A Shierbet von Lichtenstein Adventure

Chapter 3

We sat together in the living room drinking tea, mine from a fragile vessel which was taken from one of the boxes on the floor.

The tea was fantastic. I closed my eyes and took in the scent, it had been quite a while since I was afforded the luxury of fine tea and I was not about to waste the moment.

When I opened my eyes to look up at Mrs. Johansen I found her watching me, her top teeth worrying at her lower lip, the teacup paused on its way to her mouth.

"I'm sorry," I said with more than a hint of self-consciousness, "It has been quite a while since I had anything more than Lipton's."

"It is quite all right dear," she said, her accent slipping a little to reveal more of the refined east coast cadence.

"Where were we," I wondered aloud, "I believe you were telling me how it was you came to find you husband missing. And, if you don't mind, telling me why you are calling me rather than the local authorities"

"Oh, I did call the police." She said, her eyebrows knitting together.

"The police informed me that my husband was not 'missing', they insist he has just run off."

Insist eeh, I thought to myself, aloud I said, "Why would they do that?"

"I made the mistake of showing them this note," she said passing me a piece of paper, "I hope I am not making one showing it to you as well."

I took the proffered document, well, if one could call it a 'document' I suppose, it was written in hasty scrawl on a piece of discarded newspaper.

"It is over, I am leaving." I read aloud.

"This seems like a pretty strait forward note," I said, "I can see why the police dismissed you so easily."

"Well, I do understand their reservations, but. . ."

"He didn't write it though, or if he did it was done under duress," I continued.

"No, he didn't," she said, her eyes narrowing, "but how can you tell?"

"Well, someone marked the boxes from your move," I said gesturing with my tea cup to the room at large. "I am pretty sure it wasn't you since you're right handed and the box writing has that odd slant you get from lefties, this note was written by someone right handed.

The boxes are all mix-matched parcel shipment boxes you get from ordering items on the internet, so I'm pretty sure you didn't pay a moving company to pack your things. So, if it wasn't you and it wasn't the movers, the most logical person to label the boxes is your husband, which means your husband is left handed and therefore did not write this note."

The reflection within the tea I could see her face stretch into a slow smile. It was a look incongruous with the situation, like that of a hungry cat that had zeroed in on her prey. When I looked up to meet her eyes, it was gone.

Probably nothing, I thought to myself, reflections are not always what they seem. . . or are sometimes closer than they appear I guess.

Aloud I said, "Who do you think wrote the note?"

"That's just it, I haven't any idea. There was nothing in the house to make me think something bad had happened or that he had been harmed. It was all so odd."

"Well that's probably another reason the police wouldn't help you, no struggle, a note saying he had gone. It's all very neat, very easy to pass off as a runaway husband. But don't fret," I continued, allowing my eyes to wander and take in the half of the room I had not been able to see from the kitchen, "I am excellent at finding lost things. Though admittedly this would be the first lost think I have found that is human."

There was one lone picture on an ornate end table, tilted slightly away from me such that I couldn't exactly see who was in it. This too struck me as odd, the entire house was devoid of personalization, it felt like the set for a play more than a home, even one that was in the process of being moved in to. This picture was glaringly out of place, it must be something special to have been unpacked before all the kitchenware.

I continued my survey of the room, and almost missed Mrs. Johansen's next question, my head snapping back in time to hear, "do you do it?"

"How do I find things you mean?" I asked by way of stalling.

"Yes, before I called you I asked around town to see if anyone knew you since you were the only investigator local to town and everyone said your success rate was near perfect."

"It is perfect," I said. Then of course, I realized how that sounded almost immediately, I must look like an arrogant boy to one such as her so I hurried and tacked on, "that is. . . I mean. . . I . . . always find the things I look for. . . you know. . . for people."

Eloquent as always.

She smiled again, and again it was an odd expression that fell short of her eyes. Forced somehow.

"That is good to hear, do explain, if you don't mind."

She shifted slightly in her seat, leaning forward slightly and setting her full teacup down on the glass table that separated us.

I took another sip of mine, "well I have my ways," I hedged, not really wanting to explain the drawing. It was odd and I knew it, and I really didn't have an explanation in any case other than to show her.

"Here, let me show you." I said, and stood to cross to the next room and sit at the dining room table where I had set my sketch pad on the way in.

The action sent a small wave of dizziness through me and I had to pause half way there and right myself, when did I eat last? I was always forgetting that.

I sat at the table, taking another sip of the exquisite tea hoping the sugar in the honey would steady me some and opened to the next page in my sketchbook.

I picked my pencil from the center of the book. It felt a bit heavier than I was expecting, and it slipped ever so slightly in my grip.

I took another sip of tea and asked myself, what happened to Mr. Johansen. Odd, I had never gotten his name. Come to think of it, Mrs. Johansen had never given me hers either, I knew them both of course from my research in the library, but I would have expected the introductions to include such things.

I took another sip of my tea, finishing the cup, letting my eyes close so I could enjoy the last drops.

Without opening them, I set pencil to paper and let my mind's eye rather than my physical eyes guide the pencil through its work.

From behind me I heard what sounded like a mixture of a growl and purr escape Mrs. Johansen's throat.

"Power," she said, "unrefined but absolutely there. I knew it."

I opened my eyes, which was actually a little more difficult than it should have been, and glanced over, my mind moving more slowly than my head.

The exaggerated slowness allowed me to register the people in the photograph I had wondered about earlier. It was of a couple in their late middle years, their hair showing tinges of gray. It looked to be very recent, they in front of a lodge at the base of a large mountain, smiling and excited for what was presumably a day of hiking.

Neither one in the photo was the woman behind me.

My eyes finished their rotation and beheld a grinning predator, all pretense of nicety washed away. There was no mistaking the look of hunger, which for once matched with her words.

I shuddered, panic starting to take hold and looked back at the drawing in front of me. It was simple but unmistakable.

A tea cup, tipped on its side, the last drops drawn leaking onto the page.

"This is the best drawing I've ever done," I said.

Then all was darkness.