Page 47 of Your Every Wish

Her kettle whistles and she rushes off to the kitchen, returning soon after with a tray laden with tea accoutrements. She pours us each a cup and sags into an easy chair. “I suppose you came to discuss the golf bag.”

“Something my mother said.” Hell, it was something I said time and time again.

“Why would Willy Keil, a gambling genius, an investor extraordinaire, a man about to be indicted on insider trading, buy a piece-of-crap trailer park in the middle of nowhere?” I look at Misty sheepishly. “Sorry, no offense.”

“No offense taken.”

“Seriously, though. He had to have had a reason. And the only one I can think of is it’s a good hiding place.

Even if the FBI eventually found out about Cedar Pines or any money Willy was trying to hide from them or the IRS or God knows who else, they’d have no clue where to look here.

When you think about it, it’s a brilliant move, positively well played. So Willy.”

“I thought you barely knew the man.”

“I didn’t know him at all. Only the stories. And this fits Willy, the legend, to a T . We’ve got to find the golf bag, Misty. It’s here somewhere, I can feel it in my bones.”

I dig through my purse for the notebook with the puzzle, Willy’s puzzle, and flip through the pages until I find it.

“ ‘In the shade of towering pines, a cedar stands tall, its presence defines. Beneath the dry stacks, where courts reside, my gift to my neglected daughters is tucked inside. From the green to the grave, I’m making up for lost time, assisting your swing and guiding your stride. Tucked away with care, in a bag that’s always there.

Providing funds for the game, my presence, you can’t disclaim. ’ ”

Misty glances at the lined white paper and yawns. “Talk to Azriel. Perhaps he can figure it out.”

“Oh no, you don’t.” I wave my hand at the riddle. “Use your powers.”

She sips her tea and shakes her head. “How many times do I have to tell you it doesn’t work that way?”

“We had a deal, Misty. You find the bag and we don’t sell Cedar Pines. It’s time for you to hold up your end of the bargain.” It’s my desperation talking. But, still, a little nudge never hurts.

She takes another gander at the riddle, scanning it quickly. “My ‘powers’ ”—she makes air quotes around “powers”—“don’t include solving puzzles. I’m sorry, Kennedy, this is not my area of expertise.”

“Well, then see something .”

She lets out a long, aggrieved sigh. “I don’t have visions on demand. Really, if I saw something or felt something, I would tell you. I swear.”

I push the pad closer to her. “Let’s just try, for shits and giggles. ‘In the shade of towering pines, a cedar stands tall, its presence defines.’ He’s talking about Cedar Pines Estates, right? It has to be.”

“Okay.”

“And ‘Beneath the dry stacks, where courts reside, my gift to my neglected daughters is tucked inside.’ What the hell does that mean?” Misty stares at me, blankly. “Come on, you’re the one who originally said the golf bag was hidden in the stacks. What are the stacks? What does that even mean?”

“I saw the word stacks . It kept coming back to me, like one of those electric exit signs. Or the novelty ones that say ‘applause. ’ ”

“You think it’s the welcome sign, the one that’s missing the L ? You think it’s buried underneath it somewhere?”

“That sign isn’t electric.”

“Is there an electric sign anywhere in the park?” I rack my brain trying to remember if I’d ever seen one. “What about Hadley’s Bug Zapper?” Okay, now I’m reaching.

“It’s not a sign,” Misty says.

“How do you know?” Because a minute ago, she said she saw the word stacks on a lit-up exit-type sign.

“I just do. The sign was simply the conveyor of the message. The operative word is stacks . The golf bag is in the stacks. ”

“Stacks of what? Papers? Plates? Magazines?”

She blows out a breath. “I need air. Let’s go for a walk.”

“Fine.” Though it sounds like a waste of time to me. We were finally getting somewhere. Yes, it was at the pace of a glacier, but it’s better than nothing.

“But I’m not giving up on the sign idea,” I say. Signs make good landmarks. Willy would’ve wanted something visual to mark the site.

On our way out, I grab the notebook just in case.

We make our way down to the creek. It’s full from all the rain we’ve been having and I wonder if there’s a risk of it overflowing past its banks and flooding some of the nearby trailers.

The pungent odors of pine, wet dirt, and fish fill the air and while I don’t usually like the smell of fish, combined with everything else it smells good, like forest and rain and nature.

Misty’s quiet, which is fine by me. I’m focusing on finding the sign, or anything electric, which leaves plenty of options.

We walk under a canopy of leafy branches with its kaleidoscope of colors and I suck in a breath at the majesty of it all.

