Topaz Lake

For my cousin, Darcie.

/////

Topaz Lake is a peaceful place, if you like that much peace. Johnnie did. With scant vegetation and expansive spaces, the landscape allowed memories to ferment into thoughts and resolves. The very prison of that vast surround forms a closer, more intimate interior wilderness to tame. Topaz Lake itself is unresponsive and silent. When the wind blows and frays the water's surface with ripples that sparkle in  Nevada's winter sun, no one is about. This is the main attraction for Johnnie, who chose this refuge from having to grow up fast and cope with the pains and dangers of past interludes of a dozen or so years. She intuited correctly that she had to drop out of sight and collect herself to feel whole, a state she knew existed but had never experienced fully, pervasively before. She hadn't had the opportunity of allowing herself to feel that--good fate and bad fate had had their ways with her and had shaken things to the extent that there had to be a stop, a refuge, a retreat, a still point. Would that this place and the commitment to be just here and nowhere else in an enduring now permit that constellation into oneness to take place.

Topaz-house was bought not so much on a whim as a chapter's end to a past best left decidedly back there, before anything more, anything new, before any steps in a direction--if any--could be taken. Johnnie's choice was "a permanent residence" and grownup stability. She knew another challenge would come, perhaps having to do with an inheritance. On one hand, if it came, she knew she did not know what she should do with it. On the other, if it did not come, perhaps she would place one plastic flower on the remains that was her childhood and youth, and her parents and step parent--may they rest and shut the hell up. The burden either way was still a mirage in a vague, intermediate distance beyond the present.

Johnnie sat on the south-facing wood deck eyes closed to the bright morning sun and the lake, a baseball cap shading her face and holding her long black hair gathered under the Velcro strap in a kind of pony tail. Her diary, now more a journal and notebook, was on her lap with a pen sticking out marking the page to begin her writing that day. She sat and drank in the fresh air, her hand resting on the nap of her Border Collie's neck. Bark waited for any command or movement other than the soft gentle strokes of his mistress. The phone rang. Johnnie let it ring. Her sister. Natalie would call back.

Johnnie had five fenced acres of arid land. She planned to have a second horse to keep Boss company. Someday when. A well to support a small family homestead sold her on the place as did the view. With eight hundred square feet, she was working slowly to make her one level wood frame house a home. The house was lakeside, the southern border of her property with two trees on the north side where she parked her pickup and horse trailer. She lived on the deck and in the central living space, a modest-sized great room where the winter sun baked a hodge podge of indoor plants. She and Bark came and went by the sliding glass door and surveyed Boss moping about the small enclosure with north facing leanto shelter to escape the sun or the occasional storm. Chores were few. There was plenty of time to mess about the house, ride out over the hill and into the desert, read, feed the animals, do nothing, and settle in, to herself. The television was on in the mornings and evenings for news and classic rock. Johnnie faintly missed the world news, especially stories about Europe, and the local news from the East Coast, New York.

The phone rang again. It rang thirteen times. By the time Johnnie answered there was no one there.

In a former life Johnnie managed her sister's equestrian center in rural California. She learned everything she ever wanted to know about running a business and how to handle horses and their owners. She even had a stint at a normal job, waitress at an art-cafe owned by a former lover. Before that, she grew up on a Nevada ranch north of Reno. There she found horse and ranch work her escape from those people, her immediate family. Horses and the outdoors, a cattle ranch and small town Nevada, these were safe havens for a home that couldn't accommodate the love and parenting, or gentle guidance, she needed then. Boss was perhaps a reminder of her western ranch side and her losses, of her first horse and her innocence. Bark was hers now, a companion to take care of and give a sense of family and laughter to an otherwise empty nest. She was single and alone, but not lonely. She had Bark. She had no financial worries, she thanked the stars; she had only personal ones, about the past. A specific guilt.

Nature called. The morning's coffee and juice had more than replenished what the night's dry desert air had sucked from her slender frame. As she finished up in the bathroom, the phone rang again.

"Hello?"

"Is this Erika Passnstyle?"

"Bloody hell," Johnnie whispered as she slammed the phone down. She stood there with a shocked and defiant expression. How could they? She immediately called Nevada Bell and canceled telephone service. An unlisted number was no answer to stay connected with her one relative and at the same time rest undetected. Thank God her mail went to Natalie.

For the rest of that sunny winter day, Johnnie stewed about who might have been at the other end of the line. Neither a long walk down by the lake nor a two hour ride on Boss over the hill and into the wasteland north and northeast of the house helped. By evening, the inner doubts from Eastern memories returned with a vengeance. Her contemplative retreat, her very private and sacred space, had been invaded. Someone knew where she was. She feared someone might next come knocking on her door. There was only one person who was supposed to know where she was exactly on a map. She'd have to use a public phone to call her.

***

July came. Johnnie had settled in at Topaz Lake. She had routines, and as a woman of means she was the mistress of her time and priorities. She continued her reading and riding. She maintained the house. Her teenage years spent as ranch hand and equestrian center jill-of-all-trades had its advantages for helping a girl function independently. She made simple additions to her home's decor. She cared for her dog and horse expertly, explored surrounding areas and settlements by dusty pickup. She spent long hours in a lounge chair on her deck enjoying the sun and the view. She oversaw scattered boaters on weekends and spied on picnickers on the opposite shore swimming and barbecuing. She particularly loved the barren expanses near at hand and the changing colors of the arid hills and valleys in all directions. She ventured into the mountains to the west and the farm settlements both north and south. She researched the history of this borderland neither California nor Nevada, and felt she was now part  that because of a growing peace and acceptance of her past and the troubles that had haunted her. Haunt now was not the quality; it was a kind of silence and resilience and self acceptance. She had minor regrets and ruminations, no more nightmares, no more ghosts that would appear and disturb her. No one knew her or what she did here. She had the time she needed to come to terms.

One summer afternoon she noticed a late model sedan drive up to the makeshift gate of barbed wire to the  access road leading to her small spread and the dam beyond her property line. The one and only neighbor on that road never stopped by, but perhaps it was this neighbor walking from the parked car past the gate and towards her house. As he got closer, Johnnie noticed that it was a man in a white, long sleeved shirt and what looked like slacks or suit pants. Curious, she followed his progress and realized that he was approaching the other side of her house and not continuing toward the dam. Bark warned Johnnie but didn't leave her side. The horse continued munching hay stacked just inside his paddock.

The old ranch chow bell rang at the front of the house, and Johnnie entered the sliding glass door, passed through the great room to the entry hall and mud room. She opened the door and immediately recognized him.

"Erika. Or is it Johnnie? I see I have found you."

It was that rookie New York detective. She had not seen him for how long, nine months? And he was here in her hideout from the world--on her doorstep.

"Clever. Very clever. Business or pleasure?"

"Business mostly."

"How did you find me? Never mind. It's your job, isn't it?"

"So, it's nice to see you too."

"I'm sorry. I'm being impolite. Come in. Thirsty? You are not dressed for summer. Look at your shoes. Do you plan on staying long?"

Johnnie was pleased to see someone, and for it to be Detective O' Connel didn't matter much. Months of being alone with now someone visiting under whatever pretense unleashed a flood of words and questions. OC began by agreeing that a glass of water would be great. She filled a glass from a pitcher she took from the refrigerator and handed it to him.

"We can sit outside on the deck. You can see my beautiful corner of. . . ." Her words were lost in the empty space between them. OC didn't appear attentive to what she was saying. He had his mind on how beautiful Johnnie looked in loose fitting shorts and a tank top that revealed how much sun she had absorbed doing just what they were about to do, sitting in the bright sunshine.

"So, do you plan on staying around here long?" asked Johnnie.

