The Moon Stands Still Page 11

  Give the grace you want for yourself.

  Yes, I’d screwed up. Just like Tammy Franklin.

  But not on purpose.

  Ninety minutes later, the dog in Eleanor’s kitchen lapping water like she’d just crossed Death Valley, I stood in the living room, arms extended as Marvelous Marvin and his magic push pins worked the hem of my fire-engine red stewardess skirt. I refused to look down.

  Eleanor stood directly across from me wearing an identical stewardess uniform. “Shorter!” she exclaimed.

  “No,” I said.

  Marvelous came dressed as D.B. Cooper. White button-down shirt. Skinny black tie. Dark trousers. Wayfarer sunglasses, now pushed up on his forehead, threading his dyed-brown hair.

  “Marvelous.” I lifted my right foot. “You’re sure they wore go-go boots?”

  He plucked pins from his mouth. “Oh, yes, these uniforms are exact replicas.”

  “Oh, Raleigh!” Eleanor tapped around the floor, red hat bobbing like a cardinal on too much caffeine. “Enjoy these boots. They could give Nancy Sinatra a run for her money.”

  I groaned.

  But the torture wasn’t over. Eleanor was rummaging through more Marvelous props in an open suitcase on the floor. When she straightened, her ringed hand held a plastic cigarette filter, roughly the length of a conductor’s baton. “You used to be able to light up on planes. To be historically accurate, we need cigarettes.”

  “I’m not smoking.” Unless smoking would make me ill and I could stay home. I was about to propose it when the doorbell rang and Eleanor kicked up her boots, sashaying across the living room to the front door. She opened it and asked, “Coffee? Tea? Moi?”

  “Wow.” Jack stood on the front porch. “Quite a costume, Eleanor.”

  I opened my mouth. What the—

  “Isn’t it, mah-ve-lous?” Eleanor gave a spin, flaring the red skirt. “Come see Raleigh.”

  No. Please. No.

  Martin was pinning my skirt, keeping me from running away. Jack stared at me. My face flushed until it matched my ridiculous outfit.

  “Young man!” Eleanor wagged the cancer baton at him, nearly taking out his eye. “Where is your costume?”

  “You’re looking at it.” Jack lifted his right arm, where a brown leather briefcase was handcuffed to his wrist. “I’m the FBI agent who delivered the ransom money.”

  “Oh.” Eleanor glanced back at her accomplice. “Marvelous, what do you think?”

  What did I think? Why is Jack here?

  “It’s brilliant!” Marvelous said. “He even looks like an FBI agent.”

  “Imagine that.” Eleanor pulled Jack deeper into the room, waving her wand at me. “Don’t you think her skirt could be shorter?”

  Jack grinned. I felt the perspiration beading my forehead, trapped by my stupid red cap. More perspiration was erupting across my shoulders, hugged by the silly red jacket. I tried to move my feet, cooking inside the patent leather boots, but Marvelous kept jabbing pins into the hem.

  “Well?” Eleanor demanded.

  Jack continued to stare.

  “No,” he said. “I think she looks just right, for undercover.”

  20

  The four of us didn’t fit in The Ghost. And by law, FBI agents were prohibited from transporting civilians in government-issued vehicles. Although we might all fit in Eleanor’s Lincoln Town Car, tonight she was, as she put it, “imbibing adult beverages.” And nobody volunteered to drive that land yacht.

  So we climbed into Marvelous’ van and headed out of town.

  “OOOh-kla-homa!” Eleanor sang from the passenger seat.

  In the van’s back, Jack and I sat amid the myriad theater props cluttering the floor, looking like the Bureau’s evidence control room. Prosthetic limbs. Green-feather boas. Several cartons of commercial-grade hair dye. One stuffed monkey.

  Marvin sang along with her. “Okla-Okla-Okla-Okla-Okla—”

  Jack scrunched up his face. “Show tunes?”

  “Brace yourself, Eleanor’s just getting started.”

  Marvin hung a sharp right. The stuffed monkey rolled into Jack’s face. He yanked it away, glaring at me like I’d thrown it at him. “Did you talk to the geologist?”

