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  She was half-right, I’ll give her that. As I lurched the truck into the parking spot I’d claimed as mine, I took a mental snapshot of Bugsy. The khaki work pants, navy blue t-shirt, and his caramel-colored locks whisked by the November wind. It left me in a bit of a daydream for a second myself.

  “You coming?” Ags roused me from the open passenger side of the truck.

  “Mmhmm.” I cut the engine and we proceeded toward the two.

  “Hey, Bugsy.” Ags rubbed her neck theatrically, in my opinion, and nodded in my direction. “Somebody we know could use another driving lesson before she hits the highway.”

  Bugsy unleashed the dimples. “Any time.”

  “I’m not that bad of a driver, but there’s some truth to what she’s saying.” I smiled, distantly. I’d felt a sick feeling forming in the pit of my stomach since the conversation I’d had with Nicole at Maxi Maid.

  Ags disappeared into the store, giggling at something Russ had said under his breath, and I felt myself form a disgusted expression. I turned to the man beside me. “So?”

  “So, what?” Bugsy’s eyes narrowed at me.

  “So, did you find out anything more about Russ?”

  “You mean anything incriminating, don’t you?”

  “Potato, poh-tato,” I said and flitted my eyes. “How’s he like boat life?” I asked, looking in the direction of the Summerwind.

  “Seems to be fine with it.”

  I smirked. Who wouldn’t be fine with it?

  Bugsy smiled at me. “What?”

  I shrugged. “Just something I don’t like about him.”

  “You mean other than the fact he calls you ma’am?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I hear things,” he said and winked at me before we went our separate ways.

  ✽✽✽

  I took the scenic route back to my boat; my meagre bag of groceries didn’t weigh me down nearly as much as what was on my mind. When I stopped off to see the gals on the Gee Spot, they were prepping for dinner—some exotic recipe they’d picked up in their travels—and they let me know that Sefton and Muncie were on the guest list. Making my way out of STD, I meandered toward the Summerwind and felt the overwhelming urge to snoop. It’s a female thing and, while I readily admit I’ve been scolded and burned for being so nosy, thus far I’ve been too resilient to be deterred. I put my bag of groceries down and casually looked each way on the dock. Nobody coming and not much activity on the surrounding boats. I stood on the dock and leaned on the railing of the boat to peek into what I knew was the salon. Only thing was the blasted curtains were drawn and, due to Shears’ occasional bouts of migraines, he’d insisted on having blackout curtains that were as opaque as a sheet of ten-gauge steel.

  Nonchalantly, I moseyed down to the forward sleeping area and, after looking around for anyone spying on me spying on Russ, I tried to catch a glimpse through the crack between those curtains. The mesh of the screens on the window made seeing in difficult. But not impossible. I was startled for a moment when my phone, tucked inside my canvas bag, made a low vibrating sound, not loud enough for anyone but me to hear. Back to the order of snooping. Here’s what I saw. A mess of clothes, for one thing. It looked as though the contents of Russ’ duffel bag had exploded in the stateroom of the boat. The U of O shirts and the hoodie from Pike’s machine shop were littered around the room. Scanning some more, as much as that was possible, I saw on the built-in bureau, typical guy things—change from his pockets, a few slips of paper, socks, and a book, though I couldn’t make out the title. I squinted to make out the next item. Gloves, gardening gloves by the looks of them, and perched beside them a watch. Hadn’t Russ told us all that he’d sold his watch at the jewellery store up town?

  There was nothing else remarkable in the room except the fact that the bed was made. I only list this under remarkable items because A, Russ doesn’t seem the type and B, I know for sure that I hadn’t made my own bed that morning and shuddered at the notion that Russ outclassed me. I was pausing and considering what I’d seen when my phone went off again. I picked up my bag, rooted through it, and pulled it out. Two new text messages had arrived, both from a number I didn’t recognize.

  “Stop snooping” and “I mean it.”

  I looked from side to side down the dock again, wondering who was watching me and from where. I picked up my bag of groceries and casually walked back to my boat, cognizant that that someone may still have their eyes on me.

