Nightmare in the Attic

"Damn that traffic,"  Harriet swore softly under her breath. She was mad at herself for being caught in the traffic-clogged lanes of the Golden Gate Bridge. She should have anticipated the crowded conditions brought on by a foggy Saturday afternoon.

Cars were pouring unto the bridge from several access lanes, jamming the narrow span and slowing the myriad number of vehicles to a crawl.

Typical for a foggy bay-area weekend.

San Franciscans were fleeing the fog-shrouded city for sunnier pastures,  which they hoped to find on the other side of the bay.

The tall bridge towers were swathed in grey fog that swirled and whipped around the overhead cables like a giant's tattered sheets hung out to dry on a gargantuan clothesline.

 "What happened to all that clean white fog we usually get?" she muttered without expecting a reply from her companion.

But Carter responded promptly: "Patience, Love. I bet there is sunlight at the end the tunnel."

It was the Waldo Tunnel he was referring to. She frowned at him and moved the car into the fast lane as she headed toward the gaping mouth of the tunnel. "Ain't that the truth," she agreed inelegantly, "and it never ceases to amaze me."

She revved the powerful engine and overtook a cluster of automobiles that clung together like grapes on a vine. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Carter grip the sides of his seat. She giggled. As usual, she read his mind like an open book. She flashed him a mocking glance accompanied by an impish smirk that signified she knew only too well he was not comfortable when she was at the wheel. Her grin deepened.

As she penetrated Waldo Tunnel, she slowed the car, guiding it carefully through the dimly-lit cavity. Her grin had faded. Whenever she entered a subterranean passage, she panicked. The mouth of the tunnel swallowed cars and trucks as if they were food for the mountain looming above. She was convinced only the car's armor preserved them from being devoured. Somehow her fear of tunnels never ceased and she avoided them whenever possible. Although she loved being on a mountain, she was near panic whenever she passed through one. "What am I? A burrowing animal," she muttered in self-mockery, hoping to hide her phobia from her companion.

With a sigh of relief she emerged on the other side of Waldo Grade. Back in broad daylight, her fears seemed ridiculous. But even now, she couldn't shake the feeling that she had once more escaped Barbarossa the medieval emperor who, legend had it, was a prisoner deep in a mountain, waiting to gather his old comrades to resume his throne and power. Never mind that his mountain was on another continent.

Just as Carter had predicted, the fog had dissipated. Only small puffs of mist floated in the bright-blue sky, evaporating even as she watched. Soon the greedy sun had consumed the last vestiges of the wispy haze.

"Give, Harrie. Why are we going to Napa?  What caused this sudden change in plans?  Now that you have me ensconced in this sardine can, at least show some veracity,"  he grumbled as he tried without much success to stretch his long legs into a more comfortable position.

"Call my Porsche that and out you go, Carter Harris," she threatened with mock severity. "The truth is, Becky invited us to spend the weekend with them. Isn't that enough?"

"Nope. Not when I know you so well. You changed our long-range plans for a weekend in Carmel, just like that."  He snapped his fingers to indicate the swiftness of her decision. "I suspect you had something else in mind."

"Okay, okay. What if I did. I didn't hear you complain when I suggested the switch. Accuse me of an ulterior motive. How about yours?"

"Touche."  He grinned. "So I've got a motive. Searching for a John Holly sculpture is a legitimate reason for going along with a whim."  Not to appear too critical, he put his hand on her shoulder with gentle affection. "Now it's your turn. Fess up, girl. What's your reason?"

She sighed. "Becky is worried sick. One of their apprentices has gone missing. Vanished. Disappeared. Puff. Gone."

At her words, he snatched his hand away as if the gentle touch had singed his fingers. "Nobody just goes puff. Jesus, I knew this was more than a social weekend. My great detective Harriet Wakefield got roped in again." He twisted his body in the low seat. "Is that it?"  he asked in a voice suddenly cold as splintered ice, not even trying to cover his agitation.