"I'm on leave actually. So a while I guess."

Johnnie said she was sort of on leave also, "until my birthday or shortly after. Then my life becomes a little more complicated, but it's nothing to worry about really. How did you find me?"

"Well, I was looking for Erika and it took me time to track you down. Turns out Erika is not even your real name."

"New York alias."

"No one knew, and so it took me a little longer. There're not many Passnstyles around. Quite an unusual name. Like Pancrace."

Johnnie was silent and waited for more. After a pause that both assumed the other would fill with sound, OC asked, "Why was that, about Erika that is?"

"Long story. I don't think you'd be interested. I think you are here on assignment other than verifying my background. You've apparently checked that out already. How much do you know?"

"You have no money worries. You didn't even have them when you lived in New York and yet you worked for a living. Three years, was it?"

"Yes, about that."

"But there must be more."

OC had asked an ambiguous question. Johnnie took to one interpretation. "When I turn thirty you mean."

"No, I don't know anything about that. Other than we all do. Turn thirty. Mostly all of us . . ."

"Well, that's another story. A long and a short version. But I don't think that is very interesting either. Let's just say I have nothing to worry about with money except how to save it and how to spend it. Not that much money actually. Tell me about your leave of absence. Is it indefinite, or do you have to leave soon and get back to work. Or maybe you haven't actually left your work."

OC was hoping for a warmer welcome and an easier time of it; he knew he wasn't' there for pleasantries. He was a cop and the only thing possibly between him and Johnnie was Pancrace. "I've come a long way. Isn't there anything you want to tell me. You know why I am here."

"No, and no I don't know why you are here. On leave is all you said."

"And Pancrace. Edgar Pancrace."

"If you are asking if I knew Edgar and his wife, the answer is yes, I did. I am, was, very fond of them. It is difficult to find the right way to talk when talking about people you still care about but they are, you know, gone."

"Tell me more."

"I'm not sure I'm ready for this. I wasn't expecting anyone, least of all you."

"I'm one of your greatest fans. I don't think you know that. I have been living with the image of you for months. Questions, really."

"Ah, catalogs. You got hold of a catalog. You naughty boy."

"I've seen one or two."

"This sounds more like pleasure than business. Your pleasure that is. Which is it then? me or the Pancraces."

"Both if I can have my way, but I am interested in what happened."

"You know, it is really a nice, hot afternoon. Want to change into something more comfortable? take a swim or a walk? Where are you staying? The casino on the other side of the lake has a motel. You could stay there and tomorrow we can see about giving you what you've come for. Stories, I guess. I have . . . stories."

"I'm sorry. I did just drop in unannounced and unexpected, and already we are fencing. Something like that. I've interrupted something. I'm interested in stories, yes. I have time also. And it would be nice to get to know you in the flesh rather than on paper, public records, what people have told me, and . . ."

"What do people know." It wasn't a question. "Nothing."

Johnnie didn't take the obvious bait--flesh--and stepped back a little from an emerging rebellious self and apologized. She paused and said that this situation and what OC had just said had triggered something dark inside her. She was working on it, but sometimes it still came up. She would try not to let it happen again. OC decided to meet her with questions and conversation as and when she was ready. He would find a room for the night and they could meet see each other the next day--if he was welcome. Johnnie said he was until either of them no longer had anything to say to the other. This left OC puzzled, but puzzles weren't supposed to be new to detectives. He was patient with a great interest in stories, a word they both repeated so much that it morphed from trite to pregnant. For Johnnie, their parting that afternoon was welcome and she was doubtful she wanted to tell any stories the next day. After all, where would she begin? and what would he think? what would he do once he knew?

OC arrived early the next morning and just sat and nodded now and then as Johnnie talked about nothing, collected herself, retrieved an old journal from a shelf in her bedroom, poured a cup of coffee. Then she fed Bark and looked over to OC from the kitchen counter which faced out to the sliding glass door and deck. OC was still standing in her living room. She guessed detectives had to listen to a lot of confessions and they withhold judging based on what they heard. That's supposed to be the way it works, she thought, and he had kind of confirmed that by showing up early. He waited, listened, and now just stared at her. She asked him to please sit down as she finally did and began talking. She looked now and then at her journal and sometimes read from it. OC noticed but didn't comment.

***

I arrived in New York that year. I was in London and other places. France, for example. It doesn't matter. Anyway, I arrived and had no place to stay. I was in this little hotel for a couple of weeks. When not looking for a more permanent place, I spent my time researching and looking around, getting a feel for the city. Walking, walking, and more walking. One day I ended up in this bookshop. It was crowded but I collected a couple of books from the drama section. You know, New York is crazy with writers and actors who are looking for parts or their big break. Anyway, I asked this lady if I could sit at her table. The cafe in the bookstore . . . it was the only seat available, and she looked nice. Friendly.

She had this babushka on, and trying not to make eye contact, you know New York, I noticed in the flash of a glance she had eyebrow pencil marks instead of eyebrows. I didn't make much of it and settled in to my coffee and having a look at the books I had collected. After Paris I figured I should know something about Beckett, and among the nineteenth century playwrights, I thought Ibsen would be a good one to know. To read, I mean. At least one play. _Hedda Gabler_ seemed like it would do and I started looking at the list of characters. Why I was interested in drama is another story. I definitely won't bore you. Paris either.

Helen, that was her name. Helen. She noticed me and tried to strike up a conversation and asked if I was a model. I hadn't heard her exactly so I said, "I'm sorry. Were you talking to me?"

"I just wondered if you were a model. You are a very pretty young woman," she said.

I said, "Thanks. No, I'm not a model. Just some lucky genetics somewhere."

"Your parents, then."

"I'm sorry?" I really wasn't paying too much attention. But it seemed at this point she wanted to talk with me or someone. I didn't see what was wrong with that, and so I put the book down and looked at her. I then saw that she had lost her hair. I immediately thought of chemo, for cancer or something.

She repeated, "I said I thought perhaps you had lovely parents."

"Well, not really." I knew what she meant, and so I began to clarify. Stupid. I was rebelling still and the fight almost came up in me. No, I'm not going into that either.

"Lovely. No," I said. "They weren't. My father died when I was very young. I never knew or saw him, not even a picture . . . because my mother repressed all things unpleasant."

Drank actually. I stopped right there. I knew I was about to get into stuff with a stranger that was best left unsaid.

"I'm sorry to hear that, dear."

She seemed so nice. So motherly. Nurturing and understanding. It turned out that first impression was right, but I will get to that.

"My name is Johnnie. I'm new here. And I like to read."

"Well, my name is Helen. I'm a reader too, but not fiction. Real life is almost too much already. I don't care anymore to hide from it. Real life that is."

"What are you reading there?" I asked.

"Self-help stuff. I'm just looking for some answers. How about you? What have you got there?"

I explained what I had picked up and why. I won't go into that right now. Am I boring you? I'm sorry, but all of this is important and some of it's not. Just bear with me. You have nothing else to do here in your city clothes. The view is wonderful isn't it? I bought the house for this deck and view of the lake. So different from where you came from, from where I spent a few, well, let's say interesting years. But I digress. I like that sentence. Gives you an excuse to say stuff, or drop some info along the way. I will know if you have been paying attention when I get finished with this. I really think you are watching as much as listening, and I'll not speculate on what it is you find so interesting, me or watching for something, waiting for something I will say. My dear detective--I wonder if you can take off the uniform, so to speak, and just be a human being and feel others. Do you compartmentalize? Compassion is the word, quality, I am looking for, and I hope it is what I had then. Now also. Forget I said any of this.

