2022-05-04 - A Very Mundane Little Life

It's 4:30 PM, do you know where your writers are?

"Give me twenty minutes to get her good and distracted," says Nicasia. "I'll make sure there's nobody else home, nobody expected home, all that." It's not the first time they've tackled a problem in this manner: the routine is one they have down pretty pat and it works particularly well even if it is extremely sketchy to have her serving as a very obvious distraction while he's doing something pretty amoral and indeed fairly illegal. The unspoken part of this is that if anywhere in that twenty minute window she feels like something's off, she'll let him know and he'll just keep his ass in the truck.

Probably.

She's dressed for the role, anyway. Nice wide-legged trouser slacks; a tailored ivory silk shirt, a fresh coat of lipstick, and a pile of interview materials shoved into a leather messenger bag: a couple of notepads, a digital audio recorder, and two beat-up, dog-eared copies of novels written by one Jane Connaught, acquired secondhand for that extra-loved look and flipped through so she had at least a general sense of the material inside. Poor Myles had to suffer through the reading of a few choice passages, because what's the point of having used paranormal erotica if not to torture your partner with it?

"Am I forgetting anything, or are we good to go?" Because she's ready to get out and go strolling up to the house in Hoquiam to meet the author.

He's leaning forward when she asks if she's forgetting anything, one hand sweeping back her hair over her ear. It's almost affectionate, fingers holding her hair back just enough to see the small earpiece lodged in her ear. Could be mistaken for a hearing aid if one didn't know better. He's not expecting Jane Connaught to know better. Nor is he expecting her to see it in the first place. He lets her hair fall down, pressing his off hand to his own earpiece.

"Yo. Yo. One, two. One, two. I got two turntables and a microphone." He mumbles the random lyrics, dark eyes flicking to Nicasia's to ensure she can hear him. That he can hear her. He gives a little nod. "We passed a park on the left back there. You can tell her you'd like a picture there because of the scenery or some shit." Myles rumbles, arching his shoulders into a shrug.

Finally he lets out a big breath, giving a nod. "I'm good." His hand comes out to give Nicasia's leg a small squeeze. "You got this."

As for him, Myles is dressed in a navy blue jumpsuit. With a name tag embroidered on his right breast pocket. Alonso. He's done this enough times to know walking around in certain neighborhoods dressed in a hoodie and being the big black guy he is, is not a good idea. People are much more willing to look the other way when you're playing the role of some vague service professional. 'Oh he must be fixing something or something something.'

A matching navy blue hat is pulled onto his head, as well as his 'work bag'. For fixing things!

"Alright. On you."

A suburban house in a suburban neighbourhood. Jane Connaught either makes enough from her literary exploits, or her husband has a decent paying job. They're not wealthy -- but everything looks neat and well maintained, and the family SUV in the driveway looks new. Somebody here likes gardening -- or has hired a garden service. There are no obvious signs of children -- no little bikes, no toys, no basket ball net on the carport; little tells, when you know what to look for.

The lilacs are in bloom. Purple and lavender among each other, forming a sweet scented hedgerow along one edge of the lot. It's a pleasant place on the outskirts of Hoquiam, quiet but for the gentle, distant roar of Bowerman Airport -- a small affair that has no commercial flights and an excellent view of North Bay's National Wildlife Refuge (read: the water).

The woman who opens the door is in her mid-forties. As white as her author portrait on the jacket of The Lusty Lycan, a few years older. A pixie haircut, a blouse with a flower motif, jeans, sneakers -- the casual look. She looks almost shy as her gaze meets the presumed reporter's. "I'm so excited," she confides by means of a greeting. "The only other reporter to ever take an interest in my writing is my cousin Alice, and she hates everything I write. She says, because she devours it all."

The squeeze of her leg gets a little brush of fingertips on his hand. Not a pat, exactly, and Nicasia withdraws it soon thereafter. "We got this," she reminds him. "Presumably she's just a nice little grandma who bakes pies and writes smut on the side and whose sister maybe got eaten by Evil Santa Clause." She's not worried.

