Charlotte Had A Boyfriend : 16

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

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Humanity is a comic role.

— Novalis

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As uncomfortable as I felt telling the story this way, I needed Wade's help, and he was determined to hear it chronologically. "Okay," I said. "Beginning at the beginning: Mason Rafflyan comes from Amsterholt. It's way up north, close to the state line."

Wade gave me a wary look. "And why do we care about that bit of geography?"

"It's where it all starts," I explained. "You said to begin at the beginning."

Wade sighed, a world-weary sigh.

"This isn't how I want to tell the story," I protested. "I told you: I need to give you the overview first. Otherwise, none of it makes sense."

"Hold on," he said, interrupting again. Maybe the coffee was waking up his brain. "You said you 'have information that the police want' and you start off talking about this Mason guy. Does that mean you know what happened to the two men? Hugh Fencely and Mason?"

He had a suspicious look on his face, and when he asked, it sounded very much like an accusation, "You were talking about changing your name to Perry Mason the other day. Is that somehow connected to this... story you're telling me."

I hesitated. Was it connected? It was and it wasn't. So I answered, "Yes, in a weird, tangential way."

"A weird, tangential way," he echoed, eyeing his glass of iced tea as if the word weird triggered a personal drinking game. He reached toward the glass tentatively. His breath caught in his throat and he withdrew his hand without touching the glass.

I hesitated again. I know I wasn't making him drink, but I didn't like this dynamic. "Do you really need to drink to make yourself listen to me?"

He made a melodramatic, world-weary gesture toward the pillows in the living room and answered, "Apparently I do. But don't worry about it. I can't make you responsible for my sobriety." He sniffed, cleared his throat, and asked, "Tell me then: do you know where those two men went? Do you know where they are now?"

Again I hesitated before replying. I considered the complexity of the situation, then remembered Judith's advice (let your yes be 'yes' and your no be 'no'), and cut the knot by answering a simple "Yes."

"Okay, look," Wade advised me. "You already have a problem. If you hesitate like that when you talk to the police, do you know what you'll be telling them? No matter what *words* come out of your mouth, your hesitation signals loud and clear that you're hiding something. When you do that, the cops are going to zero in, exactly there, at the places you stall or hesitate or squirm. Hesitation is not your friend."

I looked at him for half a minute, as I engaged in internal debate. I had a big problem: no matter how crazy my story sounded, I desperately needed help and advice — *legal* help and advice, so I bit the bullet and told him.

"Wade, this is the story in a nutshell: Me, Deeny, and Hugh we were all abducted. By aliens from space."

He scoffed and made a confused face. "What about Mason? Why wasn't he abducted? Does it have something to do with this Amsterholt place?"

It was time to release the payload. "I'm Mason," I told him, dropping the bomb. "The real Deeny is in *my* body — Mason's body — on a spaceship, heading to an intergalactic zoo, with Hugh Fencely. I'm Mason in Deeny's body."

"God damn it," Wade observed in a soft voice. At first, I couldn't tell whether he was angry or calm. Then it became clear: He was upset; so upset that he forgot to look at his drink. "What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Do you want me to tell you what the police would say, or what a prosecutor would say? You want to know what Hugh Fencely's family will say, if you tell a story like that?" He stared at me for a few moments. "Thank God, she's not a close friend of mine, but I went to school with Laura Fencely, Hugh's sister. I can't imagine— Jesus! She's one of the nicest people!" He wiped his brow, shook his head, and told me, "I gotta tell you, Deeny — or whatever the hell you want me to call you — I don't want to be standing next to you when you tell this story... to anyone!" He shook his head again, then asked, "Can you— I mean— can you just think for a minute: What would *you* say if some stranger popped up and told you that pack of horseshit? About someone you cared about?"

"It's the truth," I protested in a small voice.

Wade closed his eyes and tensed his body, as if he was in pain. "Jesus, help me," he lamented.

After a long look at me, he took an equally long look at the oversized glass of Long Island Iced Tea. It sat waiting on the table in front of him, wet with condensation. With a deep breath, like a man about to dive into a swimming pool, he said, "Okay! Here we go!" and drank deeply of the beverage, shuddering after he swallowed. "Go on, then. Let's hear it. Unload the whole stinking pile. I can't be your lawyer, so-- why should I give a shit?"

