweet gliding down my throat. “I guess it seems silly to sit here because I can talk to you anywhere, really. Birdie says the departed are never far from us.” Clouds tumbled in overhead, offering a bit of relief from the heat. “Then again, Birdie says a lot of things.”

A cardinal fluttered past and landed on the neighboring tombstone. His crimson head stretched toward the sky as he sang into the wind. I stared at him for a moment, thinking that his life was beautifully simple and wishing I had that kind of peace. The peace from knowing that you could always find shelter from a storm by building a sturdy
home. That your family would be safe as long as you kept an eye out for predators.

Except there were always predators.

“I need your help on this one, Dad. I need your guidance to find out what happened to you.” I considered for a moment dipping into my herbs and crystals and casting a spell to call him. But a cemetery is filled with a full spectrum of energy—good, bad, mischievous.

Evil.

Sacred burial ground is a powerful source for enchantments and I wasn’t confident that my state of mind was sturdy enough to contain the charm to just my father.

The last thing I needed was a park full of dead people hitching a ride home with me.

I nibbled at my sandwich again, wrapped up the remainder, and put it in my satchel.

Wild nettle grew along a nearby fence line. I picked some of that, thanking the gods for planting it there, and dusted it all around my father’s resting place for protection.

I waited for a sign that he was near. A whisper in the wind. A butterfly passing over the penny. Any indication that he could communicate with me.

None came.

Finally I stood, cleared the space, and cast a second circle of protection all around me.

On my knees, I made a triangle with my hands and brought them to my chest. After several deep breaths, I closed my eyes and imagined pushing out all the thoughts. The brain chatter formed into visual words with legs, the images became photos, and I took a wide-brushed broom and swept it all aside. I tossed my emotions on top of the
pile—love, anger, fear, sorrow—one by one. Next, I pictured a large door at the edge of my mind. When I opened it, all the clutter tumbled out. I slammed it shut and locked it with a big brass key.

The last step to opening up completely to whatever may come was several more tapered breaths.

Then I waited.

A few minutes later, my dad walked into the white room of my mind’s eye, a folded newspaper tucked under his arm. He sank into a large brown leather chair. Seconds after, another man stepped into the room, younger. He sat in an identical chair across from my father and produced a beer bottle, which he uncapped. Then, out of nowhere, that damn Chihuahua bounded into the room, but before I could shoo him out, the trance was broken by the piercing ring of my stupid cell phone.

My eyes popped open. I reached into my bag, about to answer the call. Then I remembered.

I had turned it off.

I checked the screen.

Black as ink.

But still ringing.

Chapter 22