She parks on the street so her own SUV is absolutely conspicuous and then wanders up to the door, a smile emerging just as soon as Jane opens the door. "Mrs. Connaught?" A hand is offered. "Nikki Webber; we spoke on the phone?" Clearly expected, recognized, just as charming as she can make herself without coming in over the top. "I'm really glad you're willing to take some time out of your day to talk to me." Mention of the cousin hating the works shifts her expression over to a bit sly, and she picks one of the paperbacks out of her bag to offer just a glimpse, like it's something marginally more elicit than The Lusty Lycan.

But first questions first; she glances in the direction of the house proper. "This is a really lovely house. I love lilacs. These are gorgeous." Softball stuff. "How long have you lived here?" While she asks she also digs out the recorder and displays it. "Do you mind if I use this? You really don't have to answer any question if you don't want. I might get a little nosy but I'm intensely curious."

"Christ." Myles rumbles first when the woman opens the door. He can hear faint traces of the woman's voice. "This poor woman." The man rumbles, perhaps already feeling guilty about taking this lady for a ride. The chair of the SUV is lowered back back in case the pair walk by the car or anyone else for that matter walks by, he is essentially invisible. He'll wait for his cue.

"No, no, that's fine," Jane says, smiling with a hint of nervousness; it is painfully obvious that when she says she's not used to reporters, she's telling the truth. "I don't think I have any great, big secrets. But if I do, I can just say I don't want to answer that question, right, haha? I'd invite you in but my husband works night shifts and he's asleep so going to the café really works very well. Let me get my jacket."

She closes the door temporarily, to do so. Sounds from inside suggests the presence of a dog -- hence the closing of the door -- but not a big one, nor a particularly temperamental one.

Then Jane emerges, pulling her summer pea coat on. "We've had this house for what, three years? Used to live over in Gray Harbor before that. It's just me and Michael, that's my husband. It's a little big, really, for just two people, but Michael collects those little game minis, and I like having an office to write in, and we got a really good offer."

Michael Connaught, apparently, is not one of the big shot real estate dealers living in a fancy villa on Bayside. It makes sense; for every cigar-chewing, fancy car driving one there has to be a number of regular joes doing business with average people. At night, apparently.

She locks the door and tucks the key under an upturned planter pot on the porch. Myles certainly will not have to work hard to force an entry.

"Exactly. If you don't want to answer, just tell me and I'll move on." It's that simple, right? Nicasia seems genuine, convinced that she'll get whatever information she's after anyway... though maybe she feels the barest little bit guilty about going this route as well since this is an interview that indeed will never be published.

The relevant details are relayed while Jane is getting her coat. "Husband works nights, he's sleeping inside. Sounds like they have a dog, too, but it didn't try to eat the door when I knocked." Of course Lady doesn't either but this isn't her problem, and she steps down off the porch to make more room when the author emerges again. Another smile emerges as the details start rolling, this one a little bit bittersweet. "Does he? Where's he get them? My... a friend of mine loves to paint them and I'm always looking for new, neat little figurines to offer as bribes." And, "It's such a beautiful day. Do you want to walk to the cafe?"

Either way the interview has started. The recorder is turned on and clipped to the side of her bag, totally conspicuous, and she winds up with the most original pair of questions anyone ever asked an author. "So how did you get into writing, and how did you settle on paranormal romance?"

There's a quiet sigh let out as Myles starts to open the door. "Yeah, I heard. Try to work her house back into the conversation. See if anything is broken or fucked up. If he wakes up I wanna be able to tell him I'm fixin' the stove or the heater or whatever the fuck. Improving their internet or some shit. And see if you can generate any points of interest." The glove box is opened and a little bag is brought out. A handful of Lady's treats are. There's a pause. "He collects minis?" Myles pauses for a moment before grunting. "Huh."

Then he's narrowing his brow. "Friend huh?" It's fun for him. He gets to badger at Nicasia and she has no form of reprisal. Not immediately at least. His work bag is thrown over his shoulder. Once they're down the street a good ways, Myles is casually crossing the street. Going to work.