 

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MASON'S STORY, TOLD FROM HIS POINT OF VIEW
 

My name is Mason Rafflyan. I was born in raised in Amsterholt, one of the smallest towns in our state. It's way up north, near the state line. I love it there. I never should have left it.

The biggest mistake I ever made in my entire life was coming to Robbins. As you'll see, I didn't want to. It was a bad idea from the start. I should never have set foot here. If only I'd stayed at home — or if I'd gone somewhere else, anywhere else, I wouldn't be in the mess I'm in now.

I never gave credence to destiny or fate. I never believed that God had a plan for me. I always felt that we each make our own choices, and those choices, like railroad switches, decide the paths our our lives will take.

Even so, from the very beginning of this adventure (if I can call it that), I've been in the grip of events and influences completely beyond my power to influence or control. Maybe I could have possibly put my foot down, at one point or another. Maybe I could have just said no or shouted 'stop' in a key moment; a moment when it would have mattered. Unfortunately, as events unfolded, the key points where I could have hit the brakes were never apparent. One thing led naturally to the next and the next and the next, until before I knew it, I was in it up to my neck. After that, there was nothing but the struggle to get to the next minute.

The whole mechanism of how and why I came to Robbins began innocently enough on Saturday, June 3, 2017: I received a letter. A white envelope from the State Civil Service Administration. I swallowed hard when I read that return address. I shook the envelope. I tapped it three times on the kitchen counter.

I knew what was in there, and for that reason I was afraid to open it. It contained the results of my civil-service exam. If I passed, I could apply to be a cop. Luckily, that one exam is used to qualify for state, county, and local police, so (assuming I earned a passing grade) I could apply to all three, tripling my chances of becoming a policeman. Although, since our town's too small to have it's own police force, if I wanted to go local, I'd have to apply to the local force in another town.

If I failed... well, I'd have to take the test again. I already knew what failing the test feels like. I failed it the first time I took it, the first year I was old enough. That was two years ago. If I fail this time, I'll have to wait two years, when they'll give the test again. I could live with that. My mother, less so. She was constantly pressing me to have a Plan B, to do something other than try to be a cop.

Honestly, the worst part — almost the only bad part about failing, would be my mother's reaction. As I said, *I* could deal with waiting another two years. It would give me two more years to study and prepare. Unfortunately, I knew my mother wouldn't see it that way. She'd take my failure as a sign that it was time for enact some kind of Plan B.

On the other hand, unlike two years ago, this letter from Civil Service was bulky, and that seemed a good sign. Two years ago the letter was nothing more than a single sheet of paper. Promising? I thought so. However, even with that promise, I couldn't bring myself to open it. Not yet. It was too early in the day. I decided I'd open it tonight.

 

---

 

Then, I admit, I made a tactical error: I stuck the thing in my back pocket. Of course, it didn't exactly fit in my pocket. A good three inches of bright white envelope stuck out, plain as day.

What I should have done was leave the letter at home. Then my mother wouldn't have seen it. If I'd left it at home, she might have asked me about it, but I could truthfully tell her that I didn't know what the letter said, and maybe she'd forget about it for a few days.

I'm not usually so fussy or tentative. It's my mother. If she could just chill and let everything work itself out, *I'd* be able to relax. Unfortunately, she tends to keep asking questions, wanting details, wheedling the story out of me...

Although maybe... I have to admit it's possible... maybe I brought the envelope with me so that she *would* see it. Lance the boil, so to speak. I don't mean that it was a purposeful move on my part. It had to be my subconscious that did it, working against my best interest. That's what the subconscious does, doesn't it?

Little did I know, that when my mother invited me for lunch, that she had an entirely different, unrelated agenda; not what I expected at all. Nothing I could possibly foresee. It came so entirely out of the blue, I had no reaction or response ready. Her plan for me was on a bigger scale than my test results. Not all-encompassing, but it swept up my civil-service exam as just another bit of grist for the mill.

