Troubled by Elephants

By Robert Owings

Colton undertakes a cross-country road trip to his hometown in the vague pursuit to rekindle purpose in life. A cumbersome encounter with his sister’s new neighbor, Kit, leads to entanglement with threats to Kit’s life. An international cartel believes Kit holds documents her ex-husband placed with her.

Meanwhile, the police are investigating the disappearance of her ex-husband, suspecting Kit knows more than she will reveal. Avoiding his own issues, Colton attempts to help her, only to become mired in a world that further challenges his sense of self, all juxtaposed against hometown memories and Southern culture, the paradox he both escaped and longs for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jan 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9798886934489

Robert Owings

Robert Owings is an explorer in the field of consciousness. He holds a master's degree in philosophy and religion, with a concentration in cosmology and consciousness from the California Institute of Integral Studies. He maintains an active interest in an eclectic mix of subjects ranging from transpersonal psychology, altered states of consciousness, alchemy, and complexity theory to Buddhist cosmology, cross-cultural shamanism, and ancient mystery religions. Robert has participated in shamanic and alchemical practices for many years.

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About the Author

Robert Owings writes about paradox, choosing fiction to explore the matter with its many expressions. While living outside his native South most of his adult life, yet raised in it, Robert is drawn to explore a disappearing world swept up by numerous cultural changes juxtaposed against nostalgic icons. His first novel, Call of the Forbidden Way, has been made into a screenplay based on his Forbidden Way trilogy. He lives in Sonoma County, California.

Dedication

To family and friends… all those over the years long separated,

but never by heart.

Copyright Information ©

Robert Owings 2024

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Owings, Robert

Troubled by Elephants

ISBN 9798886934472 (Paperback)

ISBN 9798886934489 (ePub e-book)

ISBN 9798889109976 (Audiobook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023916074

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

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Acknowledgment

Eternal gratitude to Ammo, my dog and trusty confidant, who put up with endless days and nights of my writing, yet always assuring a day would come when we’d return to further mischief. Good boy!

Prologue

Scanning the river once more, he cut the running lights and motor, allowing the restored 1929 Chris Craft to drift silently in the coastal tide. He didn’t care for boats like this, things that were old and couldn’t be relied upon—not in his line of work.

The night breeze whipped the plastic tarp put down to contain any escaping body fluids. He moved swiftly, carefully placing four concrete cinder blocks on a padded quilt atop the boat’s starboard quarter, lacing them together with the soft cotton rope. He didn’t like rope of this type, too prone to disintegrate, but his boss had a flair for irony.

Securing the rope around the ankles, he hoisted the body to the boat’s side, easing it overboard before releasing the cinder blocks. Standing in silence, he watched the black water swallow his cargo.

Affirmed all was as it should be, he removed the bloodstained gloves, rolled up the tarp, and motored off into the night.

Chapter One

Following Julian’s Funeral

Reaching for another ham biscuit, I groped the neighbor’s breast. It was purely an accident and should have been left there, the incident I mean, but it wasn’t.

Jesus, aren’t you direct, she recoiled, clutching an iPhone to her chest.

Oh god, I’m so sorry, I gasped, embarrassment spewing from every pour. Didn’t see you there. I was completely distracted, speaking to my cousin and…

Possibly my fault, she blushed. I was bending down to get a close-up shot before folks ate them all—just leaning over and next thing I know, your hand is down my dress!

Again, I’m so sorry; I’m mortified. That was simply awful.

She chuckled. Really? My breast felt awful?

No, of course not. I mean, I didn’t have time to make an assessment or anything, I blabbered. It was totally unintentional. I’m sure your breasts feel lovely or something.

Lovely or something? she jiggled. Never imagined a man saying that about…You best snatch up that ham biscuit, put something in your mouth so you’ll stop talking.

Promise to watch what I’m doing next time, I stammered, trying to smile as I directed a fated ham biscuit toward my mouth. It’s so crowded, everyone talking, jostling for food.

So, do you like them? Made them all by myself.

For a second, I questioned whether she meant the ham biscuits or her breasts. Guess it applies either way.