  “Weren’t we supposed to keep this whole thing under wraps?”

  He gripped the monkey’s arm. “What are you talking about?”

  “McLeod ordered me not to speak to the media. But last night I heard Grant broadcasting the news to the entire world. You want to explain that?”

  Carefully, Jack set the monkey down on a stuffed purple throne adorned with brass buttons. “Harmon, let’s start over. Did you talk to the geologist?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “Total party. It’s not like the guy’s dying.”

  He glanced at the front seats where Eleanor and Marvelous were leaning toward each other, cruising down the freeway and harmonizing to the next song that reminded us when you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way.

  “It’s unfortunate the geologist is dying,” Jack said. “But if he wasn’t, you wouldn’t have this case. And I believe you’re the one who can figure out what’s going on.” He waited, as if expecting me to reply to his compliment. “Did he help you?”

  “He gave me all his notes.”

  Jack smiled. “I had a feeling he’d do something like that. He was thrilled to hear about your background in forensic mineralogy.”

  I stared at the stuffed monkey. Maybe I was wrong, but that thing looked like it was laughing at me.

  “Harmon.”

  “What?” I asked the monkey.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this Cooper festival?”

  I shifted my gaze. Jack’s expression was still hard to read. He seemed mad at me, but not furious. Something bothered him. Which was fine, because something bothered me. “Why didn’t anyone tell me about Grant’s media announcement?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Jack, he gave away the exact location. I drove by there last night. The riverbank looked like Black Friday at the Wal-Mart.”

  “Grant’s got seniority. I don’t control him. But technically, by not telling me about this festival, you’re violating your contract with the Bureau.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “If Eleanor hadn’t called, demanding to know my costume, you would’ve gone to this thing without me. Bad move. All your case-related work needs to be cleared by me or Grant.”

  “But Grant has a big mouth.”

  His forehead tightened. “Why does he bother you that much?”

  “Because.” I made eye contact with the monkey again—he seemed to know how I felt. “Grant wants me left in the dark. That makes my job harder.”

  “Welcome to my world.”

  I wanted to look over at him. But I kept my gaze on the monkey.

  “Just so you know,” Jack continued, “the woman hosting this Cooper festival was on our radar from way back, from when that other money was found. Grant even interviewed her. She turned around and filed a lawsuit against him.”

  “She sounds fabulous.”

  “Seriously, Harmon.”

  “Seriously? If you know she filed charges against an FBI agent, why are you showing up at her festival dressed as an FBI agent?”

  He grinned. “Because no FBI agent would come to her festival dressed as an FBI agent.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Your Hawaiian shirts theory.”

  “Absolutely.” Jack wore loud Hawaiian shirts for most of his undercover assignments, convinced that any person hoping to hide wouldn’t wear look-at-me shirts. “But our problem isn’t my costume.”

  Marvin changed lanes like somebody avoiding roadkill, a swerve left that tumbled me into the monkey’s purple throne, then another that slammed me into Jack. I scooted away as fast as possible, tugging down the too-short skirt.

  Jack adjusted his briefcase. “The problem is your stewardess outfit.”

  “For the record,
this is not my outfit.”

  “The problem is, no guy will be able to take his eyes off you.”

  The silly cap tilted forward. I gave it a push, and felt my face burn into a matching hue, my mind combing over his words, listening with every strand of DNA for one ounce of flirtation in his statement. There was none. This was work. Business. That statement was not a compliment.

  “As for Grant,” he continued, “take my advice. Don’t make it personal.”

  I turned my head forward to stare out the van’s windshield. The looming green highway sign said the next exit was for the capital city of Olympia. Not even halfway to our final destination, and Eleanor was just beginning the play list for Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.

  “Tell me about the geologist,” Jack said.

  I took a moment, letting the dozen sandbags that had latched onto my heart sink deep. Don’t make it personal? Got it. Let’s get to work. “The geologist kept excellent records. I’m going over his work. There’s a lot he covered.”

  “I’ll let Grant know. You don’t have to tell him yourself.”

