Teo caught my eye and gestured with his head toward the door, then looked back at Foxfeather. “If you hear or remember anything else, do you know how to contact our office?” he asked her.
“Yes,” she said. “Are you leaving?”
“For now,” said Teo.
“Come back if you want sex later.”
I looked at Teo.
“Not a word from you,” he said, and left.
I followed. “How do you know Foxfeather isn’t your Echo?”
“I shook her hand the first time we met; I’d have felt it.”
“What does it feel like?”
“I don’t know, because it wasn’t her. Come on, let’s stop by the bar while we’re on this side of town.”
The Seelie bar wasn’t quite open for business yet, but neither was it locked. I supposed the ward removed worries about people wandering in and looting the place.
Even without all the lights on, the colors of the paint and fabric and glass were breathtaking. The wooden bar, as Foxfeather had suggested, was embellished with new carvings, all of them masterpieces. I’m not sure what Teo expected to find there, though. Foxfeather’s homage to the Very Bad Faun was an impressive work of art, but there were no clues to be found in it. The figure was carved from memory by a woman who admitted to a bad memory, and who had only glimpsed Claybriar’s true face for a moment.
The portrait reminded me of Mr. Tumnus in my childhood copy of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, minus the umbrella and parcels. Hadn’t Tumnus been a traitor too? Despite an elongated jaw, the face in the carving could have passed for human. Foxfeather had carved him with a vapid expression, but I didn’t read much into that. Was he awkward? Yes. Stupid? Not that I could tell.
I snapped a photo of the carving with my phone, for what it was worth, and then we stopped by the sushi place. Jeff, the guy who’d supposedly spoken to the “cop” about John Riven, wasn’t working that day, but I left my number for him and stressed that it was very important. I wasn’t holding my breath for a call back, though. I was not the kind of girl whose number guys wanted.
? ? ?
When I arrived back at the Residence, Tjuan was pacing the living room. “Did you see him?” he greeted us.
“See who?” said Teo.
“Black guy sitting in a car about half a block down,” said Tjuan. “Been there an hour at least.”
“You think he’s staking us out or something?” said Teo dubiously.
“He doesn’t live around here. I went for a run an hour ago, heard his door locks click when I went by. He’s still there.”
“What kind of car?” Teo asked.
“Old Taurus. But I looked in when I heard the locks, and he was dressed like some Beverly Hills bullshit.”
I didn’t get why a nicely dressed black man sitting in a car was a big deal, honestly, but I wasn’t about to tell Mr. Hostility that he was being paranoid, especially since that might be part of his actual diagnosis. I went into the kitchen for a snack while he and Teo hashed it out. I was on my way back to the living room, banana in hand, when a knock sounded on the front door. Tjuan and Teo and I all looked at one another, me with a mouthful of banana.
Tjuan eased his way to the front door and very carefully peeked through the curtain. He turned back to us as though he’d seen a ghost.
“It’s him,” he said. “He’s here.”
“Well,” said Teo, “should we answer it?”
“Fuck that,” said Tjuan. “Locking his doors when I go by. Cheap car, nice clothes. This smells bad. Don’t open the door.” He looked genuinely panicked, more so than I felt the situation warranted.
Teo held his palms out. “Settle down, Tjuan. I think you’re having one of your ‘moments.’ Let me have a look.”
While Teo peeked out the curtain, Tjuan paced and took slow breaths. I felt an unexpected surge of sympathy for him.
“From the clothes,” said Teo, “he’s either selling something or preaching, and either way he can fuck off.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, you two,” I blurted, and made my way to the door, cane thumping on the hardwood, banana still in hand. “Let’s at least find out what he wants. I’m perfectly -capable of slamming the door in his face if he tries to sell me a Bible.”
I stuck the banana in my mouth to free a hand, opened the door, and sighed. There comes a point where surprises start to get tedious. It was the driver of the BMW from the PCH.
I popped the banana out of my mouth. “Relax, guys,” I said over my shoulder. “It’s just the paparazzi.”
“Paparazzi do not ring the doorbell,” said the man on the porch. His voice had an effeminate Ivy League snobbery to it that set my teeth instantly on edge. “I’m Ellis Barnes,” he said. “I expect that name is familiar to you?”
It really wasn’t. “I’ve had a rough morning,” I said, still standing in a small wedge of open door between him and the interior of the house. “I’d appreciate a memory jog.”