Perfectly delicious, I confessed, taking a small bite while wiping crumbs from my face.

Oh now, take a good mouthful, she teased, waving a finger at me. You’ll only get delicacies like that back this way.

The reception, in fact, the entire funeral ceremony and extended family gathering, was a paradox. There were amble indicators—none too subtle.

I had traveled to South Carolina, my home state, an open-ended road trip and much-needed getaway; a possible life reset disguised as an overdue reconnection with family, friends, and past loves.

Now those vague intentions were caught in the riptide of an unexpected event by one of my cousins passing away. I should have known better.

At the moment I was preoccupied, hoping the neighbor woman’s jovial and forgiving attitude might assuage my error in seeking Southern sustenance. She appeared appeased. Still, I was wont to imagine how I might explain this to Jane, my sister, in whose home all this was taking place—her new neighbor, her brother, barely two hours since laying poor Julian in the ground, and then this, this so-called faux pas in her dining room. God only knows who witnessed it.

Have you tried the ham biscuits, Colton? Mrs. Harris, wife of the Episcopal priest, asked. It’s the flour that makes them so perfect. One must use Red Ban flour if you make them the traditional way, or if you bake in a more contemporary, healthy style, use that stone-ground flour from the Gatlinburg mill.

Oh, believe he’s had a hand on one already, the neighbor woman injected, winking as she passed by.

All this food and seeing everyone, I’m a bit overwhelmed, I replied, attempting to distance the cumbersome encounter.

Know your family is really appreciating having you here, Mrs. Harris continued. Will you be staying long?

Not sure…will have to see how things go.

Now you know Greenville has changed since you grew up here.

That’s what everyone says, a statement that applies to nearly any place. Of course, it’s changed, but so has Beirut, Berlin, Bagdad, as well as most of the world. Changed? So has nearly everyone, with perhaps the exception of some of my family.

My extended family constituted a collection of contrasting souls: politically, philosophically, professionally, and psychologically.

Julian, my hours before interred cousin, provides a perfect example, although to his credit, incorporating his particular version of eccentricity. In many ways, Julian personified those infamous words of James Petigru, the South Carolina Attorney General at the outbreak of the Civil War, who described South Carolina as too small for a republic, too large for an insane asylum.

Among cousin Julian’s idiosyncrasies was requiring two of certain items. For example, he drove two Cadillacs—the same year, same color, same model. This proclivity was to continue in the afterlife. His casket contained within two bottles of 25-year-old Glenmorangie Signet Scotch; his two favorite Browning shotguns; two Scotty Cameron golf putters (he always carried two putters in his golf bag); two Bibles (never opened, often misquoted); two of the same photo of him as a boy alongside Strom Thurmond and another set from decades later with Hillary Clinton—two politicians that couldn’t be more opposite and polarizing. As I cautioned, paradox was afoot.

I see you’ve worked your way over to the dining table, Jane, my sister, said coming up alongside. Just tons of food, so many people brought in dishes; think we’re more than covered.

Oh, Jane, it’s all really lovely, Mrs. Harris gushed, scanning the trove of food stationed atop the extended dining table and sideboards. I was just chatting with Colton, trying to persuade him to stick around longer this visit. He might discover he likes being back.

I know. Wish we could convince him to stay, Jane smiled. Would love to have him settle here.

Maybe he needs to find a nice girlfriend to keep him around, Mrs. Harris teased. You should introduce him to your pretty new neighbor. I understand she’s moved here recently after a divorce.

Oh, they said hello this morning when she brought over the ham biscuits. Haven’t had time to get to know her yet. And I was surprised to learn she’d been an acquaintance of Julian’s when she lived in Charleston. We should have her over for dinner.

Imagining it might become necessary to truncate my visit, I extracted myself from the immediate conversation. Ladies, if you will excuse me, I’m going to work my way over to that fried chicken platter.

Billy, a cousin who had somehow managed to create a thriving business as an antique dealer, sauntered toward me with a sloppy grin fueled by a tumbler full of Buffalo Trace bourbon. I had spotted him stash the bottle in a hall closet upon arrival.

