An Unseen Current

A San Juan Islands Mystery

by

Bethany Maines

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Chapter 1

Fired vs. Quit

Personally, I blame the New Kids on the Block.

Tish arrived at Winthrop Design, a premier Seattle architectural firm, in a sunny mood on Monday after a three-day weekend – her first full weekend off in over six months – and went to her desk.

Did everything go OK on Friday? asked Tish, sliding into her chair and booting up her computer.

As far as I know, said Sarah. I didn’t hear anything to the contrary anyway.

Oh good, said Tish, heaving a sigh of relief. I just hate leaving Carl in charge of anything, much less a million-dollar proposal.

All he had to do was look it over, approve it, and hand it to an admin to deliver, right? How badly could he screw that up? asked Sarah rhetorically.

Is he in yet? I should ask him about it.

Haven’t seen him, said Sarah. But you know it’s just now eight, so…

So he won’t be here for at least another hour. Right, said Tish, rolling her eyes.

Or maybe I should have taken a Motrin.

Hey, has anyone seen Carl? asked Tim, walking around the corner into the marketing cube nest.

Carl Lyns, the Marketing Director, was a mid-size man who seemed hell-bent on jumbo-sizing himself. In college, he’d born a strong resemblance to Dennis Quaid, with sandy hair, dimples, and an effuse charm that people naturally gravitated to. However, as he moved to the other side of thirty-five, his trendy fitted sweaters had given way to looser and looser shirts that couldn’t hide the expanding paunch, and his ebullient personality could no longer disguise an essentially childish nature that resisted any rules or guidelines, even the polite ones – like alerting co-workers to when he wouldn’t be present.

No, said Tish, smiling apologetically at the tall, lanky architect. We don’t expect him for another hour or so.

But he’s scheduled for a meeting with my team on the Henderson project, protested Tim.

We can try his cell phone, suggested Sarah half-heartedly. She’d given up apologizing for their boss’s inability to show up anywhere on time.

The meeting’s in fifteen minutes, said Tim with a sigh that expressed both frustration and a lack of surprise. Can I just have someone from marketing?

Can’t have me, said Sarah. I’m in the Regency meeting in a half hour. Maybe Marta? Sarah clicked open the group calendar.

I think I’m free, said Tish looking over her shoulder at the screen. And apparently Carl’s got a doctor’s appointment right now, so that’s why he’s not here.

Among Carl’s many faults, besides leaving leftovers at his desk for a week at a time and a refusal to wear headphones because they hurt his ears, was his failure to adjust the privacy settings on his calendar. Which is how they’d all known about his colonoscopy last month.

Is he really scheduled to be in Mexico for two weeks next month? Tish blurted out, pointing at the calendar on-screen. She felt a surge of rage. Carl routinely came in late and left early, all while exhorting them to work extra hard; the unfairness of two weeks off in Mexico made Tish grind her teeth.

Apparently, said Sarah, shooting her a don’t-air-our-dirty-laundry-in-front-of another-department look.

Tim shook his head but didn’t go so far as to comment on Mexico. Well, if you’re free, Tish, that’d be great.

Yeah, she’s free till after lunch, said Sarah. I now pronounce you meeting buddies. Go forth and meet.

Tim laughed. Thanks. I’ll see you in fifteen.

Or maybe it was the six months of reduced pay, increased hours, and the just shut up and be happy you have a job attitude.

The meeting rolled into lunch, followed by another meeting. By three, Tish had barely sat down at her desk when Louis rushed up to her desk.

Didn’t the submittal get turned in? gasped Louis, his eyes wide in panic.

Yeah, admin drove it over on Friday, said Tish, smiling reassuringly at the Land Use specialist, a quick-witted Texan transplant with curly red hair and a quirky personality. They’d both spent the previous week sinking long hours into a proposal that, if they landed the job, would prevent more layoffs for the Land Use Department.

I just called my friend at the city building, and he said he hadn’t seen it!

What? Tish felt her pulse leap with an involuntary surge of adrenalin. No… I’m sure he just missed it.

What if admin took it to the wrong building or something?

I went over the address with Everly myself, said Tish. Everly, a middle-aged mother of four, ran the admin staff with an iron fist and mom hugs. Messages delivered to Everly did not go astray.

Can we check? asked Louis, tugging nervously at the collar of his button-up. Yeah, we’d better, agreed Tish, already standing.

They found Everly staffing the front desk and the multiple phone lines with a smile.

What can I help you two with? Everly asked, smiling even wider.

The submittal delivery on Friday, said Tish. Did everything go… OK? She didn’t know how to ask if it had been done at all without sounding rude.