  ✽✽✽

  Once inside my boat, I locked the stern door and peeked out a porthole. Were they still watching? I looked down at my guard dog/snoring throw pillow and wondered what Pepper’d do if a stranger did come on the boat and, while I was still in the mood to snoop, I continued. From the safety of home this time and on my computer. “Russ Shears” I typed into the search bar, and instantaneously the internet did the snooping for me. Beyond the Facebook profile I’d already seen, three LinkedIn profiles came up for Russ Shears, all in the UK. There was also a Russ Shears, dead artist, that came up. Nice pieces but not our man. And then there was an Instagram profile for a photographer of that name. Beautiful pictures. Of trees. None of the man himself. I had reached a dead end. For the time being anyway.

  One thing led to another and, before I knew it, I found myself searching for results on Lisa Claire. Now, from the response I’d gotten from good ol’ Nicole, I wondered if Lisa Claire was in fact her real name, or if Nicole was just having a moment. But with nothing else to go on, I asked my partner in sleuthing, Mr. Google, to give me some info. This was quite the rabbit hole. Do you know how many people are named Lisa Claire? A lot. Floral designer. Graphic designer. Lawyer. Nope. Nope. Nope. And the list went on. I added more criteria after each search result. Adding “California”, “cleaner”, and “Roddy” to narrow the results, tapping my hand on the top of my desk to some nothing of a tune as I scanned the results each time until results containing all the key words were zero. It seemed odd to me that a woman who liked to show off her pricey purses and Rolexed son didn’t have a social media account. Eventually, one of my searches got me caught up in the world wide web of online recipes and Pinterest ideas and, before long, it was time to get ready for my night class.

  ✽✽✽

  “Anybody here?” I called out in Aggie’s store. I was on the search for coffee to sip on my way to class, something to keep me alert since I was sleep deficient as of late. Looking across the aisles, I couldn’t spot her adjusting the displays she so frequently changed up, and so I made my way behind the counter. I sized up the coffee pot, gave it a sniff—smelled fresh enough—and poured a cup to go. I was looking around at her counter, noting the interesting serving dishes pulled out already for the upcoming Thanksgiving feast. I went to the fridge, to scout for any leftover roast beef I could nibble on, and there it was on the door, staring me in the face like a lottery ticket. Well, it was beside the actual lottery ticket on the fridge, but there it was… a note. From Russ Shears. I looked toward the back room and heard nothing. I craned my neck to look outside and that’s when I spotted Ags and Russ, looking up at the building then joking and laughing like they were in some high school romance musical.

  Surely, Ags wouldn’t miss the note for one night. I’d just slip it into my bag, take it to my course, and return it.

  ✽✽✽

  “Aww, what a sweet note,” my classmate Edna said as she looked over one of the handwriting samples I’d brought to night school. Unfortunately, it was the note from Russ to Ags and not one of the specimens I’d gathered from Hagen and Bugsy. Here’s the note that Edna found so precious: “Hi Babe, Sorry I can’t make it to the fair with you, something has come up. Xoxo R.” Not exactly Lord Byron.

  The course instructor, Mr. Hives, was at the front of the room talking as he scrawled on the chalkboard to illustrate his points. “Now, the way someone writes a lowercase O or A can be a decisive clue as to whether or not they are lying.”

  My ears perked up; he had
my attention.

  He chuckled. “Of course, there are secretive people.” He seemed to be staring right at me and I glanced away. “And then there are downright liars.” He didn’t look at me that time, and I felt a little relief. It’s not like we knew each other, but maybe he’d taken the time to analyse the registrations when everyone signed up for his class. At any rate, he went on. “So, a secretive person writes their O with a circle inside the O, and always on the righthand side. And a rule of thumb is that the larger this inner circle or loop is, the more secretive this person is, or the more secrets he or she has or keeps.”

  Heads nodded and craned at writing samples on desks. I looked down at the ones I’d brought. Russ Shears had this type of O in his writing and I circled the letters in pencil—I’d have to erase those marks before I returned the note to Ags. Hives must have been watching me because he approached my desk. “Yes, that’s right, you’ve got the hang of it here.” He was comically enthusiastic. Hives returned to the chalkboard and drew a few more samples. “Now, see these? Watch out for these people,” he guffawed. He really seemed to be enjoying himself. “People who lie intentionally, rather than say by omission, write their O’s in this way,” he said, pointing to the board. “They’ll combine interior loops or have significantly large inner loops like we see here.”

