Secrets and Ink by Lou Harper

Carson?” he asked.
    I saw with relief it was the most innocent part—the stranger’s head. Then Olly’s words sank in. “What?”
    I must’ve looked as dazed as I felt, because Olly started talking slow. “What do you mean what? I’d recognize Carson anywhere.”
    “Are you sure it’s him?”
    “Sure as RuPaul’s wig is blond. It’s an old one, though—from around the time he was on The Trouble with Larry. Do you remember that show?”
    All I could recall was canned laughter and an overly cute child actor. “Vaguely. How old were you then, ten?”
    “Eleven. I had such a crush on Carson. I cried like a baby when the show got cancelled. After only one season! Travesty. Where did you get this photo?”
    “I found it in an old book I bought at a yard sale.” The lie poured from my lips like honey. I felt pretty certain Olly was wrong this time, and I was most definitely not going to tell him about the rest of the photo. I’d sure remember blowing Clay Carson. Well, I probably would. Possibly. Unless…
    Olly turned the picture over. “You found it torn like this? How strange. I wish I knew the story to it.”
    Not a chance, I thought, but said only, “The world is full of unsolved mysteries.” A sudden inspiration struck me. “You delivered to Carson’s house before, right?”
    “Yes, but—”
    “Give me the address.”
    Okay, so I didn’t think it through. I didn’t even have a plan beyond getting into Clay Carson’s house, and then…not sure what. I’d improvise. Before setting off, I grabbed a couple of FTP paper bags and filled them with random stuff, which I paid for. I picked things that were cheap and bulky.
    The house sat up in the hills, a few miles from the store, but in a whole different neighborhood. In LA, the higher in the hills you lived, the better you’d done for yourself. Carson’s house sat only halfway up—he wasn’t a big movie star yet. The not so humble abode still must’ve cost more than I’d make in my whole life.
    “Delivery from Fred’s Trade Post,” I spoke into the intercom, and the gate buzzed open.
    I parked in front of the two-story Spanish-style building of gleaming white walls and tile roof. It was pretty as a picture. Well-kept palm trees of the short and chubby variety surrounded it, and I had no doubt there was a swimming pool in the back. A Hispanic woman in her forties, holding a feather duster, opened the door. Some stereotypes were simply true. In this town, maids and gardeners were Hispanic, just as manicurists were Vietnamese. It was just the way it was.
    I lifted my bags. “Hi! I brought the groceries.”
    “Take them to the kitchen.” She waved the duster toward the depths of the house.
    I obediently headed that way but veered off my path the moment I got out of her sight. The inside of the house consisted of lots of dark wood, heavy furniture and ornate cast-iron chandeliers. Too oppressive for my taste, but I wasn’t there to grade the interior decorator. I wasn’t sure what I hoped to accomplish, but I thought if I managed to meet Clay Carson face-to-face, it might jog my memory. I might be able to remember if I’d met him before or not. Or ask him if he remembered me. And if not, he got free groceries. No biggie.
    Instead of Carson, I ran into a strange little man in a gray suit with a maroon bow tie. Strands of straw-colored hair clung to his skull, fighting a losing battle against male-pattern baldness. I couldn’t see his eyes behind the tinted glasses, but his lips had a downward curve.
    However, his voice was soft and without hostility when he spoke. “Can I help you?”
    “Uhm, yes, I think I missed the kitchen,” I replied, playing the dumb delivery boy. I gave the bags a heave for emphasis. “This is a big place.”
    His slack features arranged themselves into an expression of joviality. “It’s all relative. Come on, I’ll show you to the ship’s galley. We wouldn’t want you to get completely lost, would we?”
    I