Jill went over to Marketing at two, like we arranged. Do you want me to page her here and ask?

Could you please? said Tish relieved by Everly’s natural handling of the situation. Jill appeared moments later in answer to the overhead page.

Oh, hey, Tish, said Jill as she approached. What’s up?

The submittal delivery on Friday, said Tish for the second time. How did it go?

Oh, I was going to ask you about that, said Jill, a crease forming between her eyebrows. I went to marketing like you told me to, but Carl said that there wasn’t anything to be delivered.

He said what? asked Tish, gaping.

I tried to look on his desk, but he kind of covered up and shooed me away.

So you didn’t deliver anything? asked Louis, looking white and slightly ill.

No, said Jill, starting to look scared. Is everything OK?

Carl, hissed Tish. I knew it! I knew better than to leave him in charge of something important. I bet it’s still on his desk.

Storming back to the marketing area trailing Louis and Jill, Tish marched straight to Carl’s desk.

Carl’s computer was piping out the 1990s R&B and pop that he somehow considered work appropriate. The unholy mix was a perpetual assault on all within earshot, which, thanks to the open concept office, was pretty much everyone in a fifteen-desk radius. Currently, The New Kids on the Block were doing it Step by Step. She remembered, with loathing, the way her older cousins had played the song non-stop the summer it came out.

Gritting her teeth, Tish dove into the mountain of papers on the desk, unearthing three work-request slips for projects that were due today, five unsigned expense reports, a birthday card for Marta that they’d ended up replacing, a bag of donuts, and a pair of shoes. Tish tossed the shoes angrily onto the floor and picked up the next item – a brochure for Vertical Banded Gastroplasty at the Cosmetic Center of Mexicali, Mexico – and underneath, saw her proposal with a glob of marinara sauce on the custom cover she had designed.

What are you doing? boomed Carl, striding into the office.

The tinny, synth-pop sound of NKOTB filled her ears as she pivoted around to face her boss.

Or maybe it really was just the New Kids on the Block.

Me! gasped Tish, whirling around to face Carl. She could feel her face flush with a riptide of anger. What the hell do you think you’re doing?! She shook the submittal in his face. I left you with one thing to do. One thing! Hand the submittal to Jill. That was all you had to do!

A crowd was beginning to gather now, but Tish couldn’t seem to stop herself from yelling. Dimly she was aware that this was the point of no return. This was her chance to close her mouth and storm off; she’d be in the doghouse for a week, but she’d probably keep her job. She tried to think about that, but all she could hear was the bass beat of the New Kids song.

I don’t appreciate your tone! yelled Carl.

And I don’t appreciate that you blew off a million dollars worth of work that would save your co-workers’ jobs because you were too busy eating a meatball sandwich and thinking about getting your stomach stapled, you lazy, slacker bastard! bellowed Tish, using all of her training to make every word reach the farthest corners of the office.

Carl went white. Fired! he burst out. You’re fired. You are FIRED!!

You can’t fire me, said Tish, suddenly calm. There was a speech in her head somewhere about Carl’s dire lack of self-awareness, management skills, and fashion sense. But, as per usual for Tish, when she was acting without a script, it didn’t come out right. I quit. I won’t work for someone who hasn’t bought a new album since 1992.

Carl went from white to lobster red. His mouth opened and closed a few times then he spun on his heel and marched from the room. Tish dropped into his seat as though her knees had given out. Around her people were drifting off, distancing themselves from the animal who was being culled from the herd.

We’ll help you clean out your desk, said Sarah, clearing her throat softly. I’ll get you a box from the stock room, said Louis.

Thanks, whispered Tish.

The HR manager had magically appeared moments later. There was paperwork to fill out. Apparently, one could not just stomp out like in the movies. Fortunately, Louis and Sarah had finished the packing while she was away, so all that was left for Tish to do was hand over her building key and collect her box of stuff. Exit stage left with her boxes of samples, postcards, and trinkets.

She arrived at the apartment she shared with her useless cousin Sean, parked in her spot, heaved her box onto her hip, and trudged up to her front door, a tear dribbling down her cheek as she went. She had been intending to find someplace else to live since she moved in due to her cousin’s loser, pothead friends, bartender’s hours, and the permanent layer of debris that spread across the apartment despite her constant cleaning efforts. But somehow, she never seemed to have the time to apartment hunt.

I guess I’ll have time now.

Tish pulled up short as she saw their landlord standing with a locksmith in front of her door. Is there a problem, Mr. Garrity? asked Tish, sniffing fiercely.

You’re evicted, said Mr. Garrity, turning sharply toward her and thrusting a piece of paper her way with angry energy.