  There was a long drawn out “oh” from the corner of the room and Hives eagerly went on a mission to inspect.

  “Ah, yes. You’ve got a good example here,” he said to the pissed-off looking gentleman hovering over the note.

  “Let’s talk about T’s now,” he said. He went back to the front of the room, and used the dusty eraser to more or less remove the big fat lying O’s from the chalkboard. In the chalky smear that remained, he printed something new. “See here? See how the bar on this T crosses very low on what we’ll call the stem? This person fears failure and change. You might say they have low self-esteem,” he said, and seemed pleased with himself. “Actually, that’s a good way to remember it, isn’t it? The lower the T, the lower the esTEEM,” he said, emphasizing the last syllable.

  Hmm, memory tricks for the graphologist in all of us, I thought and looked down at my samples. One of the samples showed signs of this. It was on Bugsy’s note where he’d written: “Alex, here is the handwriting sample you bothered me for.” About what you’d expect from the man. I didn’t need a handwriting course to tell me that Bugsy had low self-esteem; it did, however, reinforce what I had already gathered based on his familial relationships.

  Over the course of the next two hours, Hives gave us insight into the hallmarks of other personality indicators. The variation in slanting from left to right—an indicator that the person has trouble making decisions and may be prone to mood swings. The loopiness of a T or D—an indicator of sensitivity or, at its extreme, paranoia. And then the stingers or hooks on letters—these people are looking for challenges and easily become bored. “A good way of remembering this is associating the hook with fishing and fishing for a challenge,” Hives said, another one of his handy memory tricks.

  Edna’s hand shot up in earnest. “Oh, Mr. Hives?”

  “Yes, Edna.”

  “How about block letters? My husband writes everything in block letters,” she said, and I wondered if she should have disclosed that.

  Hives went wide eyed. “Well…” He cleared his throat. “This is just generally speaking, mind you,” he said, prefacing what must be something uncomfortable to come. I could hardly wait. “Block letters, in all caps that is, can be an indication of someone who is not comfortable disclosing any information about themselves.”

  “Oh,” Edna said lowly.

  I cringed on her behalf.

  Hives went on to address the class, come what may in Edna’s marriage. “Furthermore, when the letters are not connected, this can show an unwillingness, or frankly an inability, to relate to people on an intimate or interpersonal level.”

  “Oh.” Edna was at it again.

  “Like a psychopath?” came a voice from the back of the class, and all heads turned to see a bespectacled and bookish looking young woman.

  “That’s not really my discipline, and I can’t comment with any authority,” Hives replied, no doubt acutely aware that Edna was feverishly taking notes.

  “We studied psychopathy in my other class last night.” The young woman adjusted her black rimmed glasses. “Next week’s narcissism,” she said, and I wondered what a hit she must be at parties.

  “Thank you. Let’s move on,” Hives said, and I gave him sympathetic eyes.

  A moment later, Edna nudged me and pointed to the last sample I’d brought. Hagen’s. He’d left it on my door that afternoon. Written in block letters: “ALEX HAVE A GOOD TIME AT YOUR COURSE TONIGHT.”

  ✽✽✽

  “Goodnight, Edna. See you next week,” I said as I left classroom C210 of the Marysville College, and as I walked down the nearly empty hallways, I couldn’t help but read into the writing samples I had. Of all three examples, how could Hagen’s be so nefarious? I turned when I heard my name.

  “Hey, Alex!”

  It was Marcy Kennedy; she was jogging toward me from the end of the corridor.

  “Hey, Marce, what are you doing here? Don’t you have a full enough schedule already?” I asked the woman who didn’t seem to have five minutes for herself.

  “Oh, I’m taking a course on managing non-profits, just a three-week thing, once a week,” she said. “Hey, you want a ride?”