Although, if I hadn't been obsessing over my letter, I wouldn't have been so blind. I probably would have noticed a few things, a few signs or warnings; I would have connected the clues. At the very least, I would have had my guard up.

 

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First of all, Mom invited me to lunch on a Saturday. Nothing unusual there, but... as I rode my bicycle up to her house, I caught sight of her empty driveway, Normally there'd be two extra cars: my brother's and sister's. This time, neither one was there. At least, not yet.

"Hey, Mom!" I called as I entered the front door. "How're you doing? Where's the rest of the brood?"

"I thought it would be nice if it was just you and me this time." She smiled. "Besides, the rest of the 'brood' as you call them had other engagements." She counted them off on her fingers: all of them, athletic events involving my nieces and nephews.

Okay. That's not out of the ordinary either. But then... Mom had the grill going on her patio out back. She hates to grill. She always gets my brother to do it. My antennae should have gone up at that. But they didn't. (I was still obsessing over my exam results.)

"What's cooking?" I quipped. Yes, I know — not very original, but I was only making small talk.

"I thought you'd like a nice piece of steak — see that? It was on special." Holding a pair of tongs, she gave a delicate pat to a two-inch-high cylinder of pure beef. There were two of them. "These are for you. I don't want all that bloody protein. And then... I thought the steaks looked kind of small, so I picked up a few of those spicy Italian sausages that you like." Another tap with the tongs. "Over here we've got sweet corn on the cob. I saw it this morning at the farm stand over on Century. These little fellas in foil are potatoes, of course. They're just about ready to come off the grill. Earlier today I roasted some veggies. They're in the kitchen: zucchini, red onions, bell peppers, asparagus... They're just waiting for a little salt and olive oil."

The gastronomic excess made me feel a bit awkward, acutely conscious of not having brought anything. I had to ask: "Wow, Mom! It all sounds fantastic! But... is there some occasion I've forgotten? Should I have brought a card, or flowers, or something?"

"Who needs an occasion?" she challenged, jovially. "I was out buying groceries and the steak caught my eye. From there, one thing led to another, and so..." She spread her hands to take in the whole effort.

My mouth watered. "You've really outdone yourself, Ma," I told her.

She grinned and bustled inside for a moment, returning with two wine glasses and an open bottle of red wine from the Willamette Valley in Oregon. "The man at the store recommended this one to go with the steak. Let's see if he's right."

 

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Alright. I'll admit: I made it easy for her, but I have to say, my mother played me like a violin. She was clever. She waited until I'd finished half the steak, one of the sausages, and two glasses of wine — before she lowered the boom.

And... clever thing! She must have deeper pockets than mine, or a better hiding place, because until that moment I had no idea that she had taken possession of my Civil-Service letter.

She held it up for me to see, then set on the table between us, flattening it with her hands. "What's this, then?" she asked, with a sly grin.

"Mom!" I exclaimed, honestly shocked. "Since when did you become a pickpocket? When did you — how did you even take that?"

"These are your exam results, aren't they?" she challenged.

"Yes," I breathed, with the air of a captured escapee. "I haven't opened it yet."

"I can see that. Why haven't you?"

I made vague motions my hands as I sought for the words to explain. I wisely didn't say anything, because how can a grown man explain to his mother that he was worried about her reaction? The mix of emotions I experienced were a serious blast from the past: the same anxieties I felt when I needed her signature on a bad report card, back in elementary school.

She gave me time. She waited through a minute or so of my inability to speak, and then finally said. "Let's open it then!" and without the slightest pause, snatched up a clean steak knife and slit the envelope open. I didn't quite gasp, but it felt as though she'd opened one of my veins — metaphorically, of course! Only metaphorically!

She extracted a pack of pages, six or seven of them. All but one of the pages, as it turned out, were explanations about the civil-service exam, when it was given, how it was used, etc., etc. All information I already knew by heart. Only the first page had any significance: it thanked me for having taken the exam, but that unfortunately I hadn't achieved a passing grade and so—

I knew the rest. I couldn't apply to be a cop. Not right now. Not at any level: not state, not county, not local. The letter advised me that I could take the exam next time it was given, which was two years from now. (Administrative details followed.)

