Page 4 of Sound and Deception

Chapter Two

Waking up in the country had always been a very different experience than waking anywhere else. In between visits, I tended to forget the profound lack of noise from anything man-made, so when morning came around and I found myself in my old childhood room, the quiet felt a little unnerving. In the grey of early dawn, it’s easy to think you’re the last person on the planet.

The crow of Bart, the rooster, chose that moment to slice through the pondering in my head. He followed up with an encore seconds later.

Okay. Currently, it was just me and a chicken.

Movement downstairs bumped up the total to me, Gram and/or Sunny, and the chicken. Several minutes later, the aroma of coffee wafted upstairs to me. If I was lucky, the scent of vanilla rolls would be right behind it. Remaining cozy within my covers, I blinked my eyes clear and gazed around the tiny room.

Sometime during my college years, I’d removed most everything that had made this room mine. Posters, stuffed animals, song lyrics or poetry that had made an impact when I was twelve, ceramic animals, and flocked horses, had been replaced by a lot of nothing. The only items left on display to connect me to my childhood were a few framed photos, one a 5x7 portrait of my family when I was about three, a separate one of my brother and I, and another of my high school class with everyone posing like they’d just cut a bad ass rock album. An 11x14 painting hung on the wall above the tiny desk where I used to do my homework. The depth of the art work was pretty impressive for an amateur, the farm and land captured verbatim. My mother had painted it before she’d died.

Still fatigued, but very aware I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, I slipped from beneath the quilt Gram had made for me years before, grabbed some clothes, and headed for the shower.

At least, there’d be coffee.

****

Ground fog spread over the pasture and fields, and trickled into the surrounding woods, while the glint of sun parting through the overcast skies added the illusion of fire against the few wet paved paths.

Condensation coated my boots when I walked the property with Gram’s dog, Asta, following behind. A mild western wind brought the tang of sea air further inland, and I pulled it deep into my lungs, savoring the clarity and distinct lack of pollution.

Today, my only firm plan consisted of wandering Gram’s acreage, and re-establishing my connection with the old place. It wouldn’t be long before I got twitchy, but for now I savored the peace. The sound of birdcalls rushed in from the periphery, and I expected to catch sight of chickadees, wrens, goldfinches, and if I was lucky, maybe a peregrine falcon or bald eagle. On occasion, we’d even see Great Horned Owls, even though they used to scare the hell out of me at night as a young kid. The island attracted birdwatchers year-round, for good reason.

Grey movement spiked from the corner of my eye and Asta took off, chasing a rabbit in good sport, coming back to me with empty jaws, thankfully. She panted up at me, and I dropped to a crouch to give her a hug before we headed over to say hello to the alpacas. Gram and Sunny’s handyman already worked in the paddock to supply fresh hay and water. He raised one hand. “You Mrs. Holt’s granddaughter?”

“I am. Klahanie Bishop.”

“Carl Houser. Nice to meet you.” He approached me, a middle-aged man with white-blond hair, tawny-colored eyes, and a medium build coiled with odd tension. He pulled off a glove, his handshake dry but slight. “Interesting name.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t usually explain the origin of my name, other than it was the ballpark Chinook word for ‘outdoors.’ Whispers of an interesting conception floated around my childhood, but I’d never had any desire to confirm.

When I didn’t offer anything more, he nodded. “Well, welcome home. I’m sorry the circumstances are … unfortunate.”

“Thank you. I’m sure she’ll be okay.”

“I’m sure. She seems to be a tough lady, despite her age.” He pulled his glove back on. “I have a few more things to do before I head out. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Um, thanks.”

He let himself out of the paddock, careful to keep the alpacas from making their great escape, made eye contact with me a beat too long, and walked toward the chicken coop. Asta took a couple steps back from him when he passed.

Tough, despite her age.The description was apt, but bothered me deep in my soul. I did my best to shove it to the back of my head, and walked toward the path leading to the bungalows.

Maybe I’d start chores today after all. It might keep me from thinking too much.

Chapter Three

Mr. Crowberry was one of those men who must have looked old at twelve. In all the years I’d come into his general store, he hadn’t changed. His skin had always been creased around his mouth and eyes due to a perpetual frown, and his hair had always been swept back, leaving a peninsula of retreating strands that had yet to retreat completely.

Gram didn’t like him. She told me once that he was so cheap, he’d probably recycle his own crap if he could. This was the height of comedy when I was about seven.

Now as I stepped inside, he looked up and regarded me from beneath frizzy eyebrows. “Klahanie Bishop.”

“Mr. Crowberry.” He’d intimidated me as a kid, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t still a little true. I just had no intention of showing it. “How are you?”

“I’d heard you were back.”

He let the statement hang like a bad smell in the air, but I chose to ignore it. I expected he didn’t care anymore for Gram than she did for him. “I just needed to pick up a few things for Gram and Sunny. I shouldn’t be long.”

---