At the mention of Ibsen, Helen became quite interested. She said she did look into literature for answers to practical questions, but she didn't find what she was looking for. Literature was great for asking questions; however, the answers were superficial--humans in real life couldn't begin to cope with what they found imaginary characters would do, or actually did in that world. Or the answers were beyond the text. I asked her what she meant. Could she give me an example.

"Well, it all gets a little personal here, doesn't it?"

I said maybe, but I was truly interested in what she was referring to. So I guess I showed I was really keen on knowing.

"Well, dear, you know some people have some challenges. You know, in life. Some, and even life and death ones. My husband has terminal cancer, you see."

I expressed concern and said I was sorry. She said it was okay, that they were coping and had plans how to deal with the next complications. "Et cetera," she said. And sorry? There was no need to feel sorry. Just enjoy the time we have. "I am enjoying talking with you, and seeing you. You remind me of someone I once knew."

This sounded so like a line out of some book or something but at the same time very touching. I wondered who she was talking about. I found out later she was referring to herself when she was young and pretty and had long straight hair. She knew these days were gone and I reminded her, in a good way, I think. I like to think now, in a good way.

Helen continued. "Now, Ibsen, dear. I would like to recommend his play _Ghosts_. Have you read it?"

I told her no.

"Well, if you do, I would like to talk with you about the end. It's one of those works I was referring to, about literature that leaves one having to make a decision about what happens next. I am always interested in what happens next. Sometimes I am afraid of seeing what's next. But at my age and . . . it's just interesting, isn't it? Life I mean."

I said, "It sure is. I will read that play instead of this one. Because you recommend it. Thank you."

"I come here each Thursday after having coffee with my husband. A kind of ritual we have. Sometimes we have a nice lunch. Same place near his work every week. Then I come here. I look through the books to see if there is something that might distract me. Then I sit here by the window if the table is free. I look out and around in here. There are so many interesting people. Bookstores attract all kinds, but you know what they all have in common?"

"They like to read, I guess."

"Yes, that is true. They are curious. I mean that in two ways. They have active brains. They are looking and trying to find things, answers, information, knowledge . . . maybe wisdom. And they are a strange, curious lot. Look here."

She laid her hand out palm up and in a sweeping gesture as if to say, see, humanity in all its diversity. I looked and saw all kinds of people. Colors, shapes, sizes, ages, dress, I could even hear different languages being spoken. You know. New York.

OC assured Johnnie he was listening. "I know. The city is wonderful and complexifying."

"Complexifying. That's a good word. Kind of fits New York and my story."

"How is that?"

"Patience, my dear."

Johnnie realized she may have given a signal. "I may have sounded a bit condescending using the dear-word, but I didn't mean it that way. And considering your earlier hint of interest in me, as a woman? that was probably the wrong word. But oh well.

"All I mean to say is that, and I am sorry about this, my story, my little story, has its ins, outs, and arounds, and unless you get, I mean get, the whole of it, you will never see it, or me, in a true light. I'm not trying to say I'm special or anything, or that what I did can be excused because of the complexity of my story, or my life. I'm just trying to say that this is my confession. And Mr. Detective, you get to hear it. In fact, I have held this so close for so long, it feels good to get it out. I'm not sure you will like me or hate me at the end."

"I will like you, I am sure."

"Not so fast." Johnnie took a deep breath and continued.

***

Helen said she would be at the bookshop the next Thursday. I said I would try to meet her. If I got through the play, we could talk about it. Would that be nice? She said that would be wonderful. But if for any reason she could not make it, try again the following Thursday. I said I would. I enjoyed being with her. In NYC or even in the world, it is truly important to spend time with genuine people, kind and loving people. And I thought for sure she was special, one of these. And to be honest, that is what I missed so much in my life. To find someone in the big city, that was great. I hadn't expected to.

The following week came and we met. We went through pleasantries and a few realities. Her husband's state of ill health was on Helen's mind. And she talked a lot about that and was in great earnest about what she could do to help him. My issue was I hadn't found a small place to rent furnished for the six months I planned to stay in the city. But I had found a job, the one you know about. I was supposed to start as soon as I got settled, which was very kind of my employer. Mostly I listened to Helen. And she listened to me. Then she mentioned off handedly that we might be able to help each other. Before she went into detail about these things, she asked me a couple of questions, to get to know me better, I think. I had no objection.

She asked about my name which brought up my mother and stepfather and Natalie, my sister, and horses.

"You know something about all of that, don't you?"

"I believe I do."

"Right."

Then she asked if I had read Ibsen's _Ghosts_. I said I had. And thus began a long conversation and speculation about what happened next. After the play ends.

"You know this play?"

"Not at all."

"Well, let me cut to the quick or chase or whatever it is. It's like this. Oswald, the son of Mrs. Alving, is dying. At the end of the play, he has his last seizure and has asked his mother to administer a lethal dose of _morphia_, Ibsen calls it, so he, I mean Oswald, will not suffer and will not live as a vegetable. Will she or won't she?"

"What's her last name?"

"Alving. I don't know her first name."

"Not in the play. Helen's. Helen's last name."

"Pancrace. Helen Pancrace. Who'd you think I was talking about?"

"It wasn't clear. At the start. New York has a lot of Helens. And you're in this story. I got confused about who you were talking about."

"I suspect you might not have been listening carefully. Well, that being clear now, now you have clues, don't you? Think about it."

"Yes, I believe I do."

"Keep them in mind and don't conclude or judge anything till you hear how it all comes out."

"Okay. Can I ask one question?"

"Sure."

"Do the Pancraces have a son?"

"No, they were childless. Couldn't have children for some reason. But they would have been great parents. They loved each other deeply and would have given a child everything they could to ensure his or her safety and security. And prosperity, although they were not rich people. And they would have done this all out of love. They were wonderful people."

"You knew them pretty well."

"I can tell you. But not today. It is getting late and this talking, I'll call it, tires me. I'm not used to it. This notebook's finished. I'm actually exhausted. You can come back and I will think about which story to tell you then. Maybe I have another notebook or journal that will help fill in the missing pieces, keep on track with the storyline, you know."

***

The following day the wind blew down from the mountains to the west and across the lake hitting the house and glass door directly. The door and windows rattled and gray skies darkened the lake and the sage covered hills. The color of the arid horizon to the south looked  grayer than the brush that covered landscape, its pungent scent covered everything and invaded even the house. Johnnie's worried face had no relationship to the day or the environment; it was a reflection of the doubts she had about her unexpected visitor and what she should or might reveal to him. He showed up about eleven that morning as promised and seemed to have brought along some mood, although Johnnie paid little attention. She was occupied with trying to work out how to proceed with this official on leave, someone she did not know and wasn't sure now she wanted to.

When OC entered the house, Johnnie excused herself and said she would be right with him. She closed the door to the bathroom, although she had nothing to do there but look in the mirror and wonder who that was staring back at her. Finally, without a clear sense of what to do or say next, she thought she could keep him waiting no longer and returned to where OC was standing looking out the sliding glass door with his hands in his pockets. He was dressed in jeans and a short sleeved shirt and seemed at ease, also waiting for what would happen. But he wasn't at ease.

Johnnie apologized for the delay, mentioning that women had things to do that men should remain uninformed about. It was lame but a nothing-something to adjust the awkwardness that they both now felt, almost tangible it was.

OC looked over his shoulder and asked, "Stories today?"

"I haven't decided. Am I under some obligation to you, like some kind of suspect for what happened to Edgar? Is your visit official, and what's this about your leave? I don't think my stories can supply the recreation you're after. Perhaps you are in Nevada for other reasons than to see if I still exist. You have that answer. I'm here. People come to this state to play at things. Gambling and other things. I think it is time for you to tell me something. Your story maybe. Or more to the point, what are your travel plans, and when do you have to be back in the city?"