"Oh, bad luck!" Mom said, although she seemed perversely pleased by the result. I endeavored to cut off what I thought was coming.

"Mom," I said, "Look: I know you think I need a Plan B, but I do have one. I can take this exam again in two years—"

"You'll be 23 years old," she pointed out. "And if you fail again, you'll have to wait until you're 25—"

"Mom, at that point, when I'm 25, there's a second exam I can take: to be a Private Investigator."

I fully expected her to scoff at that. I was prepared to hear the phrase pie in the sky, by and by, but that wasn't what she said at all.

In the tone of someone simply seeking information, she asked, "A private investigator? Are there any other requirements to be a private investigator? I mean, apart from the exam?"

"You need an associate's degree in criminal justice. I've got that — or almost got that. It's a two-year program; I just have to re-take one or two courses, and I'll be done."

"Is that all?"

I was more than a little surprised at her attitude of apparent acceptance, or at least interest.

"No," I said, warming a little to my subject. "I'd also have to go through firearms training and training in unarmed self-defense."

She nodded. Her face had a thoughtful look, as she considered what I'd said. "So, do you think you'd like to be a private investigator?"

I hesitated. I honestly had never considered that question. I'd only been thinking about what was possible for me, not about what I'd prefer. "Well, um, since you ask, honestly, I'd rather be a cop. But you said I should have a Plan B, and being a private investigator is a pretty good Plan B, for me, I think."

"Okay," she said, nodding. "Okay." Then, another big grin. "What if I told you there's a Plan C?"

My throat went dry. "Mom, I want to be a cop," I protested.

"I know, I know," she replied, waving my objection aside. "But you can't be a cop, at least for two years, and you can't be a PI, at least for four years. I have a job you can do NOW. It's private investigation. And it pays."

"I can't, though," I replied, a little perplexed. "I don't have any kind of license or training."

"You've got your brain," she retorted, "and you've got time on your hands." Then she sighed and looked down at the table for a moment before beginning. "There is a case that needs investigating, and the police won't touch it any more. You don't need to pretend to be anything other than a concerned citizen, and you'll spend your time looking into the case. Just use your head and your common sense and see what you can find out." She picked up her knife and fork and cut into her vegetables. "I'm surprised you're not jumping at the chance."

She found me flummoxed. I never expected anything like any of this. Mom quietly ate, without looking at me, giving me time to digest what she'd told me. I sat there like an idiot, blinking, not moving.

"Eat your steak before it gets cold," she directed.

I looked up at her. "What is this case? Tell me about it."

She pointed at my plate with her knife. "Eat now," she said. "I have a pile of papers to give you. After we're done with lunch. I'll tell you the story over coffee. I'll tell you everything I know."

"And this is paid work?" I asked.

"Yep," she said. "Cash money. Plus expenses. Plus a car! Now, no more questions. Eat!"

 

---

 

I ate, although I kept stopping to ask questions. Questions my mother refused to answer. "After lunch," she repeated.

At long last, we finished eating. We cleared the table and put away the leftovers, and finally — when I was ready to die from the suspense — Mom went into her bedroom and returned with a thick manila envelope, stuffed with papers. It was about two inches thick.

"This isn't everything," she explained, "but it's more than enough to start with." I reached for it, but she held on to it. "First I'll tell you the story, and then — if you want — we can look through this a little bit. But this is for you to take home. Okay?"

Well, I had to be okay with it: she was making the rules.

We sat again at the dining-room table, facing each other. There was still a half bottle of the wine left. Uncharacteristically, she poured me a generous glass.

"Alright," she said, leaning in toward me, a half-smile playing over her lips. "I want to start by saying Once upon a time, but as improbable as it is, this isn't a fairy tale."

"So how does it start?" I asked. My patience was near its end.

Mom leaned in a little closer, and trying to not smile, told me:

"Charlotte had a boyfriend."

"What? No!" I scoffed. "Come on. A boyfriend? Crazy Charlotte?"

"Okay, now," Mom cautioned gently. "Remember: Charlotte is your cousin, and she is the only daughter of my only sister."

"And this *case* is somehow about Charlotte having a boyfriend?"

