Page 36 of Witch and Tell

A light was on in the Wallingford Guest House, but it was downstairs. Perhaps Tyrone waited for me in the house’s ground floor library. I mounted the steps to the wraparound porch. A figure moved behind the library’s sheer curtains. I rapped on the window.

The figure—a woman—came to the door. It was Mrs. Wallingford. “Josie? Can I help you?”

“Tyrone asked me to stop by. Is he here?” I patted my pocket to show her the note, but it wasn’t there. I could have sworn I took his note with me. I must have left it at the library.

“He asked to meet you this late?” Mrs. Wallingford cocked an eyebrow. “Candace has been around, but you, too?”

“It’s about Ian Penclosa,” I said quickly.

Mrs. Wallingford nodded, but I couldn’t miss the raised eyebrow. “Sure.” She glanced up the stairs, then back at me. “I’ll see if he’s still awake. Unless you want to go up without me?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Definitely not. Don’t bother him if he’s in bed. It’s important, or I never would have dropped by like this. Really.”

“Wait here a moment.”

I understood Mrs. Wallingford’s skepticism. It did look peculiar that I’d be coming around to see a Don Juan like Tyrone so late at night. I was certainly testing the cliché about the prim librarian.

Mrs. Wallingford returned down the stairs. “He’s not there.”

“Asleep, then,” I said.

“No. Not there at all. I knocked, and his door opened. He’s out. Plus, his key is gone.” She pointed at the keys hanging on hooks near the stairs, each with a brass tag dangling from it. The key for room three was missing.

“Thank you.” I made my way back to the street.

Tyrone wouldn’t have left a note unless it was important. A glance showed his Expedition still in the guest house’s driveway. Perhaps he’d walked to the tavern.

A few minutes later, I pushed open the tavern’s red vinyl-padded door to a waft of warm beer and onion rings. Marty Robbins played on the sound system. Marty Robbins was a favorite of Orson’s, and tavern patrons had long since learned the lyrics to “El Paso” and the fate of its gunslinger and Mexican maiden.

On the way to the bar at the tavern’s rear, I passed two booths with patrons. One held Oona, who regularly advertised her insomnia around town by plucking her sweater from her chest and saying things like, “This cardigan? I made it last February when I couldn’t sleep.” She sipped what looked like a soda and lime, and she wound a skein of wool into a ball. She nodded as I passed. Another booth held a few of the Tohler offspring, digging into chili dogs layered with shreds of cheddar. Betty Larsen sat at the bar, nursing a purple cocktail and making eyes at Orson. She’d been making up to him since her husband died a few years ago. So far, Orson had not taken the bait.

“Have you seen Tyrone Beaudrie?” I asked Orson.

“‘Cowboy in the Continental Suit,’” Betty said, nodding at the speaker in the corner. “There’s no one who can sing a ballad like Marty Robbins.”

Nice try, Betty, I thought.

“You, too, huh?” Orson said. “I thought you were stuck on Sam.”

I ignored that. “Tyrone wanted to see me. It seemed important. He wasn’t at the guest house, but his car is still there. I thought he might have dropped by.”

“Why don’t you text him?”

“I don’t have his number.” Orson was sure being difficult tonight.

“Seems if it was so important, he would have left it.”

“Orson, has he been in? Yes or no,” I said.

“Nope. Haven’t seen him tonight.”

“Although personally, I prefer ‘A White Sport Coat (and a Pink Carnation),’” Betty said. “So romantic.”

I waved goodbye and headed home. Perhaps Tyrone was on a walk. Summer nights were wonderful in Western Oregon, and he might have taken a stroll through the meadow to the millpond, although wandering the woods at night was an unusual pastime for a city dweller like him. Plus, if he’d really needed to see me tonight, he might have made himself easier to find.

Why was his note so urgent? Could that be what had drawn him away?

I supposed I’d find out soon enough. For now, I was going home.