Colton, so good to see you again, Billy exclaimed, spewing a thin spray of bourbon onto me. Wish the occasion weren’t another family funeral.

Billy, it’s good to be here, and you’re looking your usual stylish self.

You know in my line of work it helps to look sharp. Makes people believe my merchandise is top drawer, therefore my prices are justified, he chuckled, emitting another spray of bourbon.

He was wearing an expensive suit and Italian shoes; however, both his loosened tie and silk shirt were splattered with food stains; conditions his dry cleaner would appreciate.

Are you going to be around long or do you have to get back to California soon?

Not sure, have the option to kind of take my time this trip.

You know, I’m always looking for an opportunity to get out your way, he confided. Just love San Francisco. And now, you live just north of there, right?

I’m about an hour from the city, I replied, up in Sonoma County.

Must be beautiful, sort of up in wine country, he continued. Took Jean Ann up to Napa on a trip; she fell in love with the place. But you know me; I’m not that much into wine. Like to stick with my bourbon.

Drink whatever works for you, I replied.

But you’re sort of a wine person, I understand. Right?

It’s more or less my go-to, however, I try to be an equal opportunity drinker as occasion requires.

That’s grand, he laughed. And your sister sure has put on the spread. Are you getting anything to eat in the midst of talking to all these people?

Oh indeed, got to make certain of that, especially with this crowd.

My favorite so far… Billy paused, pointing across the dining room toward the tray containing the diminishing supply, those damn ham biscuits. Have you tried them?

Oh yes, I downed a couple of those.

Perfect flavor notes to go with bourbon, he exclaimed, tapping me on the chest. Going to ask Jean Ann to make me up a batch come next dove season.

Sensing I could use a moment to realign mind and body, I navigated to the back of the house and stepped onto the large veranda. A riot of pastel and white blooms, juxtaposed against the garden’s vibrant greenery, dazzled my vision. April in the South produces that occasion when dogwoods and azaleas transform the world into a magical softness orchestrated by fairies and such.

Being back home was always unsettling. By this stage in life, I’d lived more than as many years in California, yet those appendages of family and the formative inculcation of my youth had left deep imprints on my soul—all that resonance of connection and experience, compounded by a desperation to break away, yet not in hostile rejection of my upbringing, rather in a quest to find something other—something more original, authentic, creative, alluring.

To my credit, I had taken on that quest, just never fully arrived at a place of sustainable satisfaction. And these days, time wasn’t on my side. More worrisome was the fact that I was weary of it all, the whole endeavor of trying to find purpose.

All of which led one restless afternoon, when none of my preferred distractions offered solace, to what touted itself as a good idea—a prolonged road trip. There was no goal, no plan, no mission to fulfill other than to go—to go and to let go. The trip’s agenda held no expectation, possibly wouldn’t shift a damn thing, yet the allure of that peculiarly American experience of a cross-country road trip teased my mind like a coyote’s dream.

Beautiful, isn’t it? the neighbor with the invaded bosom said casually, coming up alongside. Wish my yard was this nice. By the way, I’m Kit, Kit Spencer, in case you don’t remember from this morning. Figure we should at least know each other’s name given we suddenly became momentarily intimate.

She smiled with reserved casualty.

Colton…in case you don’t remember, I chuckled as I turned to shake her hand.

I know. Your sister told me last week you were coming this way. Sorry, it’s Julian’s passing that fostered our introduction.

Yeah, he was an odd bird, I said, somewhat troubled by her presence. However, that particular trait sort of runs in my family.

Kit tentatively nodded. Probably in most.

Afraid my family has it in spades. And what, may I ask, do you do in addition to making ham biscuits?

Me? she began, I’m still getting settled in here. Only been in the house two weeks now, still rather overwhelmed with the move. I’m coming out of a long overdue divorce and suddenly finding it necessary to move here given my father recently having a stroke and my mother broke a hip. I’m an only child. They’re going to be okay but need someone to look after them. My father’s retired; he was an English lit professor at Furman.

Oh, did you grow up here?

No, in Virginia, she said. Went to school at James Madison, all the usual stuff. Thankfully, I’m sort of taking a quasi-sabbatical from work until I can get things a bit more under control.