"Yes, and that's why you have to be careful not to call her 'crazy'. Okay?"

"Okay," I conceded. "And hold on — you said I was going to get paid — AND get a car? From who?"

"From my sister. From your Aunt Hanna. She'll give you her old Corolla."

"For good?"

"Yes, for good. If you investigate this case."

I was about to ask more questions, but my mother stopped me. "Why don't you let me tell the story, in a nutshell. It won't take long.

"About two years ago, Charlotte was engaged — yes, she was engaged to be married — to a man named Ross Ghulyan. He was a freshman at the State University at Robbins, there on a football scholarship. Apparently he was a rising star, showed lots of promise and all that. Everything was fine until Ross started seeing another woman. Her name was Mayda something-or-other. I forget. Starts with a Z. Her name's in here." She patted the envelope. "One night, the two of them — Ross and Mayda — went out into the desert to look at the stars and whatnot, and Ross was never seen again."

"Just — gone?"

"Gone. Never seen again."

"What about the woman?"

"She came back. She said they had a fight and she ran away. She showed up — of all places — at Charlotte's apartment the next morning."

My brain began sorting through what I'd heard. "How did they get out to the desert?"

"In his truck — which also disappeared."

"What does this Mayda say happened to him?"

"She says she has no idea. She left him after they argued, and hitched a ride on the desert highway."

I pictured a desert. Empty, vast. Two years have passed. Whatever clues there might ever have been, were now long gone.

"The police investigated, didn't they?"

"Yes, and they figure that Ross ran off. That he couldn't stand the weight of all the attention, the early success."

"I guess that happens," I ventured. "I wouldn't know. So how do I come in?"

"Your cousin Charlotte is convinced that Mayda lured Ross into the desert and killed him."

The two of us sat in silence for a few beats, looking each other in the face. I decided to say it first: "Let me guess: the police didn't agree."

"Right. They found no body, and they found no evidence of foul play."

It was easy to guess the next step: "But Charlotte wouldn't let it go."

"No, she wouldn't. She hasn't. In fact, she pestered the police so much and so often that they took out a restraining order against her."

"The police took out a restraining order!?" I exclaimed. "That's pretty extreme!"

Mom smiled a grim, flat-lined smile. "Your cousin is pretty extreme."

I nodded in agreement. I sat in silence for a moment. It was a lot to take in. I swirled my wine in my glass and let out a long breath.

"Honestly, Mom, it sounds like I'd be getting paid for doing nothing. The chances of my finding something new are about zero. I'd be cheating Aunt Hanna out of her money."

"I know what you mean," Mom agreed, "and I'm glad to hear you say that. The thing is, if Hanna doesn't hire you, she's going to find an actual PI and pay him whatever a real investigator charges. In the end, either he'll agree with whatever the police said, or your aunt will run out of money."

I wasn't sure how to respond. I took a sip of wine.

"You know your aunt. She'll do anything for Charlotte. Charlotte is her baby girl. If Hanna meets the wrong PI, she could end up spending every penny she's got on tomfoolery that goes nowhere. At least with you, all you'll be spending is shoe leather."

In spite of all that my mother had said, I couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, my God!" I exclaimed. "So, according to you, I'm doing Aunt Hanna a favor by taking her money."

"We'll keep in touch," she said. "You and me. You'll let me know how much she's spending, how much she's giving you. In the meantime I'll try to find a way to intervene when it's time to put on the brakes. Make sure she doesn't put herself in the poorhouse."

 

---

 

The manila envelope Mom gave me had a lot of material. I spent a few hours that night and a few hours Sunday morning going through it... as much of it as I could. As I flipped through the pages, I had to wonder who put it all together. I couldn't see my mother being interested enough, or Charlotte or Aunt Hanna being disciplined enough. The pages were ordered chronologically, beginning with a short piece in the local Robbins paper about a "possible disappearance." Subsequent articles added details and background.

One of the most striking, inescapable facts (for me), was the fact that Charlotte wasn't mentioned anywhere at first. Not at all. Likewise, there was no mention of Ross being engaged to anyone.