"I'm sorry. Do you want the truth?"

"Is there anything that is not true that is as important?"

"No, I suppose not."

He turned to the view again and began talking. He did not want to see the expressions on Johnnie's face as he attempted to open then quickly shut a door revealing an interior.

"I'm not ignoring you. I just can't face you when I tell you what I'm thinking . . . feeling. I'm embarrassed to say. . . ." He paused.

Johnnie sat in one of the two wicker chairs that faced the glass doors looking out to the lake and mountains beyond. She waited, sensing this was something important. He needed a kind of space to say what it was she had urged him to, and did he really want to? She wasn't sure. What was he hiding, for she was sure he was hiding, had been from when he first arrived.

"I know you've heard this before, or you know how people respond to you. In my line of work I have to ignore appearances and try to get at the heart of the matter, usually some injury or wrong. I'm trained to be suspicious and try to think about what is not being said. With you I am not talking about acting like a detective. I just have a hard time seeing and listening to you without being quite taken. You are very beautiful, and I know that has been some kind of factor you have had to consider when people, perhaps even me, are with you or talking to you. You'd be right to suspect motives. I'm just an ordinary guy with a not so pleasant job that I can do moderately well, unless I get personally involved, which I almost never do. I am finding it hard to ignore you.

"You are different from who I thought you were in New York. I mean, I only saw you twice and we exchanged so little at the time. And now, after yesterday, there is a great deal more to you than meets the eye. But a man's eye, it's his burden to be obsessed by the visual. I think every man also thinks or hopes beyond what he sees. Clouds the judgement, and in my case, the case with you, a great distraction.

"I know this all sounds trite and stupid, but I want to know who killed Pancrace, and you're a person, I won't say suspect, who I'm sure knows something. I want to know what that is. Business. I don't want to be confused or to be just another chauvinist, or whatever we are, seduced because we have testosterone, or whatever it is that gets between people that prevents the truth coming out. It's not you. I am distracted by you and it's not your fault.

"I'm going to turn around and I am going to be here to listen to whatever you have to tell me. And we will forget this little speech.

"Oh, and one other thing. Maybe we are talking about both of them. Helen died within a week of her husband. But you knew that I suspect."

He paused and then slowly turned around and found Johnnie seated with eyes cast down. She did not want to look at him. As she hid her Mona Lisa look behind her hand, she quietly said, "I will continue where I left off." In a moment. She got up from the chair and went into another room and returned with notebook. She chose a recliner chair in the sun by the sliding glass door. She sat back in the chair with the noonday sun highlighting her profile for her visitor and began talking as if she were a patient and OC her therapist.

***

Helen and I met that following week at the bookstore. I told you I knew them both, she and her husband. And that second meeting I must have appeared desperate. I could not find a place to rent for about six months, furnished. That was as long as I had planned to stay in the city. I reported on my search for a suitable and reasonably priced place, throwing in bits about my frustrations with this new culture I found myself in. I had both chosen to live in this new place and discovered quickly that it wasn't so easy, even though New Yorkers speak what appears to be English. And so direct. It's not language which makes for different culture, though, but it's a part of it. I was having some trouble. Just like in Europe. Did you discover what I did on my way from Paris to London? No? Well, we might get to that.

Anyway, when I had vented my frustrations and started to inquire how Helen and her husband were doing, she said, "Dear, we have an extra room. You can stay with us till you find a suitable place. It is not far from here, and then you can concentrate on your new job and slowly find something. If you will only be six months, it would be a shame to go to all the trouble of signing a lease and settling in . . . just to move again. Would you like to see our home?"

From there the story pretty much ends. I stayed with the Pancraces till about a month before they died. I moved into my own place, but after they were gone, I didn't feel much like New York, I mean staying. And I ended up here, after clearing up some bits and pieces.

***

"I can't really help that this part of the story is so short, but it was an important period in my life. Very important. Should I try to tell you about that? I'm not sure I can put it into words."

"Please."

"Helen was the mother I never had. Edgar the father. They were loving and accepting. I could be me with each of them, and they for the most part could be themselves. It was a bittersweet time and so very short. I paid my utilities, of course. But they would not take rent. They even told me that they thought of me as their grown daughter, one who had had her rebellious stage and came out sweeter than sweet at the end. Their words. No one has ever thought of me as sweet. Quite the opposite, and I gave many people good reason to think of me as a bitch, especially men.

"Without going into the microcosm of that world, my New York nest, I would have to summarize it this way. I found a home and people to love and be loved by. I surrendered into it like a baby snuggled into a soft blanket cuddled in its mother's arms, with a father that cared and kissed me on the forehead to show his affection. Edgar did that and I didn't mind. I welcomed it. He never did anything to indicate that he had any motives other than to accept and support me. Kind of ideal and different for me, and I needed that medicine. By the end I had received the gift of all gifts and felt more complete than I ever had with my own family, or with others for that matter . . . like the end of the unhappy and unfulfilled life and the foundation for the opposite, a new life, here for example. When I was in that space, I was ready to leave New York and they were gone . . . how I miss them . . . nothing else to hold me there, not even the friends, but of course I miss them too, now especially.

"That's about it. I think it is enough for today. Short and sweet."

"I didn't think you were a bitch when I met you."

"I was on the mend by then. I have tried my best . . ."

"I think you have left one or two things out."

"As I said, details which just illustrate how wonderful and loving the Pancraces were."

"And about the flat? the one across the hall from your boss."

"Oh, that. Well, that has a simple explanation. I told you, or I guess you know, I don't have money problems. I bought it."

"How did you buy it and why across the corridor from the man you were stalking?"

"Whoa. Stalking? Hardly. Sometimes I flirted. My boss knew that. Mary even conspired with me. That was a game the three of us played."

Johnnie silently stared at OC. She shrugged her shoulders and began again.

"Edgar. You know he worked for the city building department. Well, he would come across these distressed properties, and he let me know that someone did not pay their property taxes. This was just after I met him. One thing led to another and I bought the property for back taxes. By the time I was about to leave, the property could be transferred officially into my name. And that is what happened. The fact that it was in Mary's and my boss's building was just a coincidence. A happy one, but a coincidence all the same."

"These people, Pancrace, were essentially strangers and you ended up with a flat as a result of their care, their love, for you. There must be more to the story than that."

"Well, if there is, we're not going to talk about that today. Maybe ever. You have to start talking about you, and I'm not referring to your infatuation or whatever. I want some stories, true or not, about OC, who happens to be, he says, a moderately good detective from New York. I feel too exposed, almost naked psychologically. You are all covered up. So if you are going to be in my house another minute and just ask the occasional question which puts me on the spot and on edge, you are going to have to participate. Or, Detective O'Connel, the party is over. We are not having parity here, unless you have not been forthcoming and I am being interrogated in some fancy way. All that talk about my distracting you and you being only interested in what happened to Edgar. I'm sorry. Helen and Edgar."

"You're not telling me everything."

"Why should I?"

"Because there is more to tell. About you. I am interested in your story, believe it or not. And about Helen and Edgar and your neighbor and boss, by the way, still a suspect in the killing of at least Edgar. Let's finish it."

Johnnie fell silent and nodded and swallowed carefully. She looked up and asked, "Have you ever killed anyone in the line of duty?"

"Yes. Once."

"Was he a bad guy?"

"Turned out she was."

"Oh, and have you put that behind you?"

"No. I think about her still, and other people making the wrong choices, or being in the wrong place. They shouldn't have to die because of these things, but that's the idealist in me. It still bothers me."

"I see."

"Why do you ask?"

"The person who killed Edgar. How could he?"

"He?"

"Yes. I'm sure it was a man."

"Talk to me."

