|
main | table of contents Copyright © 2003, S. Y. Affolee 5 Miranda It was late and dark, and although there were many street lights along Seadoch, it was difficult to make out anything definitively. But there were few other cars on the road and Verity easily followed the small dark compact car that belonged to Gammell. They passed through the business and market districts which were dark except for the few lit signs on stores that were open late. He turned left into a smaller street, into what looked like a residential area stacked with apartment buildings four to five stories high. He parked at the side of the street and Verity followed suit. There were no parking meters. When she got out of the car, he was already walking toward her. He angled his head toward the nearest building. “Miranda’s on the fourth floor. There’s no elevator, but at least climbing all those stairs will help work up an appetite.” She gave him a disbelieving glance, but on the dark street, he probably couldn’t see her expression anyway. So she said, “These look like apartment buildings.” “Yes.” He had already stepped past her to head to the side door. He opened it and indicated for her to enter first. “Miranda runs her restaurant out of her home. It’s invitation only and not really legal.” “What do you mean, invitation only and not legal?” Inside was a door that said “1A”. Dirt-scuffed stairs with a plain iron railing twisted upward started a few feet from that door. The door opened and a short man with an extremely long moustache stepped out. He hugged his large green parka closer to himself as he glared at Verity and Gammell. “Damn Miranda,” the man announced. Then he disappeared through the door leading outside. Gammell ignored him and began climbing the stairs. Verity followed. “It’s invitation only in that Miranda has to know you before you can come eat at her place,” Gammell said. “An associate of mine knew her and brought me along. And now I’m bringing you along so you can meet Miranda too. Her restaurant isn’t legal because it hasn’t been certified or inspected by the city authorities who issue restaurant licenses.” “That doesn’t sound too promising,” she remarked. “Trust me, even though you have to let Miranda serve whatever she pleases, it’s always good.” They reached the top of the stairwell. There were two doors. He knocked on the one that said “4B”. Then he reached into his coat to pull out a wallet. His fingers took out a twenty. “What’s that for?” “The entrance fee and dinner is ten per head,” he replied, seemingly unconcerned. Verity blinked and then seized his arm. “I’ll pay my own entrance fee.” He looked down at her. She stared back, not willing to be cowed. He was the first one to break when his mouth quirked upward. “If you insist.” He replaced the twenty with a ten. As she took out a crumpled bill from her own coat, the door to apartment 4B opened letting the aroma of rich spices permeate the air. She felt her own stomach growl in anticipation. In the doorway stood a large, heavily muscled man with skin the color of polished dark oak. He was wearing a tight white t-shirt and black leather pants. He was bald and when he saw Gammell, he grinned, showing gold. “You’re back,” the bouncer said. “Of course I’m back. This is Verity. Verity, this is Abdul. Miranda’s brother-in-law.” “Hello,” said Verity. Abdul only nodded. “You never brought any lady friends with you before.” “She’s the new archivist at the Rothburne Institute.” “Helping you with your research, eh?” “I don’t really need the help.” “I see.” Verity felt like throttling the both of them at the unspoken words they were exchanging. Instead, she said, “I could have very well decided not to have come.” The bouncer laughed at what could have been an insult. “I like her. There’s already some people here, hopefully that won’t cramp your style.” They handed Abdul the money and he waved them inside and indicated a makeshift table near the living room window. The rest of the living room had been turned into a makeshift dinning room. An ugly green sofa and a coffee table with doilies were pushed to the side to allow for five small plastic tables to be scattered about. Each table was surrounded by two or three folding chairs. One of the tables was already occupied with three young men, probably college-aged as backpacks clustered at their feet. “Very homey,” Verity observed. “People come here for the food, not the atmosphere,” Gammell replied. She sat down on the folding chair at the table. She ignored the window with its view of apartment rooftops. She took in a deep breath of the aromatic air and shucked her coat. “Are you trying to befriend me through my stomach?” “Am I succeeding?” “Maybe.” She saw his gaze resting on her wrists. For a moment, she wished she hadn’t been so needy to feel something. To feel anything. “What happened?” “Nothing.” His gaze rose to her face, but seeing the stubborn look, he decided to bide his time. “The previous archivist, Alan, used to work in your office.” “Yes, Quinn and Bob told me. They said he retired.” “Alan was only forty years old.” “Forty?” “He couldn’t take working for the Rothburne Institute anymore.” “Perhaps he wasn’t cut out to be an archivist.” “It wasn’t that. He was letting the stories get to him. He quit before the doctors could get suspicious.” Before she could ask what those stories were, an amply endowed woman in a tiny paisley dress, eyes heavy with mascara and mousse colored hair piled on top of her head flounced by the table and brazenly kissed Gammell on the mouth. Verity gaped at the outrageous behavior. “Darling, you came back to me,” the woman cooed. “Your food couldn’t keep me away.” “It’s always the food.” She threw up her hands in exasperation. “Maybe I should take up dancing to get any decent men around here.” “I’d say you’ll be successful at it.” She laughed. “Maybe pole dancing. Or better yet, lap dancing.” She turned to Verity. “Who do we have here?” “Verity.” She held out her hand. The woman shook it and smiled. “I’m Miranda. Welcome to my home. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Do you like cod?” “Yes,” she replied cautiously. “Good. Because I’m trying a new recipe and if you like cod, you wouldn’t care even if I botched it up.” “You never botch things, Miranda,” said Gammell. “Flatterer,” she said amused. “Anyways, it’s an interesting choice you have for a guest, Gammell. Bad hair, but if she likes cod, she’s all right with me.” As the woman whisked herself into the back where the kitchen was presumably located, Verity said, “She wasn’t what I was expecting.” “What were you expecting?” “I wasn’t expecting anything, but if I were, she wasn’t it.” “That’s one way of putting it. She’s one of a kind.” “Does she always kiss her long time customers?” “Only the good looking ones to get her husband jealous.” She snorted. “Well, I don’t see him around anywhere.” “He’s actually behind you. He just took over Abdul’s shift.” She was about to turn around when he said again, “But don’t look.” “Why not? Because he isn’t there?” “No, because it’ll be too obvious. You’ll see him when we leave.” “Or maybe because I won’t because he doesn’t exist?” “Stubborn, aren’t you?” She turned around anyway. A man in a navy jacket and matching pants sat on a chair next to the door. He looked like one of the models for men’s clothing magazines. He waved at her. Hesitatingly, she waved back and then turned back to Gammell who was smirking. She shook her head. “Okay, so you weren’t lying.” “I try not to do that if I can help it.” “So what about those stories?” “Hm?” His gaze seemed to drop back to her hands which laid on the table. She placed them back on her lap. “The stories. The ones you said Alan didn’t like.” “Alan didn’t like a lot of things. He probably didn’t like cod either.” “Cod?” “Yes cod!” Miranda was back and she plopped two plates of simmering fish and vegetables in front of them. Abdul was behind her bearing glasses of sparkling yellow liquid. “Sorry, I’m driving,” said Verity. Abdul winked. “I know. It’s actually grape juice.” “Why don’t you try some?” urged their hostess. Verity cut off a piece of the fish, ready to complement Miranda on her marvelous cooking no matter how it tasted. The cod was flaky and melted on her tongue in a subtle creamy flavor which she could not quite place. Eagerly, she took another bite vaguely registering that three people were staring at her as she ate. “Excellent,” Verity sighed. Miranda gave a satisfied shout and impulsively kissed her on the cheek. “What a darling!” Verity blinked once, disconcerted for a moment, and then went back to eating. Then Miranda turned to glare at Gammell. “Aren’t you going to try it? Or are you going to watch her eat all night?” “I can do both can’t I?” But to appease her, he took a bite out of his own plate and nodded in approval. Miranda then flashed him a smile and then disappeared back into the kitchen. Abdul wandered off to see how the three college kids at the next table over were doing. Halfway through her plate, Verity finally took a sip of the juice. “I could kiss you for bringing me to this place. Miranda deserves to head her own five-star restaurant, not to just cook in her own home.” Gammell suddenly stopped eating to take a drink himself. He was watching her with darkening eyes. “Ah.” Realizing what she had said, she tried to cover up by taking another bite of the fish before saying, “You were talking about Alan.” “Alan. Yes, he didn’t like cod, so I suppose he’s missing out on this superb dinner, but then again, I never brought him here for dinner either. I never figured him for one to appreciate fine dining. And of course, he hated the stories which were actually real.” “You were about to tell me the stories.” “You must have run across them by now, especially from your work. The doctors at Rothburne dismiss them as tales about bogeymen who kidnap people to their own dark realms.” “And you think the bogeymen are real?” “There are no such things as bogeymen, otherwise, the therapy I’m getting now would be worthwhile. But I do think there is a grain of truth in those stories, that there is some other, something beyond this world that somehow connects to this one.” “And how can you be sure?” “That’s the research I’ve been doing in the institute archives.” “But all those stories are from psychiatric patients.” “Do you think everyone is crazy?” Maybe you are, she thought, but she didn’t say that aloud. “How can you believe in myths if you don’t have proof?” “I’m hoping to find proof.” Verity didn’t say anything. Instead, she just ate another piece of fish. “You don’t believe me.” He sounded resigned. “No one believes me. I’m trying to be logical and they do is to send me to the shrink. Anyways, Alan didn’t like those stories because he was beginning to think that there was some truth in them too, unlike Quinn who thinks I deserve sympathy and Bob who thinks I just should be locked up. Alan was the only archivist that I could talk to. Unfortunately, he quit and moved out of town before I could ask him to help me catalogue my antiques.” “You collect antiques?” “A little. But my day job is that of antiques dealer. I’ve been hoping to get an archivist as an assistant since only an archivist would only understand how I do things. Besides another antiques dealer, of course, but I’m always wary of the others in my profession. They’re always trying to get another acquisition.” “You’re looking for an assistant?” “Just part time, rather sporadic. Almost no heavy lifting. Occasionally accompanying me on trips to scout out some potential pieces and to meet with some clients.” He gave her a somewhat odd, pleading look. “I haven’t advertised in a newspaper. I guess, I’m somewhat paranoid that one of my competitors might use it to his advantage.” “You’re asking me if I could be your assistant?” She felt mostly relieved that he was only propositioning her for a job. There was another part of her telling her that her would-be employer wasn’t quite right in the head. And then there was that third part telling her that she was somewhat disappointed. She didn’t want to dwell on why she might be disappointed. “What makes you think I’d be a good assistant?” “You’re an archivist yourself which is the majority of the requirement. And I find you easier to talk to. In fact, I sensed that when I first saw you.” “Hunches can often be wrong.” “I don’t think I’m wrong about you. I don’t think you’re like Alan who ran away from what scared him.” She looked down at her bandaged wrists. “Actually, I’m not so different from Alan. I do run away when I’m scared.” She looked up at him. He regarded her solemnly. “Perhaps you have before, but I don’t think you will now.”  |