He sinks down casually to pull the key out of the planter as if he's done it many times before. Myles has learned a long time ago a major trick to not getting caught where you shouldn't be is to act like you've been there before. Display confidence, act like you know what you're doing, less people question. It's a skill he manages easily, walking up to the door like he owns the place. Unlocking the door, stepping in and immediately going down to one knee, a doggy treat laid out on the ground before him as the door is pressed close behind him, gently.

The dog in question is a shi tzu. A small, shaggy-haired thing with the brain of a tennis ball and surprising amounts of energy. It belts out a greeting of happy, yappy barks -- intruder, what are intruders? If Myles is here, Myles must be a friend.

It probably has a lot of friends. At least there is almost immediately a grunt from upstairs. "Quiet, Charlie!"

Charlie shuts up. And continues to dance because yay, new friend. This could be a lot worse; there are people who keep and train dogs to guard their property, after all. Charlie probably could not guard a tin of his own food.

Everything falls quiet. The entryway leads to a kitchen on one end; one of those open affairs with barstools for making food and conversation at once; beyond, probably a dining room proper, or a living room. To the left -- a staircase going upstairs, and behind it, a door to what's probably the back yard. It's not a large property; Jane's office might be that way too, or upstairs. So might Michael's hobby room.

The ladies walk towards the café -- a small coffee shop along Hoquiam's main traffic vein. It's barely large enough to call itself a café or coffee shop -- think more hole in the wall, black, latte or cappucino, and outdoors seating.

"I think he orders most of them online," Jane replies with a smile. "There's a group of men who meet at the community centre over in Gray Harbor once a month, to play with their little figures. It's very charming." She's not a war gamer, this much is obvious.

She sighs. Bliss. Recognition. Jane Connaught is a very happy woman today. "I've always had the strangest dreams," she begins. "Very vivid. Strange creatures that watched me in the dark. I spent so much time as a child just thinking about them -- what their lives must be like, what their stories would be. I can never quite remember when I wake up, you see. But I sleep walk -- sometimes I wake up with scratches and bruises."

A faint blush dusts her cheeks pink. "And when I became a teenager -- well, you know how it is. The nature of the dreams changed. And I discovered fan fiction. My sister and I, we wrote the most outrageous stories together."

"In Gray Harbor, huh? Oh well."

Poor, poor Jane. Nicasia isn't in any hurry to get to the cafe. The longer they're out, the longer Myles will have to skulk through the house and see if he can find anything more useful than she's going to. There's a little arch of her eyebrow at the second half of the story the woman tells, a very sly sort of amusement creeping in. "Oh? I see. Inspiration through dreams, and then inspiration through dreams and I guess you could probably describe the Fae King as kind of dreamy, hmm?" Ah, but there's the opening she's looking for, already. "Your sister? What did the two of you write about? I can't say as I've ever even heard of any collaborative works you've done, though I suppose I wouldn't want anyone seeing anything I'd written as a teenager, either."

There's that angle, but because she's not pushing too hard - yet - there's a follow-up that comes right in along after it. "Are there many stories you've written, or started to write, that you decided not to publish for some reason?"

Well. That's a lot less asleep than Myles thought. "Hey Charlie. Shh." Another little treat is given to Charlie, to occupy his mouth so he's eating and not barking.

Myles glances up the stairs with a frown. Makes his way quietly down the hallway with soft footfalls. He's gonna check for the office downstairs, first. Not wanting to risk an encounter with Michael before his options are eliminated. He holds out another treat for Charlie while quietly making his way down the hall.

Grunting from upstairs suggests that somebody up there is shuffling about. Swinging legs out of the bed, maybe. "Charlie, fuckit. C'mere, boy." Might be Charlie usually spends his day in Michael's footend, not following some stranger around his own house.

"My sister Selma moved away many years ago," Jane tells Nicasia. "She met a man -- and you know how the story goes. Our parents didn't approve of him -- but she ended up moving to Europe with him all the same. I get a postcard from her now and then. There's never any writing on them -- just postcards, from beautiful places. I suppose I don't really/ know they're from her, but who else would send me postcards from Europe?"

She sighs. It's a good deal more romantic than, well, Michael the real estate agent. "I started to write properly when she left. I mean, things that I could publish. In a way, I am writing for her. I like to imagine she's sitting somewhere in Paris and reading my stories, and thinking of home."