What? Tish gaped, unsure if she’d actually heard him correctly. Mr. Garrity put the legalese-riddled letter on top of her pathetic white box full of used-up work things. The word eviction popped out at her from the top paragraph.

You two haven’t paid the rent in three months, he said with a shrug. I sent you notices. I talked to Sean. What am I supposed to do?

But… But… Tish stammered, swimming in uncertainty. But I gave Sean money. He said he wanted to pay on his credit card to get airline miles.

Mr. Garrity looked at her pityingly and even the locksmith turned around to give a look of disbelief.

Tish, you seem like a nice girl. I don’t blame this on you. I know that pretty much all you do is work.

I’m going to start crying and I already have a lot of snot going on. I’m going to blow a giant snot bubble all over Mr. Garrity.

And if you want to go in and collect some of your things I’ll let you, but why on earth would you give a cokehead like him money?

Cokehead? repeated Tish. No, Sean is… he’s a little troubled, but he’s…

Sniffles all the time, manic moods?

He’s got allergies, said Tish.

And I’m an idiot. Sean never had allergies when we were kids.

He’s a cokehead, said Mr. Garrity cruelly. Who hasn’t paid rent in three months. And unless you pay the back rent today, you’re out, and I’m confiscating your shit to sell.

You can’t do that, said Tish, her eyes tearing. The snot bubble was imminent.

Sure I can, said Mr. Garrity. Tish opened her mouth and shut it a few times. She didn’t know what to say. Look, he said, sighing, Like I said, you seem nice. I’ve got some stuff to take care of in the office. Whatever you can haul out in the next hour, I’ll let you take with you, but after that, you’re out. Mr. Garrity stomped away, and the locksmith, apparently done with changing out the locks, picked up his gear and followed the landlord, shaking his head.

With nothing else to do, Tish pushed open her door and went inside. The living room was startlingly bare. Her cousin’s usual collection of takeaway boxes and empty booze bottles were still in place, but the couch had been removed, and so had the flat-screen TV Tish had bought herself at Christmas. Tish continued into the kitchen. The fridge was gone. They didn’t even own the refrigerator – it came with the apartment. Her bedroom had been equally destroyed. Her jewelry box had been emptied and the antique dresser removed – her clothes left in heaps on the floor. There was nothing of monetary value left in the apartment.

She had a distinct memory of Sean belting out the lyrics to Step by Step in the backyard the day the policeman came to tell them her father was dead.

Tish collapsed onto her mattress, her life in ruins around her.

What am I going to do now?

Chapter 2

Ferry Ride

Reluctantly Tish picked up the phone and dialed her mother’s number.

Hey, Tish, answered her mother cheerfully.

Um, hey, Mom, said Tish, her voice unexpectedly breaking. Tish, what’s wrong? asked her mom, her voice rising in pitch.

Um, I kind of lost my job today, said Tish, leading up to the bad stuff.

Oh no! That’s terrible. Well, you knew they were downsizing and you didn’t really like that job anyway. Her mother’s pitch lowered, and Tish could tell that she’d immediately ceased to worry.

Yeah, but then I got home today and um… Mr. Garrity, the landlord… he, uh, he’s evicting me because Sean hasn’t paid the rent in three months.

What?! gasped her mother.

I’ve been paying Sean because he said he wanted to put the rent on his card for the airline miles, but Mr. Garrity says he hasn’t paid at all.

There must be some mistake, protested her mother. Maybe they just ran the card incorrectly?

Sean’s gone, and the apartment’s been cleaned out. Including the antique dresser you gave me and my jewelry box. Mr. Garrity thinks he’s a cokehead.

Dorothy is going to freak, said her mother. Dorothy was Sean’s mother, Tish’s aunt. In Tish’s opinion, Dorothy wasn’t going to freak, because she wasn’t going to believe that Sean, her precious sweetie, had done any such thing. The surge of annoyance brought on by that idea quelled Tish’s impending tears, at least for the moment.

Well, it leaves me less to pack, I guess. Anyway, so, um, can I come stay with you and Doug?

There was silence on the other end of the line and then Tish heard the sound of her mother opening and closing a door.

The sound of wind picked up and Tish guessed that her mother had stepped out onto the condo’s balcony.

Sweetie, I just moved in. I can’t have you moving in too.

I’m not moving in, said Tish, feeling her stomach sink. I just need to crash for a few days until I get a new place to stay.

And how are you going to find a new apartment without a job? asked her mom pointedly.

Well, I’ll get a job then, said Tish.

And how long is that going to take in this economy? demanded her mother.

Mom! protested Tish, in disbelief.