Stories written in the first few weeks mentioned Mayda Zakaryan, but weren't clear on her relationship to Ross. Some articles called her Ross' girlfriend. Others said they had a "dating history." Clearly they were on a date the night Ross disappeared.

It wasn't until the end of June, a full month after Ross' disappearance that Charlotte first appeared in a news story. I got the idea that the reporters were walking on eggshells when it came to Charlotte. They didn't seem able to simply come out and say how odd it was that she waited an entire month before coming forward, and they didn't dare question Charlotte's claims outright. Then again, maybe I was reading too much into it. Maybe my own experiences with Charlotte led me to connect dots that weren't really connected, but nothing I read clearly stated that Charlotte and Ross were engaged, or that they were even seeing each other. The papers (as far as I could see) hedged their bets by saying that Charlotte "claimed" or "asserted" or even "alleged" that there was an engagement. One reporter stuck her neck out and made the observation that there hadn't been a formal engagement announcement.

Obviously I'd need to dig into that. I made a note to check the papers for an announcement. I made a note to talk to Ross' classmates, teammates, and family — as far as possible.

Of course I'd have to talk to Mayda.

Unfortunately, my continued reading revealed that Mayda was living in Barcelona, Spain, playing on their womens' soccer team.

Interesting. She hung around for a month before taking off, and the police didn't stop her from leaving.

But then— oh my God! A light went on in my head. I flipped back a few pages. Charlotte didn't start making claims until *after* Mayda had gone!

I blew out a raspberry. This was going to be a minefield. A familial minefield.

 

---

 

Aunt Hanna's house was a bit far to go by bike, so my mother came and picked me up at 11:30. I dreaded the idea of lunch at my aunt's house, but at least Charlotte wouldn't be there.

"Where does Charlotte live now?" I asked Mom as I climbed into her car.

"Hello to you, too!" she responded. "She lives in Duxbridge."

"I imagine that's near Robbins?"

"Yep. It's right next door." She turned her head to grin at me. "Hanna says you can stay with Charlotte, if you want." She waited to see my reaction.

"Eyes on the road, Mom! Eyes on the road!" I called.

Mom, chuckling, straightened her gaze.

"There is no way in hell," I informed her.

"I know, I know," she said. "I figured it was better that you hear the offer from me first, so you don't react in horror when you talk to your aunt."

"Ah. Good idea."

"We could make a good detective team, Mason, what do you say?"

"Oh, wow! That's a great idea, Mom! You can be the whatcha-call, the family liason between me and Charlotte!" I chuckled at my own cleverness.

Mom gave a scoffing grunt in response.

The clock hit noon exactly when we pulled up in front of Hanna's house. "Here we are!" she announced in a cheery voice. "Out you go!"

My jaw fell open. "Aren't you coming, too?"

"Me?" she asked in an innocent tone. "You want me to come in, after you scoffed at my offer of working as a team?"

"Oh, Mom, no. Please don't leave me alone here. How am I going to get home, anyway?"

"Don't be such a baby! Your aunt is going to sign her car over to you, remember? It's recently serviced and has four brand-new tires! And don't forget: she'll put some cash in your hand before you leave. Remember that, while you're in there. She wants to give you that money and that car."

I took a deep breath, but I didn't move.

She put the car into park and turned to face me. "Look," she said, all serious. "I know my sister can be a bit... extra... and Charlotte even more so, but this is a job. A paying job. AND you get a car in the bargain. It's *exactly* the sort of thing you've been saying you want to do: investigating. Isn't that what you've been saying for years?"

"Yeah," I muttered, squirming in my seat.

"One more thing: you have a choice, right here, right now. You can either do this, which means putting up with your aunt and your cousin, and GET PAID for your trouble, OR you can get a job. A *real* job. A regular job with regular pay. Tomorrow, Monday. I have a list. It's a list of jobs that you won't like, but they're all jobs that you can get, and best of all: they are jobs that will pay you honest-to-God cash money. Is that clear?"

There was a book I was supposed to read in high school (but didn't). The title was Invitation to a Beheading. The title popped right and full into my brain in that moment. It suited my mood. It suited my mood exactly. I was being invited to my own beheading.

At least I'd be getting paid for it, right?