"Oh?" They've reached the cafe; Nicasia will hold the door for Jane and then dangles, "I do know how that story goes. I met a man once and my father didn't approve of him at all. Though we didn't end up in Europe and now I'm wondering if I should've held out a little longer. What sort of man was this one your sister ended up with? And really? Postcards with no writing? How peculiar."

The remainder of Jane's inspiration is mulled over for a couple of moments then while they get in line, partially so that she can think, but also partially so that she can listen, trying to piece together whatever trouble her partner is getting into. Or not. "You really haven't heard from her since she left? How long ago was that?" So this isn't at all related to writing anymore. So what? She's going to order black coffee and a chocolate chip muffin, one of these a very visible way to control the speed of the interview.

Myles frowns at the sound. He looks down to Charlie, realizing the dog treats were a bad idea. Frown. He squints. Looking down at Charlie. Fuck off, Charlie! But now he's endeared the little guy. Another treat is produced from his overalls and Myles holds it down in front of Charlie's snout. You want this right? Don't you? Yes you do. Okay go get it. The treat floats out of Myles hand and goes down the hall, to start going up the stairs. There it will nestle itself down, using a stair as cover. Charlie can chase it up and then be called back more easily. So that's great.

Myles shuffles back, trying to find that office still.

Europe. He squints at nothing.

"It was a little like that," Jane replies with a laugh as they settle. "Smooth fellow, a right silver fox. I think he was in his forties, fifties, even, but he swept Selma right off her feet. I always felt like they knew something I don't. Like they had secrets right away. But you know how it is, I was just the third wheel. And then one day she and Carnelian were just gone. No forwarding address, no note. She'd packed her clothes and just left."

She looks a little wistful. "Nearly thirty years. Sometimes I think, I am writing for Selma."

Back at the house, Charlie the shi tzu has a great time; he gets treats, and then he gets to zoom noisily up the stairs for another treat, and then there's noises as his owner grunts and gets out of bed.

Michael the real estate agent who works night shifts -- who's his clientele anyway? -- is a heavy set man in boxers. He's got a few scars, a hairy back, and the attention span of somebody who's still half asleep. It is almost stupidly easy to slip in through the door in the hallway and just watch him walk past, letting Charlie out in the yard -- and then turning 180 degrees and grunting his way back upstairs. Michael the real estate agent very obviously does not expect to meet anyone in his house who isn't his wife.

Behind Myles, Jane Connaught's writing office is -- pink. An afficionado would call it dusty rose; anyone else would think, Christ on a cracker, woman, lay off the cotton candy.

Dried roses in neat arrangements in vases. Little motivational pictures. Bible verses, embroidered and framed. A neat little trophy shelf, with copies of the published books of one Jane Connaught. And on the middle of the little wooden desk (almost Victorian in appearance but likely far more modern, antiques are expensive )a framed photo of two very young women -- both resembling Jane but so very much younger -- and a man with a generous silver beard; a handsome devil with an expression of confidence.

"Carnelian," Nicasia muses. "That's a really interesting name. I'm surprised you haven't used it," she ventures as she baits the next questionary hook. "He was in his fifties? He must've been pretty smokin'. Or wealthy. Let me see, thirty years ago... you and Selma must've been fresh out of high school." None of these are the question. The question comes in as, "I maybe reached out to the school you attended, doing background; they told me they had a Selma Connaught on file too. Was that her?"

It's submerged under a barrage of other questions, lest poor Jane realize this conversation is not actually about her. See the chinprop? "Have you always had an interest in the paranormal? You mentioned your dreams, yes, but which one came first, a fascination with the supernatural, or the dreams and then the interest?" And then, "Have you had any experience with it? A friend of mine used to visit psychics all the time and she swore they were legit but I don't know..."

She is indeed trying very hard not to be distracted by the noise in her ear. Or the lack thereof, since one half of this equation is being very, very quiet, and the silence isn't deafening but it does make her especially curious.

Myles watches Michael the real estate agent who works night shift-- does real estate have night shifts? Does he do open houses for drunk teenagers and vagrants? Myles is squinting after the man's hairy back. Letting him lumber along before Myles is closing the door to the office. Spinning around, he squints immediately at the pink room.

