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Sentimental value rather than artistic merit had brought the painting to the Wadsworth. The canvas had arrived damaged, torn, and sooty from the five alarm blaze that had destroyed its previous housing. The Wadsworth had taken the restoration on as a favor to an anonymous donor with the understanding that, in return for our services, the museum would receive a ten year loan agreement to a privately-owned Johannes Vermeer.
Ritual Conduit was not a Vermeer in style or subject. Seven tarot cards had been laid before the viewer, the fortune teller a Cheshire smile in a dark room. Heat had cracked the paint everywhere except a single card. The sixth, horned Baphomet, looked as pristine as the hour the original oil paint had hardened. “No burning the devil!” our curator had joked. I didn’t appreciate the fire’s exception, nor the way the teller’s green eyes gleamed after the initial haze had been removed. For weeks I’d dreamt of those eyes reading mine, of a delicate card’s edge traced between my breasts, of fang tasting flesh and a ribbon of blood unravelling down.
With a shiver, I turned over the card in my hand—a phone number in black ink. No sheriff's office or county district listed.
Samson, the larger of my two cats, padded to my feet and mewed for the dinner I'd forgotten to serve him and his adopted sister. Setting the card on the hall table, I headed for the kitchen.
But not before locking the door and peeking through the shades at the sheriff’s truck parked in my quiet, cozy neighborhood.
chapter 2
HANGNAIL MOON
Samson earned his name by virtue of being the largest domestic cat I'd ever known the pleasure of serving. Per the vet, he was fit as a gargantuan fiddle; basically a twenty-two pound dog with retractable claws. He enjoyed a good game of fetch and even knew several tricks.
The Maine Coon’s coat was luxurious: a blotched mocha tabby set on a base of sand. His ward, however, a two-year old black female whose vet bills had sentenced me to a Ramen noodle diet for months, was a minuscule, tattered-ear imp. That she was a Maine Coon, the only type of cat Gram had kept since arriving in America, and had entered my life as Gram exited, left me feeling as though destiny had paired us together.
We called her Igor. She wasn't pretty, even after several diligent rounds of shampooing off green spray paint had revealed a coat of midnight. Her yellow eyes bulged from her skull, the left more than the right. Her fur, no matter how often brushed and how well she ate, remained short and coarse. She was always licking it upright at stiff angles around her leg and belly scars.
Igor had a penchant for stealth. She prowled at a crooked slant, never crossed an open floor, leaned into empty air if there was nothing close to twine her tail around, and acted as Samson’s second shadow.
Then there was the staring – well, more a distrustful glowering— at everything and everyone, as though even her shadow might conspire to poison her. Samson put in a valiant effort to teach her the fine art of relaxation, but the younger cat was still coming around to the idea of sunny snoozes in the laundry basket. On the rare occasion she rested, it was usually across his back, with her chin on his shoulders and ears perked.
Lisa, jingling keys and reeking of popcorn, interrupted the quiet purrs of Samson’s feast. Slinking between the kitchen table and my leg, Igor left to oversee the goodnight kiss between my housemate and her fiancé.
Lisa and Wyatt made a handsome, happy couple. Lisa had played softball as an undergrad. Wyatt was the kicker for the football team. They'd met taking classes in UConn’s physical therapy program. Dressed in khakis, sneakers, and university windbreakers: they looked as if they’d just stepped off the sidelines of football tryouts. Any other night, they probably would have: as graduate students, they both worked in the university’s athletic department and were utterly inseparable.
Well, except when his older sister, Amelia, (a hardworking single mother and nurse) got mandated and needed someone to watch her baby.
Lisa’s purse hit the floor when she saw me. She leaned in, sniffed, and recoiled. “Ugh! Oh, my God, is that the smock you were wearing when you got skunked in the garage?”
“The stench of desperation,” I agreed. No wonder the sheriff hadn’t joined me at the kitchen table.
“Keith’s gone?”
“Yep.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Then why the hell are you still wearing that?”
I shrugged. “You go nose blind after the first couple minutes. Hey, I texted like a hundred times. Why didn’t you reply?”
“I never got them?” Lisa slid into the seat next to me and grabbed my hands. “Girl, I am so sorry. I checked every five, I swear, but there wasn’t anything so I assumed you were fine. See for yourself.” She pulled out her phone.
I waved her off. “We’re cool.”
“Glad to hear it.” Lisa pulled her blonde hair into a ponytail. “Don’t suppose you kicked Keith to the curb because a certain letter arrived and you wanna be single and ready to mingle in New York City?”
She mistook my hasty glance down for a ‘no’ and squeezed my shoulder.
“Hey, it’s coming, okay?”
“Maybe,” I said, unable to tell her it wasn’t.
“I’ve seen your portfolio. You’ve earned this.” She offered an encouraging smile. “Look, between your letter and my interview, our nerves are shot. Let’s calm them with a drink. Run upstairs and throw on something cute.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
She tugged my hand. “Aw, c’mon, Marcy. Let’s flirt pomegranate margaritas off the drunk hipsters at Bar-Geist.” At my grunt, she added, “Fine. I’ll accept brushed hair, a spritz of your strongest perfume, and tonight’s juicy details.”
