At Wick's End - Tim Myers [27]
That was just too bad for him. I never was one to respond well to pressure.
When somebody pushes me, I have a tendency to push back.
I had to walk past Markum’s mysteriously vague salvage-and-recovery operation to get back to my apartment. I was dog-tired, but my curiosity outweighed my desire for that hot shower.
I knocked on the door, waited thirty seconds, then knocked again, this time quite a bit harder than before.
No reply. Jiggling the handle, I discovered that the door was locked. It appeared that Markum was not in.
So what was the sound of voices I heard coming from the other side of the door? I patted my pockets and came up with an old grocery list and scratched out a quick note on the back of it. Would like to meet you. Harrison Black, Belle’s place.
After sliding it under the door, I headed back to my new apartment. It was time for that shower after all.
Glory be, hot water was not a problem in my new accommodations. I don’t know how long I stood under the pounding heat of the shower, but by the time I shut the water off, my fingers were starting to prune up. As I walked into the kitchen, toweling my hair dry, I lit Belle’s candle, most likely the last one she’d ever made, and watched as the wick jumped to life. The flame, strong and steady, reminded me of Belle, a solid part of my early life. There was a hint of cinnamon in the air that I loved. It reminded me again of sweet rolls, apple pie and Snickerdoodle cookies. I let the candle burn as I cooked my self a pasta dinner and kept it glowing while I ate. At the rate it was burning. I’d have that candle memorial for a month, a fitting period of mourning for my great-aunt.
Later, after the dishes were done, I went prowling around the apartment for something to read. Belle was an avid reader. She’d been the one who’d gotten me hooked on the printed word, mysteries in particular, giving me a complete set of Agatha Christies on my ninth birthday. Okay, I’d asked for a new baseball glove, but by the time I’d read The Mysterious Affair at Styles. I was lost forever. I’ve never been without a book to read since, though my past living conditions made it tough to keep them after I’d read them.
Belle had an extensive collection of books on hand, and I’d had to force myself not to start browsing as I’d resolved them from their tumbles to the floor. Amazingly enough, none of them had been damaged in their short falls. There was her own complete set of Agatha Christie books present, though hers were hardcovers instead of the paperbacks she’d given me. Judging from the number and variety of titles on the shelves, she’d kept her interest in mysteries through the years, with books from the latest bestseller lists mingling with classics from the Golden Age of mystery. I chose one of the Agatha Christies at random, curled up on the couch, and quickly found myself revisiting a world full of English villages, vicars and tea.
It nearly jarred me off the couch when the telephone rang.
“Hello,” I said, marking my place with one finger, unwilling to put the book down.
“So it’s true,” I heard a familiar feminine voice say on the other end of the line. “You’ve moved out of your apartment after all.”
“Hi, Becka. I’m surprised to hear from you. How’d you find me?” Becka Lane and I had dated off and on for the past few years, but three months ago she’d decided we were finished for good. She had declared with more frustration than regret that I’d never amount to anything, and she was tired of waiting for me to make something of my life. I’d been more relieved than heartbroken with her declaration, a sign that told me we were probably both just waiting for the other one to give up first.
She said, “It was the oddest thing, Harrison. I was out running around today and I went by your place. I don’t know what hit me, but I suddenly wanted to see you again. I can’t tell you how stunned I was to find you’d moved.”
I knew without a doubt how she’d gotten my new number. I was sure Mrs. Harper had been delighted to