He's walking through it, before finally speaking in a low tone. "Got a picture. Probably. Big old silver beard with Jane and Selma, I reckon. Told you. Evil Santa. Old." Myles phone is in his hands immediately as he takes several shots of the picture itself. Snap snap snap. The next moment he's setting the picture frame down on its face and unscrewing the back of it. To check for any sort of labeling or writing or any extra goodies kept inside the frame itself along with the picture.

"Carnelian was very charming," Jane murmurs with the faint little tell-tale brush that reveals that Selma was probably not the only person taken in by the man's charisma, back in the day. And a fair bit of it indeed -- unless he was simply wealthy enough to buy the girls' interest that way.

The penny doesn't drop; after all, to the target of this little interrogation, all of this is just a casual thing, an interesting anecdote for a dust jacket, perhaps. "Selma and I went to school together. She --"

Or maybe there's more. Jane glances around. "Well, our parents -- when she left. They were very angry. Cut her out of the inheritance, out of the family. My husband and I, we -- didn't want Selma to come back some day and have nothing. We paid somebody a bit of money and changed Jane's name to Connaught, too. I know, it's a crime, technically, but -- well, if you ask me, parents shouldn't get to tell their daughter she's not their daughter anymore. It's not proper."

She sighs. "I haven't talked to them since, either. Please don't print this."

Bit late there, Jane. Maybe she's lucky that this interview is in fact not for real.

She leaps to the proffered change of subject with some gratitude. "I don't believe in astrology or anything like that, I really don't. I'm a believer, miss. I go to Church. But I believe that there are angels who guide us. And sometimes they guide us in very strange ways. I feel that -- if God did not want me to write my stories, they would find a way to tell me not to. Faerie kings and werewolves aren't real. No one thinks they are. But a lot of people need a little happiness in their lives, and if reading my stories makes somebody a little happier? Then it's not a bad thing."

The questionable night shift worker -- who is his customer base, vampires? -- shuffles back to bed; the sounds from upstairs are unmistakable. And helpful, all things considered.

The back of the frame comes off easily enough. And the little note inside says, Love, always, Selma. Please don't ask where I went.

"It's lovely that she sends you postcards, even if they aren't filled out at all. Like a little story she's telling you, details tucked away in the images she picks, or the postmarks." AHEM.

Nicasia listens to the rest with fair interest; Jane is not a bad storyteller and some of this resonates with her on a personal level because when she exhales again it isn't a feigned sigh. "That's a pretty sh -- ifty thing to do to your own daughter. Like I said, my father didn't approve of the man I married, once upon a time. He didn't disown me, though." She mulls over this, but doesn't quite go far enough to add that maybe she would've been happier if he had; she smiles a little bit, instead. "That's awfully gracious of you. Of course I imagine she's very comfortable wherever she is." Okay this part is a lie but the tight smile is because of her strained relationship with her family, not because of whatever happened to Selma, right?

"Sure," she's quick to agree, then. "Everybody could use a little happiness in their lives. Fiction has always been a great place to get some of that. A little bit of..." She gestures vaguely. "...sympathetic magic, you know? A chance to think about a different time, a different place, some different people for a while. Of course faerie kings and werewolves aren't real." Right? Which brings her to another thing that has maybe been chewing at her curiosity as well. "How did you and your husband meet?"

"Okay!" Myles mumbles lowly, the type of okay grumbled after being asked to do the dishes several times. Who says you shouldn't work with your spouse? "I got a lot goin' on here." A picture is taken of the writing, the little note. The frame. Everything. He grunts as the picture frame is reassembled by his gloved hands before he's stepping away.

They're important to her. These postcards. And there's a group of them. Myles would assume they are kept together in a safe place. Not actually safe. But safe to her. Some sort of box a hope chest, a little jewelry box with a weak ass lock. Angels guide her. His eyes flit around trying to put the clues together. He'll go through doors and quietly rummage something that indicates some sort of tucked away special place.