And what’s work, if you don’t mind sharing?

I’m a journalist, mostly freelance these days.

Any particular area? I pressed.

Investigative, Kit answered, a slight tension in her voice as she turned to observe a squirrel scampering up a large oak.

That sounds interesting.

Definitely not boring, although the work often requires endless hours of research and digging, most of which ends up being irrelevant. That’s just the nature of the beast.

What motivated you to pursue that line of work?

Rather fell into it as it happened. Kit paused. "Just out of college, dreaming of working for a big city paper or national magazine. Then got a call from the school placement office, telling me a TV station in Roanoke was recruiting new staff. Said I should go for an interview just to get the interviewing experience; see how their news editor conducts the process. Much to my shock they offered me the job, apparently wanting a young woman as part of a team for a new start-up department. You know that kind of thing TV stations do: ’Channel 10 Investigates, tune in at six to watch our team uncover the truth as WSLS investigates’. Honestly, most of our stories dealt with things like consumer complaints, or a school superintendent having affairs with new teachers, or the Roanoke County Board of Supervisors unable to account for missing funds—that kind of stuff.

That’s what I cut my teeth on, and turns out I was pretty good at it. My work got noticed and two years later I was offered a bigger job in Richmond, which lead to doing work in D.C., where I started meeting journalists at the national level—Washington Post, New York Times, all those guys covering Congress and the White House, along with investigative reporters from the major TV networks. But nowadays, I’m mostly freelance.

Impressive, I said, beginning to re-evaluate my earlier impression of Jane’s neighbor. So just how does that work when you freelance?

Usually there’re a couple of avenues, Kit replied, leaning back as if she were taking the measure of me. I might be approached by an editor or an investigative team, or even a private citizen, asking me to take on an assignment. On occasion, I stumble upon something on my own; do a little research and recognize potential there. Much more work with the latter, but then those tend to be the juicy pieces I’ve enjoyed most.

Sounds like you might create some enemies along the way.

Oh yeah, that happens, she shrugged, something you have to accept with that kind of work.

Forgive me for asking, but how did that affect your marriage? Was your husband uncomfortable with your work?

My husband, Kit smirked, turning away momentarily. Todd, well, let’s just say it was one of the things about me that didn’t work for him. And not necessarily due to my safety.

Pardon if I’m asking too many questions.

No, I suspect I might be talking too much, she smiled coyly.

I sensed vulnerability hidden behind those high cheekbones, a laden weariness from recent travails. I was projecting images entirely of my own making: who I imagined she was, or perhaps who I wanted her to be, given I found her attractive—rich, reddish brown hair, stunning green eyes. Yet more, it was the energy she carried, her life spark.

No, no, you weren’t saying too much, I insisted. Kind of my nature to ask questions that perhaps I shouldn’t. Odd really, I tend to do that with people I barely know or total strangers, yet rarely conduct such inquiries with family or close friends. My therapist thinks it’s one of my defenses, an aspect of my character she says I should pay more attention to.

She laughed, don’t you just love them, therapists.

I just try to find some fun along the way, I shrugged.

Do you? Kit asked, her question piercing down to buried old scar tissue, somewhere around Level 39, Hall D, Door 6.

Not that much fun these days, I confessed. Mostly superficial shit, to be honest. Can a person have a Later-In-Life Crisis after already having a couple of Mid-Life Crises, especially if it seems too late to be having a Later-In-Life Crisis?

I don’t know, Colton, she chuckled. Listen, I’ve taken up too much of your time. You have all these people here; you should be in there, speaking with all your family members. We can talk another time. I’m just next door.

I’d like that, I said. You know where to find me.

And you, me, she smiled, an honest warmth resonating in her voice.

I was halfway across the veranda when I turned back to face her. By the way, my sister said something about you’d known Julian from Charleston. Is that right?

Yes, through my husband more than me, she confided. Julian had some real estate investments with a firm my husband works for. That, of course, led to occasional socializing—parties around town and some weekends at Hilton Head. You know, the usual thing. I liked him; he was always good for a conversation and he poured a very generous drink.

