Lost & Found - Jacqueline Sheehan [52]
“I see some burnt umber here. Not screaming orange, but tiny muscles that have been overtaxed and need time to repair. The body is amazing; you let these muscles rest for two days and they’ll be ready to go again. You might consider using some moderation.”
“I’ve never been good with moderation,” said Rocky through the hole in the table.
Tess placed a shockingly hot palm on the small of Rocky’s back.
“Oh. Now this is interesting. I feel a swarm of pollen-filled bumblebees. Not really, but that’s the sort of buzz I get. This area is about sex and creativity. Generativity.”
Rocky abruptly pushed her body up with both hands. “Thanks, Tess. That’s all the healthy intervention my body can stand.” She swung her legs around and leapt off the table. She grabbed her parka and left. When she got into the yellow truck, she felt the gushing drone of honeybees, drunk with nectar, between her hipbones.
Chapter 17
It was deep into December when Isaiah called Rocky and told her to meet him for coffee. “I think I’ve got some news about the dog.”
Rocky was well into her second cup when Isaiah came to the diner. At this time of year, the counter seats were filled with carpenters and men who had retired but still headed out of the house every morning. Isaiah gave them all a nod and ordered a cup of decaf.
“Charlotte says I’m too old for anything but decaf. Fortunately, I can’t tell the difference. It’s not often when you have to give something up and it goes down so painlessly.” He slid an Orono newspaper, several days old, toward Rocky. It was folded to a second page article. “Take a look,” he said, tapping the specific article with his pointer finger.
Rocky read the article. A woman’s body had been found in a house in Orono. Although the body was badly decomposed, and thought to have been there for a month or more, the police did not suspect foul play. The body had been identified as Elizabeth Townsend, age twenty-eight. An autopsy was being conducted. The mother, who lived in Providence, said that her daughter had a history of mental instability and she had not been in contact with Elizabeth for over a year.
Rocky pushed the newspaper away. She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t get it. You think this woman was the dog’s owner? That’s quite a leap.”
“She had just bought a house here. The old Hamilton place. It was a rental for years; fifteen years easy. The original owners were island people, came here every summer. But when they died, the kids couldn’t be bothered with it and rented it through a management company in Portland. The sale was done by a realtor off island, which is not all that unusual these days. We never even saw a for-sale sign on the island. This Elizabeth purchased the house in October, just about the time you got here.”
“Did you ever see her?”
“No. She probably only owned the place for a few weeks before she died. Unofficially the cops are saying it’s a suicide. They said she left a note, most of which was incomprehensible, but clearly the intent was suicide. She had owned the house in Orono, sold it, and was just renting from the new owners until the end of the year.”
Rocky switched back to diagnostic thinking. Her first stopping place was manic depression; a blast of manic purchasing induced Elizabeth to buy a house on an island, followed by a bottomless depression. It sounded like she had burned bridges with her family, which meant that she might have had severe episodes without medication, severe enough for her mother, or Elizabeth, to rupture their relationship. First diagnostic impression.
“I can’t say I recall seeing her. The only person who can say for sure is one of the kids working the ferry in October. He says he remembers her because of the dog.”
Rocky had seen people bring dogs on the ferry. If they had their cars, they usually kept the dog in the car. But if they were out, she noticed a variety of dogs, some overindulged, overfed, some surprisingly calm in