Jane smiles; there is genuine warmth in that smile -- she gives the impression of somebody who is genuinely content with her lot in life. She has a loving husband, a nice house, a pleasant garden, a career which may not have gotten her on Saturday Night Live but which makes her feel accomplished. Presumably, she's happy in her little church community, as the lady who bakes the excellent cookies for the bake sales. Happiness takes many forms, and to some, this is it.

"I wish I could tell you something exciting and romantic," she says with a small laugh. "Something that would make a great story for your paper. The truth of it, though? We met at work. At the time, I was working as a secretary to his agency and he was a junior salesman. We just hit it off. After a while he made enough that I could quit my job to write. It's not very glamorous, but we are happy."

Back in Jane's office, there aren't a lot of obviously safe places -- at least not if you define safe in the way a burglar would. There's no wall safe, there's nothing with a solid padlock. If you mean safe as in, not going to get accidentally tossed with last week's mail, though -- there's an entire cardboard box in the desk cupboard. Jane Connaught seems to be a person who either expects the privacy of her office to be respected, or she doesn't think she has done anything that needs to be kept secret (given how readily she answers Nicasia's questions, the latter doesn't seem all that unlikely).

And inside?

Postcards. All of which are addressed to J. Connaught, this address. The ink on some is faded to almost ineligible. Rifling through them -- thirty years of postcards from cities all over Europe. Paris, London, Amsterdam -- and small places no one's ever heard of, where the town name isn't even printed on but there's just a picture of a seashell or a windmill among tulips. A great many of them depict angels -- statues, paintings, church mosaic windows.

Not a single one of them has any text. The date stamp on the top one is recent -- two weeks ago, stamped in Sweden. It depicts a small log cabin in the woods, a candle burning bright in the window.

Jane is happy, isn't she. Content enough that it strikes Nicasia with a genuine pang of jealousy. Unintended consequences.

She smiles though. "That's really lovely, though. Kind of its own special romance trope, isn't it? It's not like most of the rest of us are doing any better in the glamour deparment, or really, would we be having this conversation in the first place?" There's a brief pause and then a renewal of that smile lest it falter too much and someone grow suspicious. "Besides, the relatively staid, comfortable lives we lead give you a great market for your novels, right? By day, I could be a housewife from Boring, but at night after the kids go to bed I can pour my half glass of red and get my one chocolate square and spend an hour or two with a really sexy werewolf with an anger management problem."

A few more minutes are bought circling innocuous conversational topics before she presses once more, going after that one last outstanding bit of curiosity lingering on the list. George. "So really, nothing strange or mysterious has ever happened to you or your family? No unsolved mysteries? Other than this Carnelian guy, I suppose."

"Jesus fuckin' christ. This is a shit load of post cards." Myles growls over the earpiece. "Not enough time to get em all." Probably. He starts to pull out what looks like the most recent ten. And then shuffles to take out the first ten. That seems like a good number. A picture of the front. A picture of the back. As he goes through he has time to think. "Ask her what Carnelian's job was. What he did for a livin'. That could be a good lead. She had to have some suspicions at least if she didn't know." Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap.

Picture taken. Picture taken. Next post card. Picture taken. Next post card. Picture taken. Next postcard. Picture taken. He lets out a quiet sigh.

"She barely knows anything." Beat. "Probably why she's still alive." Snap. Snap. Snap.

Almost as if Jane Connaught could indeed hear Myles' request does she smile, a little lingeringly, reminiscing about another decade when she was much younger, and everything was so much more exciting. Maybe on some level Jane does realise that she is missing something. That there is something Selma knew which she doesn't. The reason, perhaps, that she was the sister who was left behind.

"Carnelian, yes -- well, he was a bit of mystery. Never would tell us where he was from. Selma didn't mind. He always said, where he came from doesn't matter and where he's going is for the future to tell." Jane taps her lip, thoughtfully. Something is bubbling up in memory.

After a while, she sips her coffee. "But I suppose that if you're looking for a story, there's George Hampton. He disappeared around the same time. It made some headlines since he worked for the Gazette -- star reporter and all, one night he just didn't come home. It took his little girl a very long time to get over. Poor Alice, she's a reporter like her old man, now. She writes for the gossip column, mostly."