  Doing me a favor. And yet, only more sandbags hooked themselves to my chest, dragging down my throat until it felt like I could no longer speak. I wanted to ask him, wanted to know. Wanted to hear the answer straight from his gorgeous mouth when I asked, Is this our new relationship—work? But I could only stare out the front windshield, watching the gilded dome of the state house shine against the night sky. My fault. Right after Jack’s hands caressed my velvet hips, I tossed that bag of buried money on the table. Nice move, Harmon. I stared at the stuffed monkey. His glassy brown eyes gave me my answer. Don’t make it personal.

  Three hundred years later, the van came to a stop. Eleanor adjusted her rhinestone glasses, peering out the windshield. “My, look at all the trucks!”

  Marvelous leaned forward. “You sound alarmed.”

  “Au contraire! I’m eager to meet such a target-rich audience!”

  Jack opened the van’s back doors and immediately went to help Eleanor. I stepped over some prosthetic limbs and jumped out, my black go-go boots clattering on the gravel lot. Above us, a large red neon sign flashed Sally’s Bar. Jack walked Eleanor to the entrance, one hand holding her elbow, the other cuffed to the brown briefcase. I felt a pathetic stab of jealousy for both.

  When Jack opened the bar’s front door, a honky-tonk music howled out. Eleanor clapped her hands, then latched onto Marvelous’ arm, sashaying inside like the first stewardess of the world’s oldest airline.

  Jack held the door for me, his gaze sweeping over my outfit. “Be careful,” he said.

  I listened, carefully.

  But his concern was nothing personal.

  21

  The bar smelled of stale smoke, cheap beer, and Old Spice, like this place had been holding its breath since 1972. The main room formed a square, connected to a back area. I could see a platform decorated with D.B. Cooper memorabilia, including a blowup doll dressed in the hijacker’s last known outfit—white dress shirt, skinny black tie, slacks, Wayfarer sunglasses—just like the many, many Cooper doppelgangers that packed this room. Eleanor’s red hat looked like an emergency siren.

  Jack leaned into me. Despite heated orders to my olfactory membranes, they disobeyed. Pine and citrus musk invaded my brain. I held my breath. He raised his voice, trying to be heard over the music blaring from the ceiling speakers.

  “See you in thirty minutes,” he said. “And stay careful.”

  I made my way to the back, heading for the Cooper display. Sawdust covered a concrete floor and with every step, the wood shavings clung to my boots. I kept trying to kick them off, but the cold outside had licked some electrical charge over the patent leather. By the time I reached the display, my feet looked like they belonged to Sasquatch. I stared at the back wall. An enlarged crime sketch showed the hijacker’s expressionless face. A nondescript face. With those sunglasses, he could be anybody.

  “Well, hello there.”

  I turned to find one of the D.B. Coopers smiling at me. He also wore the sunglasses and had an NW Airlines ticket tucked into the breast pocket of his black suit jacket like some rigid handkerchief.

  “Come here often?” he asked.

  I suddenly wished this stewardess outfit came with sunglasses, so I could roll my eyes undetected. Instead, like any good stewardess serving her drunk passenger, I smiled. “First time, actually. You?”

  “Every year for eleven years. I’m Earl.” He stuck out his hand. “Earl Folsom.”

  His palm felt chilled from the cold bottle he was holding.

  He leaned in closer, reading my little tag. “Raleigh, is it?”

  Thanks, Marvelous.

  “Yes, Raleigh.”

  “Does Raleigh have a last name?”

  “Stewardesses never have last names.”

  He lifted his beer in some kind of salute, as if acknowledging my point. “How do you like this thing—pretty cool gathering, huh?”

  “A real production.”

  “That’s Sally.” Earl pointed the bottle’s brown neck toward the bar. “Sally’s probably got more Cooper stuff than the FBI.”

  “Really?”

  “She’s obsessed. Just like her mom. You heard about that money?”

  “The stuff someone just dug up?”

  “Sally took off yesterday, hopped in her car and was gone.” Earl went into a long description about the money. How it was found—wrong. The exact amount—wrong again. And all the people who were now searching for more—and better off buying lottery tickets. I didn’t blame him for having bad facts. He got them from the media. “Sally didn’t get back ’til this morning. I was worried she’d cancel the festival.”