"I'm finished for today. I've given you more clues. What do you think now? Who killed Edgar? You no doubt came up with theories that didn't pan out, and so you came here. So I am a suspect, aren't I?"

"I'm not here officially, and it's been nice getting to know you. I think these days have damaged any relationship we might have had. I'm talking about two civil people, possible friends. I'm sorry. I'm finished also. I know there is something more, but I am not here to drag it out of you."

Johnnie to her surprise felt a stone drop to the bottom of her stomach. She had lost whatever it was OC was for her or promised to be, and she had incited the fire. Her stories had been therapeutic, but she was not finished. She had only opened the door and let him look in. She had not finished what she wanted to tell and to look him in the face as he progressively learned the truths about her and what happened in New York. She felt depressed and desperate. She wanted to call him back even though he had not moved after his last words.

"Would you like to have drinks and dinner together? We can move beyond this and be friendly, can't we? I haven't been out with someone for a long time. How about it? There is a steak place nearby and a couple of real saloons if you are game. What do you say? I'll even pop for the check. I can probably afford it more than you on a civil servant's wage. Well?"

"You're very persuasive. I would like to have the company, before we call it quits."

"That sounds ominous. After a couple of drinks I want you to take that back. Don't get scared or hopeful. I don't do seducing . . . not anymore anyway, especially cops."

"Sounds like another story." Johnnie didn't react, so he added, "Tell me my options again."

***

Johnnie said she just had to get ready and she would drive. She knew what she wanted for herself to get out of the verbal puzzles best left to the confines of her home on Topaz Lake. She or they could try to piece things together after a break, a welcome break.

They got in Johnnie's car and slowly navigated the access road back out to where OC's rental car was parked. He got out and drove his car to where he was staying, the Blue Lake Bed and Bar. Johnnie followed and after parking his car, OC got in Johnnie's and she drove north and west into California. OC didn't know where he was. He wasn't paying attention. He glanced at Johnnie now and then and looked out the front and side windows at the passing sage hills till they entered terrain with sparsely spaced evergreens. Johnnie again asked what OC's leave of absence meant.

"Is it like a vacation or reward for your outstanding service or what?" OC said the leave was with pay for ninety days and then if everything worked out, he'd return to work. He would have to report soon whether or not he was returning. Johnnie asked what that decision depended on and OC said he preferred not to discuss work right now.

"I'm still trying to get used to your being here. So you got on a plane or whatever you did, rented a car, and came and found me? Should I be honored, or cautious?"

"Both. I think I answered that already."

"You can't have it both ways. I tried to tell you that. What do you want, an ex-lingere model or murderess?"

After another non-response from OC and a short pause, she continued. "You realize, of course, that playing detective when you don't have to could get in the way of making progress on other fronts."

"Other fronts? Like what."

"You name it. We're here."

They had arrived at a small settlement with a bar and attached restaurant, post office, and a rock shop, the latter two closed. The sign over the bar and restaurant read BBGs and featured a cartoon-like picture of ample breasts in a cleavage-revealing bra. OC looked up at the sign and then at Johnnie. She smiled and said, "Just what the therapist ordered. Little T 'nd A to get you out of yourself."

They entered and she insisted he go first in case bottles or punches were flying inside. He could protect her, she urged. Johnnie was quite pleased with herself as OC shrugged and entered cautiously but authoritatively. He surveyed the premises but was soon distracted by what he saw on the ceiling, at least a hundred bras in different sizes and colors. "How in hell?" After he gawked and closed his gaping maw, he looked at Johnnie and said, "I don't believe it."

"How can you not believe? It's a bar, so let's get you something to loosen things up."

When the waitress came, OC ordered beer in a long neck bottle. She said he'd get two, one for him and one for the view. Cute. Johnnie ordered a Coke.

"Not drinking?"

"I can't drink. Alcohol first makes me flirt and then horribly hostile. _Assertive_ is not a word that applies. You don't deserve either, and I would be so embarrassed tomorrow. But hey, you'd be gone, right?" She looked at him waiting for an answer and then added, "No. No, I won't drink. I have my self respect."

"I might like the flirting part."

"Sorry, I don't do flirting. Women seem to react, though. Men always come on quick and I never have a chance to try my hand at it. Speaking of relationships, anyone special in your life?"

"My mother, if you're asking. And she's doing fine, thanks. I'm only thirty-eight. I mean she is still alive and kicking."

"And?"

"I'm divorced."

"I'll guess. You take your job too seriously and were never home and you have to work nights and find out if someone is a prostitute or not and if they are breaking the law. She just got fed up and left you."

"Nope. She just fell out of love with me and fell into love with another policeman. I didn't know him or how they met. I was left waiting on that corner at night with no one to go home to."

"Sad. Go on."

"That's it. Been several years now. Don't need to dwell on it."

He took a long drink and set the beer bottle back down on the table and looked Johnnie in the eye. She looked away immediately and he repeated his thought upon entering the bar--"Unbelievable," as he looked up. She added, "But here they are. Question for you. How did they get up there?"

OC left the table and walked around looking at photos on the walls and a brochure that was sitting at the end of the long wooden bar. He returned to the table and said that the pictures and the brochure showed a party-like atmosphere with the bar full of young men and women. There were several shots of women taking off their shirts and bras and being rewarded with a T-shirt that said BarBras Grill on it. There was one photo in the brochure of a woman in short shorts and long bare legs standing on the bar. She was wearing the T-shirt and reaching up to the ceiling with a pink bra and what looked like a dart. She was pinning the bra to the ceiling. OC pointed at the picture and said, "I guess that is how they get there."

"Mayyybeee."

"You sound like you don't believe it."

"Do you?"

"Sure. Why not? Pictures, this brochure promising an uplifting dining and imbibing experience."

"Let's play a little game then. You game?"

"Sure."

The waitress stopped by the table.

"I'll have another two, thanks."

"You haven't finished your second," said Johnnie.

"You're going to help me with one. And one will be all you will have. You won't get crazy with one beer, and I'm not drinking alone."

He passed Johnnie one beer when the next two came. She drew it to herself and then picked up her Coke and sipped gingerly.

"It's called Believe It or Not."

"Like Ripley's."

"Something like that. You tell me a story and try to convince me it's true. It can be or not. I decide at the end which it is, and if I get it right, I have a point. Got it? If I win that round, it's my turn. If not, then you get to go again."

"Okay. I'll go first," said OC. "Hmm. The American quarter horse gets its name from the fact that it runs the quarter mile the fastest among horses. Believe it or not."

"That's a pretty short story. I don't think the rules allow that."

"Hey, you didn't specify how long the story had to be. I could make up some BS about the first time they called the horse a quarter horse, but I deal in simple facts and simple falsehoods."

"Fair enough, Detective. So you want me to tell you if it's true? Maybe I have to prove to you if it is or not."

"Fair enough."

"Okay. It's false, not true. I don't believe it for a second."

"Come on, Johnnie. Every cowboy knows this. Just ask one, like over there, that guy. He looks like a cowboy."

"Every cowboy may know that, but cowgirls know better. The American quarter horse gets its name from its hind quarters. They have a great set of cheeks, pardon the expression. I mean their rear. Muscular, built for propelling them forward, thus fast over short distances."

"I don't believe you."

"You may one day regret not believing a sincere woman fessing up in a bar."

"I'll take my chances. Besides, you're not the fesser-type and we can't prove your story here. No cowgirls. Look around." There didn't seem to be any, but there were several women Johnnie recognized. She waited for the next story.

"My turn still," OC said proudly.

"Don't get cocky."

"This one is simple and simple to prove. This brochure is true. This is what happens here and how the bras get up on the ceiling."

"That's it? You really believe that propaganda?"