Something in Jane's voice does not entirely approve. Then again, anyone who's read the Gray Harbor Gazette's gossip column will be aware that it's largely what did Erin Addington wear at her last date, who is that lovely young lady making eyes at the Mayor, and a disturbing amount of Everett Woods, local bad boy and owner of the boardwalk Sweet Retreat ice cream parlor. He's nearly eight feet tall and he's made quite the impression on Alice.

Jane smiles a little. "He was a good man, George Hampton. I think he was involved in some business with Carnelian, actually, but of course no one told us girls about those things."

Look, there's no more muffin. Nicasia isn't running on fumes yet - she can probably keep Jane here most of the evening, chatting about innocuous things adjacent to writing. It's nice. Also she is a good audience, attentive, inquisitive, incisive with her questions. It IS a shame this interview will never be printed, but hopefully Jane isn't too disappointed.

"Did he have an accent?" she wonders, concerning the mysterious Carnelian. See? Infinite questions.

She does not read the Gazette particularly not the gossip column, so her curiosity remains genuine, the quzzical loft of an eyebrow not even a little bit feigned. "Alice. She's your cousin? Her father also disappeared? That is curious." Not nearly so much as the second piece of this. "They did business together? He was a reporter... what did Carnelian do, exactly? If he swept your sister off to Europe, I mean, was he all fast cars and fancy suits? Investments? Art imports?"

With his pictures taken, Myles starts putting back all the postcards. Restoring the box, finally he takes the time for one last rummaging, just sifting around in anything and everything for anything else that may be helpful.

"Carnelian? I suppose he did." Jane thinks back -- it was more than twenty years ago. "Kind of fancy. Boston, I think. Like they speak on TV when it's supposed to be English, but none of the actors are actually British. Very convincing except every now and then, there's a little wrong here and there."

She should know. She's written Regency Po-----romance. Lord Ashbury Daggett, the werewolf, bless his poor, Byronic heart.

She thinks back; not a whole lot of deception there. Just that expression that seems oddly familiar -- now you remember, now you don't. Sometimes, people's memories just don't match up. It inevitably has some connection or other to some of those things the locals of Gray Harbor don't like to talk about.

"I think he was an art dealer," Jane agrees and smiles helpfully, and the only thing that's guaranteed here is that she believes it -- and that forty seconds ago, her answer would have been something else entirely.

Which might explain the crumpled receipt at the bottom of the paper box Myles rummages through; the one that says, in yellowed copperplate print, "C. HAGGLEFORD, FIREARMS & DEFENCE."

It's a bit unusual to actually see the little mental rewrite in progress; it's less a thing other places because there's less that needs to be rewritten, maybe, so when it happens Nicasia does indeed notice though there's only the barest tilt of her head when she catches it. Curious and curiouser.

"How interesting," she notes, though the tone has nothing to do with Haggleford being an art dealer and everything to do with the oddness of the whole situation. "I wonder what business he and George had together. A small town reporter, an international man of mystery... ah well, I suppose it's one of those things that seems interesting in the moment, but wasn't enough to withstand the inevitable storm of time." She considers the whole business for a long moment, all of it in general and Jane in particular, and then shakes her head. "Well. Jane. I think that's probably all that I have, unless you want to share one of your favorite pie recipes with me."

"C. Haggleford, Firearms and Defence." Myles reads lowly. "Old ass receipt." He peers at it, trying to figure out what the receipt is for. But-- he pockets it instead. She's not going to miss a crumpled up receipt. When Nicasia starts to give her goodbyes, Myles is giving the room a once over. Making sure the room is just as he found it.

He's going to the door, opening it quietly and listening to make sure the vampire real estate agent isn't trolling around the halls.

Jane Connaught smiles secretively. Writer of paranormal ero---romance and baker of supreme pies? She has two secrets, and she'll share one: "It's the pecans." Little does she realise she already shared the other secret: She writes about Veil experiences, unaware of what they are.

Back at the Connaught residence, everything is quiet. Peaceful. Apparently, vampires snore. Charlie, out in the yard, is making happy sounds; he's probably chasing butterflies or playing with a favourite toy. The entire scene breathes peace; a kind of domestic bliss that seems at once quite delightfully mundane and -- well, terribly mundane.