  “She find anything?”

  “Well.” Earl raised and lowered his eyebrows. “She wouldn’t say.”

  I glanced over at the bar. Two women worked behind a horseshoe-shaped slick of varnished wood. One was a doe-eyed young woman with long brown hair the color of cedar. The other woman had long silver hair, and despite her age—mid-sixties, I guessed—looked like she came equipped with a powerful engine. Mixing drinks, shouting commentary, pulling beer taps, she motored between her customers with a raspy laugh that told me exactly where the stale odor of cigarette smoke came from.

  “Sally, she’s the owner?” I asked Earl.

  “Her grandmother, Lulu, started the place. Way back in the fifties. It was mostly for loggers, guys like my granddad. Then Lulu died. Her daughter, Sherry—Sally’s mom—took over. When Sherry died, Sally took over. That was in 1980.”

  “Which one started the D.B. Cooper festival?”

  “Sherry.” Earl’s leather loafers shifted in the sawdust, coming closer to my furry boots. “Sherry’s really something. She runs a gambling operation out the back of this place. Membership fees, the whole nine yards.”

  “It was never busted?”

  “Naw, just timber guys coming in here. Blowing off some steam. No drugs. Not even much fighting. So the cops always looked the other way.”

  “Even now?”

  Earl looked away, as if suddenly uncomfortable with my questions.

  “That sounds pretty cool,” I said, glancing over at Sally.

  She was pulling a draft and calling to someone over her shoulder. The ideal tavern personality, outgoing and friendly, your best friend and closest confidante at the bar. I also gave her points for filing a claim against Grant. Harassment probably. I even wished she’d won.

  I looked back at Earl and pretended to be Eleanor, batting my eyelashes. “So why’s Sally obsessed with D.B. Cooper, is there some connection?”

  “Well.” Earl’s leather loafers seemed to grow risers, standing proudly to explain things to little ol’ me. “Right now, we’re only about ten miles from where Cooper jumped out over the Columbia River. And that night there was a storm. People say the winds could’ve blown him over this way. I also heard somebody say the FBI thinks Cooper laundered the money real quick. You
know the best way to launder money?”

  I batted my eyes. “In the washing machine?”

  Earl chuckled. “Gambling, that’s how. If Cooper went gambling that night, he could’ve unloaded all them bank bills and picked up clean money, all before the newspapers and TVs started reporting on what happened. Cooper escapes, and the suckers are left holding bad serial numbers.”

  “Wow, you’ve really thought about it.”

  Pride lifted him again. “Not just me. Everybody around here talks about it. Thing is, whoever got the bank money that night, they could never come forward—know why?”

  “Because they were embarrassed they lost?”

  Another chuckle. “Because they were gambling illegally, with their buddies. You want to turn that money over to the Feds, have them bring down your fun? Everybody’d hate you.”

  I tilted my red-capped head, acting coy. “Nobody comes here to gamble except locals?”

  “Why, you want in?” He smiled wolfishly.

  I looked around the bar. So many Coopers, so little time. Eleanor was regaling some large men near the bar. Marvelous was talking to a female D.B. Cooper. And where was Jack?

  Earl shifted his position. “So, Raleigh-with-no-last-name, where do you live?”

  “Reno.” Not a lie. Cooper’s plane eventually landed in Reno, and I was the stewardess. “Nevada.”

  “That’s why you were asking about the gambling. It’s legal where you come from.”

  “Right. Would you excuse me, Earl?”

  He blinked, startled. “What? Oh. Sure. Yeah. See you around.”

  I navigated through the crowd like a stewardess shoving her drink cart down the plane’s narrow aisle—“excuse me, pardon me, excuse me—” until I found Jack.

  He was bellied up at the bar’s far end, resting an elbow on the briefcase placed conspicuously on the counter. The drink in his right hand held a lime and the glass was full. But you’d never know, given the way Sally was paying attention to him. Jack smiled at her, and five miles away, cold butter melted.

  Sally dunked a high-ball glass into the sink’s soapy water. “You sure I haven’t seen you before?”