"It's not propaganda. It's true. I have this brochure and the pictures all around here to prove it."

"You have to be more detailed or specific in your story. New rule, based on your deviation from the first round. You have to tell a tale."

"A picture says a thousand words." OC waited looking kind of smug.

"You're not going to spin that story out, are you?"

"It's enough. Get out of this one."

"Nothing to get out of. It's not true," said Johnnie.

"How can you say that? I've already proved it to you."

"Are you sure you are going to maintain that how these bras got up there is represented by the pictures you see in this place and the brochure?"

"Yep."

"Okay, buddy. You asked for it. Take a good look at the girls in the brochure."

He glanced at the brochure again. "Yea, so?"

"They're all the same person. Now go out and do your field research. Look at the pictures on the walls and take a good look at the bartender, Barbara by name. Come back and tell me you have your true story."

"OC got up with his beer and walked slowly around the room and ended up standing five feet from the bar looking from the brochure to the bartender comparing. He returned to the table laughing. Well, there is something fishy going on around here."

"Fishy hell, downright American deceptive marketing. Even in the sticks."

"But wait. Who is this person here in this picture. She doesn't look the same. Long legs, and the bartender, she's pretty short."

"All you gotta do is look around again. See anyone who might be the same girl in that picture?"

OC looked around and turned back to Johnnie with a no-results sort of look.

"Take a gander at the girl with the two guys standing to the left at the bar. Go around and have a look and tell me what you see. Focus on the legs, if you can."

OC did and returned with a smile. "I think she's a prostitute or something."

"Bingo. And she's the one in the picture. She's a friend of the bartender and works across the line in Nevada. Work alias Trixie. Cute, eh?"

"How do you know that?"

"You lost that time. You concede?"

"Not yet. How is this deceptive marketing?"

"These two girls cooked up this idea to increase business here. They're friends. Oh, they are ready to go through the motions with a real customer, give 'em a T-shirt and all that, but all the pictures, I believe all of them, are those two acting as if it's always party-time here and customers can expect some titillating entertainment. I won't apologize for using that word by the way."

"Would you take off your shirt and undergarment and pin it to the ceiling?"

"Have some more beer. It's my turn at this game we're playing, this game: Believe It or Not. My turn."

"I want more proof. I don't believe you."

"Do your eyes deceive you? Go ask them then."

"I'm not that drunk."

"Okay. You lose. My story is about me. Hey, the detective in you, listen up, and you have already admitted you wanted to know more stuff. Let me have a sip of this before I start."

She finished the last sip of her Coke and then took the long neck beer in front of her. She put the edge of the bottle to her lips and tipped it gingerly with both hands wrapped around it, just enough to taste the cold beer.

"You have changed the game I thought we were going to play. I was planning a longer story, but I take your lead. I have a short one."

She took another sip of beer and set the bottle down slowly and carefully. It was dripping with condensation. "Believe it or not: I don't know who killed Edgar and I certainly didn't."

O'Connel looked Johnnie in the eye and said, "Bingo."

"Right, that has been the real question all along, hasn't it?"

"You know it has."

"Well, do you believe me?"

"I have some theories as to whether or not to consider you a prime suspect. For example, you might not have known who did the actual killing, but that doesn't preclude your having planned it."

"Now, Detective, I have merely posed the question to you in the form of a statement which is clear as clear can be. I claim I did not kill Edgar by any means, including stratagem."

"Fair enough. But you had a motive. You inherited property that was Edgar's and Helen's. Maybe you did 'em in to strike while the iron was hot, to take advantage of their affection for you."

"We're talking here of Edgar. His death precedes Helen's. Helen could easily have changed her mind about me before her untimely death. I don't think your theory in this instance holds much . . . beer. I don't believe you even think this angle promising. So, proceed to your judgement if you can. I mean about my lying or not."

"I didn't say you were lying."

"Yes you did. You don't believe me. You have theories or hunches or whatever you dicks call them to pin something on poor--oops, sorry, not so poor--innocent girls."

"You are hardly a girl."

"What would you call me then? I have played the gender-bending card before but not with you. Are you referring to my short hair and boyish figure? Do I have to take off this shirt and pin my bra to the ceiling for you to see who the person is you are accusing?"

"I'm sorry. This conversation is going the wrong direction."

"It could have earlier, but I saved you from that embarrassment, out of your esteem for me as object of your fantasies, I guess not me as a person. I don't know which. And because you seem like a nice guy. But you don't seem to get the clues." Johnnie looked at OC knowingly and added, "Hungry? They serve great burgers here."

"One more thing. The apartment you got with Edgar's help."

"What about it?"

"Well, how did it come about that he got that for you?"

"I told you. You don't pay attention, or you see things that aren't there. We've established that. The distressed property I bought. Edgar's role in that was just to alert me to that investment, you can call it my personal financial decision. Besides, he had nothing to gain by steering me to invest. He acted out of, I think and like to think, his care for me, which I never questioned. He was, is a dear man. The father I never had. He even hugged me with no ulterior motives, believe you me. I can't say that about any other man or boy. Helen did also. Game over."

"Game over?"

"Yes. I'm hungry. And I warned you, I can become a harpy when I drink and you have committed the tort of over serving an individual who by her own admission can't take a drink."

"What about the flirting phase. I didn't see that."

"You won't, smarty pants. You're leaving tomorrow and I don't do one-night stands. Let's eat."

They moved from the bar to the dining area and sat at a table by the window. Johnnie looked out the window as Richard studied the menu. A waitress came to the table and asked for their order. Both ordered the American Burger with all the trimmings. Johnnie ordered a chocolate milk shake and Richard another beer. She looked at him and he faintly smiled. He said he had already started making a fool of himself. He was now going to make himself an utter fool.

After a short while, before the waitress showed up again with the drink orders, Johnnie became reflective and misty-eyed. She began talking as if to no one in particular.

"Edgar had pancreatic cancer. He knew he was going to die, soon, probably in the hospital after suffering for some while. He didn't want to go that way. He talked of having assistance in dying. I listened while he and Helen talked about it. She already had cancer and was undergoing treatments. They talked about their affairs and what they should do about this and that. There was no one on either side to turn to or to bequeath. I excused myself early in their talk, because they began talking with me as if I was their closest. I dismissed the notion and said there were other very needy people who could use some help if they wanted, or some cause they could give money to. I told them I had lots of money and was due to inherit more. I mean I had lots of money and when I turn thirty, I get more than I can ever use personally. Actually maybe not cash, but all the same. We talked about how I could be the one recipient, young and healthy and loving--they even knew my story about my lost years. The bad, the confused, the troubled times. They even know about when I was a whore. They said I could carry the standard. They had done some things in life. It would now be my turn with their small contribution."

Johnnie stopped for a moment and looked at Richard. "Did you check out what they did with their money while they were living? He was a reasonably well paid civil servant and she was a model. Got paid well during her day, although not like models now."

Johnnie looked at Richard for an answer and concluded correctly he had not checked this angle and was not going to pursue the subject of whore or anything else at this point. The drink and how the evening had not been that successful had dampened matters. The fire that was or could have been was now ashes.

"I will give you this final clue. Check them out before going any further with your theories. Your investigation should focus attention on them, not me."

She looked away and resumed talking slowly.

"Anyway, that is as it should be I guess. Edgar was taken suddenly, which in a way was a blessing. It was terrible for Helen. But like so many others who are closely related, she went soon afterwards. I hope they have peace and no discomfort or pain where they are. I suspect they are there trying to help still, in whatever ways one can from the other side. I like to think they are helping me now . . . before I make mistakes again. Before I won't have time for talking or thinking back like this."