"The pecans? Do you bake them first?" This is the part where Jane actually learns something about Nicasia: she doesn't really know how to bake but she can absolutely follow instructions. These don't even have to be written down, they're recorded for all of time (or at least the next few hours) digitally and she can retrieve them at some point, if and when she decides to try this recipe. But at the end of it she thanks the other woman profusely and then offers to walk her back home, even though it isn't a terrifically long distance: her vehicle is there anyway.

And her partner.

The door is opened. The back door. Charlie comes on back in, to be greeted with a few scratches from Myles. "Good boy." He whispers softly before closing the back door. Making his way to the front door. As he's locking the front door and tucking the key back into its very safe place he takes a moment. A moment of silence. For every job that turns into a hilarious tragedy, he really needs to be thankful for things like this.

Being able to break into a good white couples home and root around in their shit for a little while, undisturbed. You gotta take the little wins.

With his work bag over his shoulder the vague Something repair man steps down the porch stairs and back over to the SUV. The bag goes in the back. And Myles is back in the passenger seat, seat going back flat, just as Nicasia and Jane turn the corner for their street. When Nicasia is back in the car, he's holding up the receipt for her.

His hand goes down to her thigh, giving a little squeeze. "Good shit, Nico."

Longing. Longing is the primary emotion that lingers to that old, yellowed receipt. It's probably not from the man who once issued it; perhaps it's Jane's longing for her sister, and for a time that man was still around -- and her sister was too.

Fear. A subtle undercurrent. On some level, Jane Connaught, she of the mundane happy little life, does realise something is not quite right. Maybe she's spent a substantial part of her life trying to repress that little voice of doubt inside.

The paper crinkles in Nicasia's hand. It's fragile, old and yellow, and would likely not have lasted if not stuck under a pile of postcards.

Acceptance. Whatever did happen -- happened. Whatever was said and done, was said and done. On some level, Jane probably knows that Selma is never coming home. Perhaps she hopes that some day, one of those postcards will come with a plane ticket, or a picture of a niece or nephew, anything. On another level she knows they never will.

Nicasia is not surprised to find Myles there; only a little bit relieved. A tiny bit. Mostly she's relieved to be able to sink into the driver's seat after tossing her bag into the back, letting out a breath that she hasn't exactly been holding this whole while but that hasn't quite been able to come out.

When he produces the receipt she takes it however, both talisman and treasured memento of their little fishing expedition. She takes it and holds onto it for a moment, letting her eyes close, and maybe Myles is going to fill that gap by talking about his little safari in boring white bread land but she's absolutely not listening, not even paying attention, only concentrating on that fragile bit of paper, drawing from it the way she might try and lift the last lingering vapors of someone's perfume, memories from a celebration decades gone, almost forgotten. The top notes, the heart notes, the base notes.

Then. "Carnelian Motherfucking Haggleford." It has nothing to do with the receipt, sadly; she hands it back to Myles with some care, as with indelicate handling it's liable just to fall apart. "Still in the arms business, apparently." And, "You think she's still alive? And if so why the postcards?"

Myles is not talking, Myles is taking off the overalls. It's rote, it's habit. Get the things you were wearing at the scene of the crime off as soon as possible. Even if absolutely no one saw him and no one will ever know, he has rules, he's cautious. And those rules and caution care causing him to do some fun passenger seat gymnastics as he writhes and rolls to get out of the overalls, leaving him in a shirt and shorts underneath.

The receipt is taken back and tucked away in the glove compartment. You think she's still alive?

"Fuck me if I know." Myles grunts immediately. "Hagglefuck doesn't need to do it. The shine would lie for him. Unless he gets some freaky ass pleasure out of it?" Beat. "Fuck." Some thoughts occur to him that he doesn't particularly seem to enjoy. "If it's her.. I don't fuckin' know. Some kinda... Guilt she can't shake? Most recent one is from Sweden. But these days you can probably order these things online. She could be back in Grey Harbor for all we know."

Myles brings one hand to scrub up at his face. "Let's get outta here. Don't wanna find out one of the snoopy ass neighbors was very concerned about that man out there, the hard way."