Yeah, that’s Julian…or was, I added. Hadn’t seen him in nearly ten years. Learned of his passing as I was on my way here. Doubt he would’ve changed that much.

People like Julian are born the way they are, she said, looking back poignantly toward the garden. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a life wasted. But he seemed happy in his own peculiar way.

That’s good to hear, I replied, taking a moment to glance down at my feet. Forgive me for asking, but I sense you followed me out here for some reason, something more significant than our awkward collision in the dining room.

I did, she confessed, her shoulders tightening with uncertainty.

And, what might that be?

Kit looked away as a troubled expression spread across her face.

Slowly I walked back to where she stood. So, Kit, before I disappear back inside, what’s bothering you?

She looked up cautiously. I don’t believe Julian’s death was all that natural.

Chapter Two

Eluding the Normal Majority

Ever hunted from atop an elephant, Miss Chan? Rajesh Chaturvedi chuckled, his head attired in a red turban.

No…but I’ve scored kills before, she replied unaffected, peering down the sight on her Sako 85 Kodiak rifle.

The objective is to make your kill while the elephant is in stride and the game on the run, he declared, exuding the confidence of his inbred Brahmin class. Otherwise, anyone can make a kill.

Believe I can manage after I get accustomed to the beast’s gait.

Indeed, Rajesh continued, it’s sort of similar to getting accustomed to the rhythm of a new lover’s thrusts and pumps while making love.

Then I should adapt quickly, Mai Chan whipped.

I suspected you might find it to your liking, Rajesh smiled. I only invite certain colleagues to enjoy this particular Indian tradition. Besides, I thought you might like experiencing a change; a change I can foster. Our organization, Miss Chan, it needs a change. I would like to have your support for that change.

Mai Chan peered ahead, withholding a response to Rajesh Chaturvedi’s solicitation.

She swept her jet-black hair back, retying her ponytail before thrusting it through the rear opening of a baseball cap. Living in Singapore, she preferred to avoid oppressive heat and humidity, staying indoors when possible. India’s tropical climate caused her chic Sikta hunting apparel to feel heavy against her body.

So, you’ve killed a lot of tigers, have you?

Oh, we’re not hunting tigers, Rajesh said. No, I try to protect the tiger population. I’m a strict conservationist.

Trust I didn’t travel all the way from Singapore just to shoot spotted deer?

Oh no. Wouldn’t dream of inviting one of our esteemed directors for anything as common as that, Rajesh laughed. No, we’re hunting men.

How many? Mai Chan asked casually, checking her rifle’s bolt action.

Four today—a murderer, two rapists, and one of my money handlers who got careless embezzling my funds. I’m particularly hoping to make that kill myself.

So how does this work?

Ah. The four will be released in different spots on the estate. And yes, they’ll know they’re being hunted. Then my beaters startup, rousting them from their hiding and our chase is on.

You do this often? Would think the authorities might become a problem.

See that distinguished-looking gentlemen in the howdah, the sedan atop that second elephant to the right? Rajesh pointed. He’s the Director General of Police for this province. He’s supplied the three criminals for today’s hunt.

Impressive connections you have, Mr. Chaturvedi, Mai Chan said, mopping a film of perspiration from her forehead. Hunting people is something of a tradition in my circle. In Singapore, we do our mobile hunting from automobiles, boats, and motorbikes. Not quite as sporting as what you’re offering.

I suffer the need to preserve the traditions of my family; and sadly, the poor tigers are way too few these days.

Looking forward to making my first kill from a moving elephant. As you say, all that thrusting and pumping while taking aim.

Splendid, Miss Chan. I see you understand the challenge. The entire experience is so visceral: the thrill of the hunt, the feel of the gun, the kill, the blood—all the while one’s body in this sensual engagement with the elephant’s movement. It’s simply organismic.

You wouldn’t be trying to distract me, Mr. Chaturvedi?

Ah… he chuckled. Simply allow the elephant to do its part.

***

Back inside I continued to mingle; a continuous flow of people bombarding me with greetings and carefully worded questions.