OC sat there. He had started on the glass of iced water the waitress had brought just after they sat down. He spilled a little as he took the glass in an unsteady hand, and Johnnie took her cloth napkin and daubed the table dry on his side of the table. He looked up and said, "I defer to your wisdom."

"Oh, I'm not wise, but it seems you have a tendency to see things not as they are but as you might like them to be. Is this a character fault or occupational thing?"

"Both I'm afraid. I'm a not technically a rookie but I am on probation. Plus there are a lot of distractions around here."

"You mean Barb's bras."

"Mostly."

"Detective O'Connel, why I think you might be softenin' on me, as one of your more eligible rich-types. How many of us do you know? and how dangerous we can be?"

"Might be at that. Although you're the only rich-type at the moment I'm interested in."

"Then I am flattered."

The waitress arrived with their burgers and asked if she could get them anything else. They said at the same time, "Not right now," and began eating, hungry from all the work they had done, she in avoiding and scolding him and he in trying to flirt and coax something out of her.

The ride back to Topaz Lake was a silent one except for one interchange. "Don't you care who killed Edgar, whether it was an accident or not?"

"No. He was dying. This way he did not suffer. I like to believe that. Catching a criminal or some hit and run weirdo, that doesn't matter now. And your efforts to find out, well, it's rather pointless too."

At the end, in front of the Blue Lake, Johnnie sat in her car and let the motor run. Richard said before he got out of the car that he had enjoyed the evening. Johnnie said she had also and it was nice getting to know him a little. They said good bye and he said he hoped they would meet again sometime. Johnnie did not respond in turn. Instead, she could foresee more personal work ahead of her and hoped she would have the final months before she turned thirty to enjoy her time and the view from her deck to the lake and the hills and mountains beyond. "Bye" was all she said.