  “No thanks, Marce, it’s not really on your way,” I said. It’s true, the marina’s not on her way, but more importantly, every time I accept a ride from her, I’m invariably pulling white dog hair off my clothes for days. “Oh, by the way, I’m picking up more shirts for the shelter tomorrow. Randy said they’re ready,” I added before a little more small talk, and we eventually split off at the junction of C hall and the F wing, and I made my way out onto the street.

  Turning the corner at Greenock, I headed down State passing the MMM Bakery and eyeing the brownies and vanilla squares in the window. The security camera at the front door made a faint humming sound, and the smell of fresh bread was being pumped out the exhaust fan on the side of the building. I looked across the street at the pharmacy and wondered what the link was—how is it they both broken into and in such rapid succession?

  The street was quiet and dark. I looked up at the apartments above the stores. Lights were on, but I didn’t see anyone spying on me and I tried to shake off the sudden feeling that I was being watched. I looked behind me just as a car turned the corner and then stopped at the traffic light. My imagination was getting the better of me. I shrugged and walked another block. The worrisome feeling returned when I heard a snapping sound, like a twig breaking, and I turned around again. No one on the sidewalk behind me. I let out a breath and picked up my pace. I wasn’t going to win any speed-walking competitions, but I didn’t feel like breaking into a full out run down the sidewalk in my jeans and with my canvas bag flapping behind me. I got to the corner of Main and Chapman. The light was red, and I was going straight—with no traffic in sight. I kept on walking. I heard a car door slam and then footsteps. Some of the streetlights on this stretch of Main were out thanks to the construction going on, the sidewalk torn up. I bounded through another red light. I was feeling tense and listened to my own heavy-breathing, suddenly too scared to look back to see what might be behind me.

  “That’s jaywalking, you know,” I heard the loud voice. The familiar voice. The familiar smooth voice of Ben Hagen stopped me in my tracks, and I let out a sigh of relief.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “The question is, what are you doing here? Walking in the dark alone at night.” He looked me up and down.

  “Oh, well, I forgot they had the sidewalk torn up over here. I’m just on my way home from night school.”

  “I thought you might be. You shouldn’t be walking alone, not with what’s been going on.” His voice was
serious.

  I couldn’t argue with him, but I did wonder when or if I should bring up the revelation (such that it was) about his handwriting.

  “How about I give you a ride? Just to make sure you get home alright. I’m parked just across the street,” he said, nodding in that direction.

  “Oh, so that was you behind me a couple blocks back?”

  “No. What do you mean?” He furrowed his brow, more serious than before.

  “Nothing. Must have just been my imagination.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “Ready for another lesson?”

  I had been nestled on the stern of my boat the next morning, taking in the sunshine and so engrossed in the Sue Grafton book I’d been reading, T for Trespass, that I hadn’t heard Bugsy’s footsteps coming down my dock. There he was in all his blue-shirt glory. I swear someone once told him that he looks good in blue and he never forgot it. It’s true, though, he does. But he was offering and I needed to discuss with someone intelligent my suspicions about Lisa Claire and, by association, Roddy, and so with an offer like that, I smiled back enthusiastically and got to my feet.

  “You seriously want to take me driving again?” I asked, giving him one last chance to back out.

  “Yeah, sure. Why not? I like to live on the edge. Plus, I could use a change of scenery for a while. The dock at number seven is turning out to be more complicated than I thought it’d be.”

  “Fair enough.” I rolled my eyes. “Got your crash helmet?” I asked, giggling as I snatched the keys to Nat’s truck from the hook in the salon, closed the stern door, and then bounded up to the dock. As we passed Jack’s boat, a pink flowered tablecloth flapped in the breeze, weighted down by a ceramic decoupaged turkey. I wrinkled up my nose and hoped my weak gag reflex wouldn’t kick in.

  I tucked myself in behind the wheel of Nat’s truck and tried to remember the salient points of takeoff while I also sorted the slides of the PowerPoint in my head, the alliteratively entitled “Is Roddy a Rotter?” Ten minutes later, I had successfully managed to drive up the marina hill, stop for the train at the railroad tracks—after some worried sounds from my co-pilot, and we were on our way to do some parallel parking. Which I was dreading.