Tell me, Colton, what’re you up to these days? One might have thought slips of paper with this coined phrase had been passed out as people arrived for the reception. This left me with one of my usual dilemmas; having to choose whether to respond with either a shocking fabrication or a shocking truth, knowing the latter could be more difficult for the questioner to fathom.

Well, Uncle Blake, I’m about to retire from being a male stripper; thinking of starting up a daycare center for kids who intend to run away from home.

That’s just grand, a daycare center you say, yes that’s fine, Uncle Blake chattered. Heard you like wine.

To say I was aware my reply could be problematic is an understatement. My therapist would accuse me of ‘armoring,’ that I was using these quips as a means of defense; and we’d talk for the next twenty minutes about my patterns of passive aggression.

I would argue that it was simply a tactic to fight off boredom, a pushback against the obligatory—that necessity of having to say what will make the other person feel comfortable within themselves. She would shake her head and scribble something on her notepad while I would peer out her chamber’s lone window, restraining from asking how her sex life was going, knowing my question was intentionally inappropriate, said only to demonstrate my awareness of when I was being passive-aggressive. I wasn’t interested in her sex life, that is, unless she wanted to talk about it.

What I needed my therapist to understand is I occasionally employ inappropriate responses more to amuse myself, or perhaps more critically, as an escape from the choking grip of being ordinary. Needless to say, any explanation would require further scribbling in her notepad.

Hey there, Mr. Long-Time-No-See.

Oh, Page, so glad you made it up. Hope I can swing down your way on this trip. Hear you’re thriving.

Finally, she chuckled, giving me a hug.

Page, a cousin from Charleston had not had it easy in life. Her first husband and the father of her two children died in a car crash. Her second marriage, assuredly challenged by trying to raise two difficult boys, was by all reports, a disaster, ending in a bitter divorce.

So, business is good; you’re looking great. And the kids? I asked, unable to remember the names of her sons.

Business is booming, and just maybe my boys are finally learning to become something in the order of normal humans. Now, where’s your brother and that pretentious wife of his? she giggled, looking around the room.

Hayward, my older brother, the one of us three siblings who had achieved significant financial success, was out of the country on holiday. Now retired and living in Santa Fe with Ashley, his second wife, Hayward was enjoying the fruits of his years on Wall Street serving the gods of capitalism with aplomb. Mostly under the direction of Ashley, they lived that bourgeois Southwestern lifestyle mirrored in magazines like Cowboy & Indians, with a dash of Scottsdale, Jackson Hole, and Park City.

He and Ashley are somewhere in Europe, think it’s Spain or Portugal, trying to escape the stress of living in Santa Fe, the poor babies.

Sounds about right for them, she grinned. And oh, I want you to meet Mel, my partner. Page waved over a cute woman with obvious Asian genes.

Mel, delighted to meet you, I smiled, offering my hand. Great, so you two are running the business together; that’s cool.

More than that, Page smiled, wrapping an arm around Mel. We’re partners outside of the business as well.

Oh, you switched teams, I chuckled. Seems it’s changed your luck.

I’ll say; things are good in my world these days.

Definitely want to visit your shop, hear more about you two, I winked. You aren’t going off on some trip any time soon?

Oh god no, Page replied. We’ve got way too much work to get away. Do come see us.

It’s a promise, and Mel, very nice to meet you.

Continued small talk remained the currency for the moment. All the while, my thoughts kept circling back to Kit’s troubling hypothesis.

Julian’s death had been attributed to a brain aneurysm. He had dropped dead walking to his car, end of story. I wanted to dismiss the whole matter. Yet there was something about how she’d phrased it; strongly implying Julian’s death wasn’t so natural. Involuntarily, my mind began to play games. Perhaps his death could have been 50% natural and 50% unnatural? Of course, I realized she suspected someone had caused his death. So why not just say murdered, assassinated, or taken out? Or did she mean suicide? Perhaps it was her professional journalism filter, not making a declarative statement until she has all the facts? But why did she feel compelled to share this with me, and what, if anything does it matter to her—or possibly me?

Maisie, one of my favorite cousins strolled over, a silent, knowing smile on her face.