***

~~~

Johnnie rose the next morning refreshed. She had a day to herself to look forward to. No more visitors, no more stories. Just the hot desert sun and a horse with open spaces to explore. She planned after breakfast to shower, saddle up, and ride out to places unknown. Bark was ready too.

Johnnie emerged from the shower and heard Bark warn there was someone about. She thought nothing of it, probably some sage hen had wandered into the dog's territory and got chased back out. But within a minute or so, there was a loud knock on the door. Johnnie threw on some clothes and not completely dry, rushed to the door. OC was there rather sheepishly looking up from petting the dog.

"Hi. I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something?"

"Sort of. I was just getting ready to go out."

"Barefoot and wet?"

Johnnie looked at herself and realized she was hardly dressed in short shorts and beads of water spotting a loose fitting blue tank top. Her nipples clearly visible, she looked back up at the stranger in the door. "Like what you see?"

"I'll come back later."

"No, no. Just kidding. After last night, I probably deserve a second look. I'm afraid men operate differently than women when the sky seems to be raining undergarments. Speaking of which, I'll just finish dressing. Feel at home. Check the morning sun on the deck. News on TV. The lake is like glass this morning. No wind, not even a breeze."

OC silently entered the house and walked through the mud room to the kitchen, living area, out the sliding glass door to the deck. Johnnie returned to her bedroom and bath and looked in the mirror.

"Bloody hell. I thought I made it clear last evening. What can he want now?" Johnnie soon found out when she joined Richard outside.

"You are named in the wills of both Mr. and Mrs. Pancrace."

"I know."

"And it hasn't been settled yet. The suspicions around the deaths have held the executor back from proceeding."

"That is also true."

"Why do you think we have this legal delay."

"Because you want to solve how they died, and you suspect foul play. That's your jargon, isn't it, or do I have cops on TV mixed up with those we trust to serve and protect?"

"You sound a bit jaded."

"Just amusing myself with the situation. Whether I receive anything from the Pancrace estate doesn't matter to me. As I said, I don't need it, and I certainly didn't kill anyone for personal gain. Plus, I loved them. They were the parents . . . I am repeating myself."

"You're a lucky woman. No financial worries."

"Yes, that's true."

"What do you do with your wealth. You are wealthy in my world."

"I try to do good."

"Example."

"The Pancraces could have used better health to enjoy more years together. I couldn't give that. But I did spread a little good, shall we say, around New York after I left."

"You mean money."

"Money and other gifts."

Johnnie was not going to go into details, if ever.

"That's it. That's the example?"

"It's not attractive to talk about how generous one is. You'll just have to believe me."

"So far I do. How about another story then?"

"Today's story? I thought we quit that game, a draw you might say. And you were going to leave. We said good bye."

"I have found some energy for one last try. I am ready to play again. The spider, she's got me in her web. I can still escape, but I don't want to. Not just yet."

"Make it a quick one then and you can be on your way. Coffee?"

"No thanks. I've had my breakfast. I just wanted to check one more thing."

"Detective again. Okay, shoot."

"Lingerie. Are you kind of in that business still?"

"What?"

"I mean, do you like lacy stuff and all of that. I'm asking because I think it has a bearing on the case."

"Case of Edgar, I assume."

"Yes, and according to the account, the police report, underwear was found in the car someone borrowed. The back seat."

"The account? what account?"

"Oh, you know. We have the police reports and our own theories about what happened and all of that. That's what I mean."

Richard was backtracking. He hadn't mentioned the document he had received from an anonymous source after the deaths of Edgar and Helen detailing intimate details surrounding the suspects, even himself as he questioned and inquired of parties concerned with the Pancraces. He didn't want Johnnie to know about that until later. He wanted to establish certain aspects of the case before he told his stories."

"How would my underwear get into Mark's car, if that's your question."

"Yes, that's sort of my question."

"Detective OC, should I over- or under-estimate you, particularly after last evening and your powers of observation and deduction?"

"Just asking."

"I'm sorry I encouraged you by taking you to Barbara's place."

Richard waited for more.

"I see," said Johnnie. "Well, if you must know I wear white or black, plain or lacy. My size is, well, hard to fit. I'm between sizes. But I am amply supplied for daily wear, and for a gentleman caller, or gentlewoman."

"That the gender bending business you referred to? Or are you serious?"

"None of your business." Johnnie could be just as manipulative as Detective OC and she waited for him to dig deeper and reveal more of his motives for asking her about intimate details such as her unmentionables.

"I'm sorry. I'm fishing. I just wanted to know. You know, you took me to that bar last evening and I put that together with certain facts in the Pancrace case."

"I'm still a suspect, and after all I have done for you to demonstrate you are in the wrong business and barking up the wrong girl."

He reflected a moment and realized what she was talking about, the game of Believe it or Not and her clear statement, which he really had no reason to doubt, that she had nothing to do with Edgar's death.

Johnnie continued. "Say, Edgar wasn't really hit by that car, was he?"

"No, not that we could tell."

"And was he hit by another car, a similar one that got away?"

"We have no witnesses to that effect. He just apparently fell down in front of a car that was stopped at the crosswalk where he was a pedestrian."

"I see. So he might not have been murdered as you have assumed."

"I guess you are right."

"Well, that leaves us with today. You're off somewhere and so am I. I have plans to meet some spirits in the desert. They don't talk much and they don't ask questions either. They already know what I am wearing and what I am doing, also what I have done. They are comforts and companions for a girl who needs to be left alone."

"I'm sorry. I'll be going."

OC stood up and the sun was behind him as he faced Johnnie. She looked in his eyes and got a funny sensation, one she recalled she had had several times before, particularly one she felt as a teenager with an innocent but all-too-willing soul she had seduced and used for his and her pleasure one summer. She thought she felt wet between her legs as her eyes saw for the first time that OC was basically a kind and well meaning man, somewhat lost in a world he was unsuited to live and work in. She then caught herself and dismissed any thoughts or feelings rationalizing that she did not really know anything about this person, this cop, who had come calling with basically one objective. She felt at that point his questions and the stories she told unimportant. Each had pasts unknown and unknowable, and these past days they were just passing ships and all of that.

She composed herself and said, "It has been an unexpected pleasure, but I don't really know you and you don't know me. Pity. But you have miles to go before you rest, and I have miles to go. Our paths, our roads, they do not go the same way. I wish you safe travels and nice adventures. Where will you go from here?"

Richard lowered his eyes and thought for a moment. He looked up and into Johnnie's eyes. She looked away toward her horse in the pasture. Richard said he would return the rental car to the Reno airport and take a flight to Las Vegas. He would stay a few days and then work his way east by bus. Johnnie absently observed he should have some interesting adventures that way of traveling.

That was it. Richard shook her outstretched hand a little longer than Johnnie felt warranted. He said he hoped they could meet again sometime under other circumstances. Johnnie said "Bye." Richard walked the access road to his car, and Johnnie followed his progress until he disappeared behind some cottonwoods. She turned and went back to her bedroom where she put on a pair of jeans and a white canvas cowgirl shirt. She said to herself that that should do it, reflecting on Richard's exit.

Before she put on her riding boots and hat to protect her from the sun, she went to the bookshelf to the left of her bed. On the top shelf she picked out the black essay book with the manilla envelope tucked inside. She took the envelope and pulled the thin sheaf of papers in it about a quarter of the way out of the envelope. She picked through the pages with her index and middle fingers and verified she had the original typed copy of the account she wanted the New York police department to have. Once she saw it was all there, she took the envelope with papers. She put the essay book back among the journals and notebooks she kept on that shelf. She then went to the wood stove in the great room and set fire to the papers. To make sure they burned thoroughly, she stirred the papers and added the burnable trash from the bathroom, tissues and such, as well as several sheets of newspaper. When she was satisfied that the evidence had been destroyed, she put on her boots, went out the sliding glass door onto the deck, called her dog, and walked to the paddock to saddle Boss  for a long ride to some rock outcropping or dry lake she had not explored yet in her wanderings and wonderings.

That evening after Boss had been put up for the night and Bark had been fed and was lying just outside the sliding glass door on the deck, Johnnie took a new notebook to begin again to put out of herself the recent days not recorded. However, once she sat down and looked out into the evening and the moon's light bouncing off ripples on the lake, she didn't feel the long standing need to put anything on paper. So she just sat there in a state of calm, for all energies expended on hiding and evading and escaping seemed to have dissipated. She had just herself to be with, and the calm led to quiet thoughts that streamed in and out. And then, as if an angel in flight surveying earthly follies, she looked down from a great altitude albeit mental or soul-seated and saw as if for the first time.

OC, Richard, was a blockhead but an innocent. Johnnie had handled him and his questions and his stubborn hold onto getting answers while at the same time admiring her--she handled him just as she had a young admirer in her teens who wouldn't stop following her around. That puppy. Richard was, she thought, much the same, a puppy, insistent, intent, holding onto hope that his crush would be reciprocated. She had an idea he had a playful side, but there was little evidence of it. And what did she do? the same, escape into the empty spaces of a high mountain desert. Then she would be relieved of any responsibility as other forces, forces outside the players, separated them indefinitely or forever. Buddy never came back. James was kidnapped never to be seen or heard from again. Richard would not return either. There was no reason and would be no opportunity. Johnnie was the end of the line for both and both would continue on their separate ways. Interesting and unfortunate, thought Johnnie.

Just as the pebble thrown into the pond creates concentric circles of ever expanding size from the center, so too thought Johnnie of her life. Topaz and she were at a center, a still point in a living space on a lake in the middle of nowhere, neither fully in California nor Nevada. The concentric circles, however were now converging, going the opposite direction, from the outside to the inside. From a life that had been lived almost thirty years to a point into which it would become pregnant and give birth to something--more fortune? or someone--a mature woman. Johnnie no longer felt girlish.

Johnnie's thoughts focused on those converging circles and found that they were all of a piece. The shapes and patterns of movements looked just the same. She escaped the ranch near Nixon and her parents through no act of her own. Her stepfather and mother had banned her from that imperfect paradise. She ended up in a better place where from defeat and sadness, a kind man rescued her and he became her lover. Then once she grew out of that relationship, one flawed because the separate parts were not whole themselves, the benefactor had invited her to divest herself of her coat of many colors and try a new one, or go without to see or do what she did not know, but it was another wilderness entered from which she would return. To the city of New York.

Johnnie began to get a sense that she was trapped within concentric circles or cultures from which and to which she was powerless to break free, really break free. If she were to go back into older notebooks and journals, she believed she would be able to extract the same stuff with just different circumstances. The essence of her life and the ways she lived it were the same, and this disturbed her. The project of changing the coat of her culture had actually not happened. She had deluded herself.

All of which made Richard a blockhead still. He was in the center of his own expanding and converging pool of ripples. He couldn't help who he was, a moderately talented cop and a fumbling flirt. So no blame, no condemnation. He had admitted his limitations in being with her and Johnnie had helped him see some he hadn't noticed. As far as he and Johnnie were concerned, there would not be, could not be intersections unless some other factor, some other pebble or rock got tossed into the pool.

So it came at last. Johnnie felt she too was a blockhead, someone who could not see herself clearly enough from that mirror in her bathroom to a point somewhere up and out and beyond. She could not live without her culture, without who she was and who she had become. Pity. But then again, hope.

Johnnie did not have to apologize for herself or what she did, nor did she have to judge others. We are who we are. If we start from that recognition and see and hear, look and listen, we can live and let live. Which can't be all.

Johnnie screwed up her face and asked herself audibly one of her oft-asked questions which were effectively statements: Is that all there is?

Johnnie took the notebook and pen from her lap and placed them on the table beside her chair. She got up and opened the screen door for Bark to come inside for the night. She got undressed, brushed her teeth, slipped into bed and turned out the light. As she relaxed into the soft folds of her comforter and down pillow, she audibly gave herself the final thought before dropping off to sleep. "I'm a blockhead, too."

***

A few weeks passed. Johnnie put her male caller nicely out of her mind. She had decided at the time he left that he was not worth worrying about, that men were still mostly imperfect pigs, and that she needed to be about her and her sister's business, a business that would probably take her north and beyond.

Johnnie walked round the lake to the gas station and convenience store on Route 395. She went to the lonely phone booth at the corner of the parking lot and called Nevada Bell. She asked them to reconnect her phone. It didn't matter now. Then she called Natalie. She asked if she had any important mail. There was some correspondence from a legal firm in New York. There was also a post card from Las Vegas signed by an Oh-See. It said he had been thinking about things since he had left Topaz Lake and now saw something he hadn't before. Johnnie asked her sister to forward this mail and anything else that came for her to the family ranch north of Nixon. They talked briefly and both looked forward to meeting up in Reno when the trustee for their parents' estate had scheduled the final settlement, the day after Johnnie's thirtieth birthday at the end of October.

Johnnie noted OC's message only in passing. What was left for him to think about? Nothing, except maybe his own career. He missed, she thought, any clues she had given him so that he could solve whatever he had to about the Pancraces. And although he seemed like a nice guy, considerate and handsome in his own way, what would be the chances?

Except for a few loose ends, Johnnie was finished with NYC and all that had happened there. The only memories to hold close were those of Helen and Edgar and the care and nurturing they had for one another, including Johnnie's role at the end of their lives. She did not realize that in her years to this point including all opportunities, experiences, and transgressions lay her answer to the benefactor's challenge. That challenged came down to discovering the answers to a seeming dead end of recycling through the same old stuff.

No, that was not all there was left, but what was missing? Something? Or perhaps someone.