In a quiet hurry, she went back for it. Through the dining room, into the room she had no name for, to the double doors that-
Carolyn stared.
There were no doors.
Stuffed and mounted animal heads stared out glassily from above the wide rosewood cabinet that now filled the wall. And among them hung the empty shell of an enormous tortoise, its carved and polished surface glinting in the dim light.
Don't Mention Madagascar by Pat Cadigan
For Allen Varney
I don't actually remember meeting Suzette. It's like we were heading in the same general direction and fell into step together. She knew everybody I knew and vice versa, but amazingly enough we had no ex-boyfriends in common. But we'd never have let a guy come between us. "No penis between us," Suzette used to say with her big old grin. Girlfriend had a great grin.
Suzette was about five-four, five-five, and proportioned like a dancer. I think she had trained as one once but she never said and I never asked. I've never asked a lot of questions; still don't. It's not that I don't care or I'm not interested. I've just always figured that if there's anything I need to know about anyone, they'll tell me, no need to interrogate. Not that I mind answering questions as I also figure if anyone wants to know something, they'll ask; no need to admit to anything prematurely.
Suzette was more forthcoming. She'd drop tantalizing little tidbits into a conversation in an offhand way-like, "Hey, I used to have shoes like those but someone stole them while I was getting defibrillated. I swear, you gotta keep an eye on your stuff every minute in Mongolian emergency rooms." Anyone else, it would have been showing off; Suzette just knew how to take things in stride. I like that in a person.
The only time I ever saw her ruffled was on this one occasion. At the time, she was an office manager for a real estate agency and coming in regularly to the coffee bar. By day I made soy lattés and iced half-caff mochaccinos with a twist, and I studied computer engineering at night school. About 11 o'clock on a Tuesday morning, she showed up looking like a woman who'd just been caught in a high wind-rumpled, dreadlocks practically standing on end, eyes too wide and too bright, and a little out of breath.
I said, "Jeez, what happened?"
"I just quit my job," she said.
"Oh. Well." I knew this couldn't be what had her all freaked. "Are congratulations in order?"
She flicked a glance to my right and I knew The Great Dick Tater had to be giving me the stink-eye because I said something to a customer that wasn't What can I get for you today? The GDT took his assistant manager responsibilities very seriously.
"I don't know what's in order. Everything's out of order." She glanced to my right again; the GDT must have been wearing a face that could sour milk. Soy milk.
"What can I get you today?" I said cheerfully.
Suzette's mouth opened but nothing came out.
"One medium American filter, mellow blend of the day, room for cow," I announced, repeating her order from yesterday. I rattled off the price while I double-cupped it to go, staring the GDT down with my back. Suzette paid and dropped a few coins in the tip jar. All the baristas split the tip jar, something you should keep in mind if you like your overpriced coffee without extras like employee saliva. Suzette was top of the no-spit list (posted conspicuously in the locker room, along with security camera photos to prevent episodes of mistaken identity), a policy that even the GDT respected.
Transaction done, Suzette went upstairs to sit. I gave it five minutes before announcing I was going on my break.
"Jeez, Pearl, what kept you?" Suzette said when I finally joined her.
That annoyed me; she knew damned well what the GDT was like. "Sorry," I said, taking off my apron and folding it up. "I couldn't just drop everything. Then I had to walk up the stairs because the teleporter's broken again."
Suzanne gave me a sharp look at that last.
"Kidding," I said; as she visibly unclenched, I added, "The teleporter's not really broken, I just needed the exercise."
Bam-she was white-knuckled all over her body again, which was a neat trick for someone with skin that dark. "Stop that," she growled. I felt a sudden seriously terrible pain in my upper arm; Suzette had me in a Death Grip of Doom.
"Ow." I thought I could hear bone start to crack within the pulp formerly known as my bicep. "What kind of day are you having?"
"Odd." Her grip loosened.
I pulled away fast before she changed her mind. "How odd?" I asked.
She took something out of her back pocket, unfolded it, put it on the table: a photograph. I winced; folding photographs goes against my personal code of fussy conduct. I'm no tight-ass-I'll tear the tags off pillows, jaywalk, even wear white after Labor Day. But fold a photograph? It's practically a physical pain.
"Look at that." Suzette tapped her finger on it hard. I winced again because touching the surface of a glossy-finish photograph is another of my fussy things.
"What is it?" I said.
"Rolling Stones, late 1960s."
"Really?" I almost forgot how fussy I was. It was an outdoor venue in sort of jungle-ish surroundings and the vantage point was onstage, far to the right. Only Keith Richards and Mick Jagger are in the photo. Keith Richards was still pretty rather than craggy, with the wide-eyed look of someone whose reality is exceeding his dreams, not the sneer of an old-timer who's seen it all. Mick Jagger was singing and pointing at a bunch of screaming girls. One had hoisted herself up on the others and seemed about to climb onto the stage in the hope of touching His Satanic Majesty.
"Where'd you get this?" I said. If it hadn't been for the folding and the fingerprints, the photo could have been taken the day before rather than forty-odd years ago. Heavy on the odd.
"My boss's desk," she said.
I was stunned. Suzette never stole from anyone, no matter how much they might have deserved it.
"He showed it around this morning. Said his uncle took the picture when he was a stringer for some music magazine back in the day."
I looked from the photo to her and back again, frowning. "And that made you, uh… kleptomaniacal?"
She tapped the photo hard again, her finger on the faces of the screaming girls. "See this woman? That's my Aunt Lillian. And the one trying to climb up on the stage?" She moved the photo so it was directly under one of the bright ceiling lights and pointed. "That's my mother."
"Are you sure?" I tried not to laugh and failed.
Suzette tossed her dreads, offended. "What, you think I don't know my own mother when I see her?"
"OK, so it's your mother. Why does that upset you?"
"Dammit, you're not looking!"
"Jeez, just tell me already." I drew back a little. "And then let me know if my head's still there or did you bite the whole thing off."
"Sorry," she said and managed to look it for all of a second. "But that's not my mother back in the day. That's her now."
"Oh?" I picked the photo up and angled it under the light. None of the people with her were very young. They were really cutting loose and that made them seem youthful but they hadn't been girls for some time.
"Or rather, it's how she would look now," she added.
I frowned, not understanding.
"She died when I was sixteen."
"Oh," I said. "Well, then, it can't be her."
"It is."
"OK, have it your way. It's her. Photoshopped. Do you know when your boss met your aunt? And did you know they were such tasteless practical jokers?"
Suzette grimaced impatiently. "I tried calling my Aunt Lillian. Some guy answered, said he's her house-sitter while she's on vacation. She's been gone two weeks and he's not sure exactly when she's coming back."
"Did he say where she went?"
Suzette's dark eyes seem to get even darker. "Where this picture was taken." Tap-tap-tap with her finger again. " Madagascar."