How you holding up? she asked, clutching a double-strand pearl necklace.

She was tall, endowed with a full bosom and self-assured confidence that had served her and her family well. She wasn’t someone to intimidate.

Oh, I’m hanging in there, I replied. Sure glad you’re here though.

Listen, you’re the real motivation to be here. Do hope you can make time to come up to Charlotte; we’d love a visit. Be good to talk when we’re not surrounded by all the family and what-not.

I’d like that, I replied with sincerity. Allow the dust to settle here and then let’s coordinate. What’s your schedule?

Maisie and Nick live in the suburbs of Charlotte, within a gated country club community. Upon finishing University of Chicago business school, Nick had immediately gone into banking, becoming a rising star in the field until he was swept into a banking scandal that led to a few hard years, enduring a federal investigation until he was eventually cleared of any collusion. At the time, I’d thought it good for him to see how readily corporate life could throw one under the bus.

I can free up time given a couple of days’ notice, Maisie said, nodding to her husband, Nick, across the living room. And perhaps I’ll see if Nick will take an afternoon off, take you out for a round at Quail Hollow.

Oh, unfair, I laughed, you know how to twist my arm.

Nonsense, she answered, we owe you. And besides, there’re things I need to talk to you about—seriously.

Okay, we’ll make it happen, I said.

Then it’s a deal, Maisie smiled, lifting her glass toward Nick to indicate she would love another. Keep in touch.

Feeling justification to replenish my wine glass, I sauntered back to the beverages stationed in the breakfast niche and navigated through a mediocre assortment of bottles until spotting a pinot made from a Sonoma coast vineyard, causing me to speculate as to who might have brought this lovely nectar. To demonstrate my appreciation, I poured myself a generous glass.

As I turned to take my first sip, I spotted Kit standing back in the den, peering out the window.

Hey, mind if I join you? I said walking up alongside, keeping my eyes directed out the window to match her gaze.

There was a prolonged silence before she answered. Assumed you might have written me off as some nut case; not care to speak to me again.

I must confess, I had to run my homemade insanity scanner over you. You came up with a perfect score.

Oh, so you think I’m completely mental?

"Didn’t say that, said you had a perfect score, which means you and I might come from the same tribe—the homo-saneous-occasionous group, blood type Z, thought to have been extinct but covertly living incognito within the mainstream populace."

My, I feel so flattered, she laughed, her tension easing. How many of us are there?

Classified information, my dear, I whispered. Don’t want to rouse the Normal Majority. They might come after us, just like they’ve done in the past.

Okay, that can be our little secret, she mumbled.

Yes, however, there seems to be another secret, this business about Julian. Can’t seem to let go of what you said, yet find it hard to believe there’s anything to it. Must know, have to ask, what makes you believe this?

Yeah, this is where it gets challenging. Mostly it’s lots of little things; you’d need to know those things to connect the dots, she paused. Hey, maybe it’s best you forget I said anything. Probably doesn’t matter anyway.

No, wrong. You drop a bomb like that and then suggest I forget?

Doubt anyone else would believe it might have been an assassination.

A hit? Like Julian was a target of a spy ring or a mob contract? I shrugged. I mean the man was too weird to qualify for such a thing. No one in his or her right mind would get involved with him in anything more complex than a poker game. Thank god he had a plush inheritance to live off; he certainly couldn’t hold down a job, much less conduct any normal business of his own. A fun guy, wacky as hell, charming in his eccentric ways, but not a person to become entangled in some enterprise where someone would want to take him out.

It might seem so; that’s why it’s perfect for someone to get away with it, Kit said earnestly. You see, I know he had dealings with some questionable people, not eccentric types like himself, but people whose business operations were never that open.

Thought you said you didn’t know Julian that well? So how do you come by this?

My ex-husband, he was one of them, she said coldly. Julian was involved in some way with whatever they were doing, I know that much.

You’re serious? I said, standing back in mild shock.

I am.

So why are you telling me? I just got here, and other than having a momentary, inadvertent collision with your chest, I can’t understand why you want to be sharing this with me.

"Colton, I can’t honestly explain