Autumn in all its glory. Though Mrs. Casey’s blow-up pumpkin is looking a little worse for wear and her yard ghosts are on the verge of drowning.

We get as far as the clubhouse and Misty takes a hard left.

“Hey,” I say, “are you in a trance or what?”

She puts her finger to her lips in the classic sign for me to shut my mouth, which I do.

Instead, I follow her lead, trailing slightly behind her.

We wind up on another path, one I rarely use because it’s rocky and uneven and a catastrophe for runners.

Even walking, it’s easy to turn an ankle here.

But Misty is sure-footed as if she’s walked the course a thousand times.

It takes us past the pond on a side of the park I’m not as familiar with.

The recent rains have made the water less like Jell-O and more like brown muck, but it doesn’t stink nearly as bad as usual.

We come off the trail at the place I would put my fictional pickleball courts. It’s close enough to Bent McCourtney’s property to bug the shit out of him, which would be my life’s mission if I didn’t have more pressing issues to weigh.

Misty seems like she has a specific destination in mind and instead of questioning her about it, I simply follow along. She hasn’t said a word since we left her place and seems to be hyper-focused.

We head in the general vicinity of the pool and at the last minute Misty switches directions. She is moving faster now. For a short woman, she has long strides, and I can barely keep up. She definitely appears to have a purpose.

I start to ask her what’s going on and stop myself, lest I get the button up, buttercup finger-to-the-lips gesture again. Better to just quicken my pace.

She whips around when I come up close behind her and says, “It’s calling me.”

At this point, I know better than to question her and continue to follow. She appears to be moving toward the clubhouse. I glance at my watch. Too late for canasta and too early for mahjong.

She stops before we get to the building, closes her eyes, and shakes her head. “I thought I had something.”

“But you don’t?” I come up alongside her.

“I don’t know. I keep seeing rocks.”

I glance around. There are rocks everywhere, everything from gravel driveways (does gravel count as rocks?) to giant boulders that crisscross the landscape. “You think he buried the golf bag under a rock?”

“A clump of rocks. That’s what keeps coming to me.”

Again, rock outcroppings everywhere—the creek, the trails, the common space, the surrounding hillsides. I can’t tell if there are more rocks here in the park than trees.

“Is there a way to narrow it down?” I say.

“I’m trying but this is where it stopped. This is where I stopped seeing the rocks.”

I shield my eyes with my hand and take a look around.

We’re about ten feet from the clubhouse.

Nearby is the pool. And we’re surrounded by trees, oaks and pines, with rocks of all shapes and sizes.

But nothing that would constitute a cluster, though it’s hard to conceive what a cluster actually is in the context of Misty’s vision.

“Were they big rocks or small?”

“Medium.”

“Okay, that’s progress. At least now we know not to look for boulders. And they were in a cluster? Like a formation?”

“Yes. Kind of. Like a stack.”

“Like in the riddle.” I pull out the notebook again and reread the passage aloud. “ ‘Beneath the dry stacks, where courts reside, my gift to my neglected daughters is tucked inside. ’ Do you think dry stacks refers to rocks?”

She closes her eyes again. “Yes. I’m catching glimpses of it but can’t altogether make it out. I’m sorry, Kennedy.”

“It’s okay. Let’s keep walking. That seems to be working. You lead the way.”

“I have no clue where to go next,” she says but walks back toward the creek.

“Are there any stacks of rocks around here that you can think of?”

She makes a beeline for one of the weathered picnic tables and sits down. “Let me see the riddle again.”

I join her at the table and pass her the notebook.

She studies the poem for a while, her eyes darting across the passage. “ ‘Where courts reside,’ ” she mutters. “What is he talking about? What are the courts?”

“Pickleball courts,” I say almost to myself.

“We don’t have pickleball courts. Tennis courts, though.”

“Are there any rocks over there?” I’m already on my feet. “Come on, let’s look.”

We ditch the trail for the paved road and cut across a couple of the residents’ backyards to save time. One of them has one of those rat dogs (or is it a pet nutria?) that hurls itself against a sliding glass door, yipping obnoxiously at us.

“That’s Nipsy,” Misty says. “He’s harmless.”

“He’s also fugly.”

“Yeah, not the best-looking dog. But Carmen loves him.”

We arrive at the tennis courts to find four men playing doubles. The courts could use new nets and that’s being charitable. The painted white lines are so faded that they’re barely distinguishable and the concrete surface is worn thin. One of the players waves to Misty, who waves back.