"Honey, I’m sorry, but I just moved in. This is a delicate stage in our relationship. Having you here could really upset things.

I just don’t want to have any tension between Doug and me right now."

Mom, Mr. Garrity says I have to be out in an hour. Where am I supposed to go? panic was rising in her voice.

Well, Aunt Dorothy… suggested her mom.

And what am I supposed to tell her when she asks why I’m being evicted and where Sean is? snapped Tish. She’s going to throw me out for even so much as suggesting that he did something bad.

Well, go stay with your grandfather then, hissed her mother into the phone, as if trying to keep her voice low. He’s been calling for weeks asking for us to come and get your father’s junk out of the shed. He says you never answer his calls.

I don’t, said Tish. What am I supposed to say to him?

Well, I don’t know, but I’m sure he’d let you stay for a bit. Just go and help him carry everything to the Goodwill. How bad can it be?

You’re really not going to let me stay? asked Tish, still disbelieving, ignoring the grandfather suggestion, which was ludicrous.

No, I’m sorry, said her mother. If it were my house, then of course you could, but it isn’t.

Right, said Tish. Right. Of course. It’s Doug’s house. You’re just living there. She hung up the phone then, without saying goodbye.

Falling onto her back, she stared up at the ceiling.

This is how people start living in their cars. I’m this close to being homeless. How am I not having a panic attack about that?

She spent the next few minutes picturing her tragic life as a homeless person culminating in her ultimate death as she saved a child from getting hit by a bus and her mother’s guilt and grief at the funeral.

I could call Sarah.

Tish rejected the idea almost immediately. Sarah was her work friend, and she didn’t work with her anymore. With a sigh she realized the safety net of friends she could crash with was another thing she’d left back in L.A..

I could go to a hotel.

She contemplated that one. Whipping out her credit card for one last night at one of Seattle’s boutique hotels had a tempting allure. But she’d finally, finally paid off her credit cards last paycheck. That pretty much left only one option. It wasn’t an option she relished, but it was better than the homeless shelter.

Fine, she said, sitting up again. Fine. She pulled out her cell phone and flipped through the phonebook until she found her grandfather’s number.

Tobias Yearly, her father’s father, was a cantankerous old man who generally acted as if his son’s wife and her family were a useless pack of fools. Tish had always assumed it was because he was a sexist jerk, but at the moment she was wondering if perhaps it was simply because they were a useless pack of fools.

Yearly residence, said her grandfather on the fifth ring. It was his formal greeting that hadn’t changed as long as Tish could remember.

Hi Granddad, said Tish trying to sound cheerful and extra loud because he couldn’t put his hearing-aide in while using the phone; it made a hideous beep when the frequencies crossed. It’s Tish.

Ah, the actress, he said, as if processing the information. Then he sniffed. Are you finally returning my calls? His tone was as abrasive as she remembered.

Um, yes, she said, then suddenly felt ashamed. No, not really.

You seem confused, he said dryly.

I’ve been evicted and fired and my mother just moved in with Doug and says I can’t stay with her. So I’m calling because I need a place to stay. Tish hated herself for sounding so pathetic.

Who’s Doug? replied Tobias, skipping the other information.

The rich guy she found to move in with, said Tish, bitterly.

Huh. There was a silence on the other end of the phone line.

So, can I stay? asked Tish, disturbed to find herself on the point of tears again.

I’m thinking about it, said her grandfather.

I’ll help you clean out the shed, offered Tish. Or whatever it was you wanted.

Yeah, that’d be good, I guess, said Tobias and she could hear him run his hand across the stubble on his chin. But if you’re coming tonight, you’d better hurry. The last ferry out of Anacortes leaves at nine and it’s usually full.

Right! exclaimed Tish, leaping to her feet. Right! On my way! Bye, Granddad! And thanks!

Uh-huh, was all Tobias said before hanging up the phone.

Tish stared wildly around the room. Her emergency over night bag, a hold over from her L.A. days, was already packed and in the car, as was her laptop. Everything else was here in the apartment; she looked around, unable to focus.

Prioritize, Tish! What do you want?

She looked around the room. Having spent some time as a professional organizer Tish’s room tended to be a tidy, impersonally decorated place. Today, for once, her room matched her inner turmoil. Flinging open the closet, she began ripping clothes off the bar and into a plastic storage tub; when she had a full tub she sprinted to the car and returned again. Her clothes were the only thing of real value to her in the apartment. She didn’t have much else. She’d left it all in LA. Looking around the room for the last time, she tried to spot what else she was missing, what else she would need.

Nothing. There’s nothing here I want.

Two hours