Cranberry Bluff by Deborah Garner Read Free Book Online Page A

to the fishing theme. Every picture hung straight and each trinket – there were not too many, thank heavens! – was dust-free and set apart. That was one of the worst things as far as he was concerned, seeing items lumped together. How people had such poor senses of spatial arrangements baffled him to no end. This was one reason he avoided shopping malls. Those window displays! Didn’t people know how to set items in straight or circular patterns? No one should be allowed to do displays without those perceptions.
    He finished filling his pillbox and snapped the lids of his prescription bottles shut. He replaced them in the briefcase, each one in an elastic-banded spot. Once the bottles were lined up and secured, he pulled out his notebook, opening it carefully to avoid wrinkles or smudges. Pristine paper was all he could tolerate. Even the slightest mark could make him hyperventilate.
    It was clear why the agency had assigned him the case. His observation skills were outstanding. The only directions he’d been given were to observe the innkeeper and take notes. He was instructed not to interact with her any more than necessary, which was fine with him. He didn’t care for conversation. Besides, keeping to himself would surely work to his advantage this time, considering his own agenda.
    He hadn’t written any notes the day before, after arriving at the inn. He’d merely observed. After all, that was his assignment. At night he rarely wrote notes since it interfered with his before bed ritual, which took two hours. One full hour of exercises. Twenty stretches over one toe, twenty stretches over the other. Then twenty knee bends with arms extended to the front, parallel to the ground, followed by twenty waist twists side-to-side, always starting to the right. He repeated the sequence twenty times, then set a timer for twenty minutes of meditation, during which he mentally lined up the items he’d seen that day. Birds, flower pots, red barns or telephone poles, it didn’t matter what the items were. He visualized them and set them in straight lines, in rows of twenty. After this first meditation, he brushed his teeth and said two of the prayers he’d learned as a boy. He repeated the routine, starting with the exercises, right down to a second tooth brushing and two more prayers. Then he slept.
    He looked over the blank page in the composition book and pulled his fountain pen from his pocket. Inscribing the words, “Day One Observations,” he proceeded to describe his first impressions of the innkeeper. She was approximately five foot five inches – how he hated this part, not being able to measure exactly – with brown hair and brown eyes. She was quiet and polite, not too pushy. What a relief that had been! She’d worn a solid, navy blue skirt and a red cardigan sweater with sixteen buttons down the front and one wayward thread hanging from the left seam. He paused and bit his lip, thinking of the dangling thread. He blinked his eyelids twenty times to force himself to refocus.
    He moved on to “Day Two Observations,” detailing the breakfast she had served. She’d worn tan slacks with no cuffs, a black T-shirt and print apron with coral seashells and a rickrack trim. She’d also worn sandals. He disapproved of that, seeing as it was a culinary setting. But his personal feelings were not part of objective observations, so he noted only the tan leather and silver buckle of each sandal. He paused and then added that the salt and pepper shakers on the table had been perfectly aligned. That is until that older woman had knocked a salt shaker over. He shuddered remembering the incident.
    He closed the notebook and put the fountain pen back in his pocket, then removed it, placed it on the desk and then replaced it once again in his pocket. He always felt out of sorts when away from home, when he was forced to change his habits. He tried as best he could to recreate his routine when he traveled, but it was never