“What do Latvian double agents have to do with the suitcase found in a dead woman’s yard?”
“We don’t know where the suitcase was found,” he declared. “Don’t assume anything.”
“Your hero goes to Riga to find his answers?”
“Also, don’t assume he’s the hero. He may be the anti-hero. But yes, he goes to Riga. Just look at this place!”
She did. She was startled by the black church spires rising up outside the taxi windows, and she was startled by Blake. His cheerful immersion in the details of their travel and his commitment to his unformed opus were completely at odds with the Blake Chloe had grown up with. He was confounding. Hannah was no help. She accepted the new Blake the way she had accepted the old Blake, with neutral amusement.
Now, stuck in traffic on the bridge over the Daugava River, Chloe was forced to listen to Mr. Eager plan their itinerary like he was some kind of expert on all things Latvian.
“We’ll go to the Central Market. We can’t leave Riga without seeing it. And the Riga Museum. Also the Opera House. And, Chloe, I can’t wait to try the Black Balsam—how about you? No, I’m not going to tell you what it is. You’ll find out soon enough.” Leaning forward between the seats, he poked her in the arm. “There’s also a bakery that’s to die for, you know how much you like pastries, wait, I’m looking for the name of it …”
Hannah, of course, in her dry way, rained on all things, especially the bakery. “Well, it can’t be any better than the bakery in Bangor, near UMaine,” she said. “They have the most divine cream puffs. I drool when I think about them, and I don’t usually like sweets. And can the Riga Museum really compare to the Field Museum in Chicago? Same with the Opera House. It might be okay by Latvian standards, but compared to Carnegie Hall? And you know what I think? Beer is beer. Heineken, Bud, Black Balsam. It’s just beer, Blake. Plus Chloe doesn’t even like beer. Let’s not talk about it like it’s Dom Pérignon.”
Mason, looking and sounding annoyed, asked Hannah if she’d ever actually had Dom Pérignon.
“I’m just saying,” said Hannah.
“Didn’t think so,” said Mason.
Blake didn’t care. Sitting between Hannah and Mason in the back, he leafed through his notebook, his bedhead banging the roof of the cab. “Chloe,” he asked absent-mindedly, “when did you take Hannah to a Bangor bakery? You had cream puffs and didn’t tell me? Were they really that good?”
Chloe was at a loss. On the radio, the Latvian music, full of balalaikas and cymbals, syncopated through the cab.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t remember.” She stared at the outlines of the city through the window. “Moody’s aunt lives so far outside Riga. When would we even get to a bakery?”
“Don’t worry,” Blake said. “We’ll find a way. This bakery is a must-see.”
Chloe was hungry, sleepy, slightly irritated by the long ride, the slow-moving traffic. “Well, it definitely can’t be tomorrow,” she said. “We have to go to Liepaja.” The air whistled out of her balloon. Across the wide river, the Old City tempted her, its blue and pink walls, its green and yellow roofs, the colored stone, the purple domes, the pale light of the late afternoon northern sun. Riga seemed to be holding its breath before the raucous Saturday night ahead. Like Chloe was holding her breath before the next twenty days, before the rest of her life.
“We don’t all have to go to Liepaja,” said Blake.
Hannah heartily agreed.
“Chloe, I’ll go with you if you want,” Mason said from the back seat.
“I thought we would all go,” said Chloe. “Wasn’t that the plan? To live through everything together, like always?”
“We don’t have enough time.” That was Blake. “Hannah will go with you, Haiku. Mase has to come with me. We’re going to the war museum, bro, the Powder Tower. Manly things that dainty girls aren’t interested in. We’re writing a story. This is the work part of our trip. While Chloe is in Liepaja looking for a boy, you and I have to find nefarious goings-on in Riga.”
“No!” said Hannah. “Why do I have to go to Liepaja? I’d rather go to Riga with you. But not to a bakery. What’s the point of going to a bakery if Chloe’s not coming with us? I’m not going to eat any of that cream-filled starch. I’ll be five hundred pounds before the trip is over.” Spoken like a true size 2.
Chloe couldn’t help herself. “If you don’t like the pastries, Hannah,” she said, “then why were you wolfing down so many of them at the Bangor bakery?”
“She makes a good point, turtle, why?” said Blake.
“I was much thinner then.”
As if that answered anything.
“And what do you mean you’re not coming with me?” Chloe knew she sounded petulant. “Somebody has to come with me.”
“Yeah, Hannah,” Blake said. “Chloe can’t find a boy on her own.” He pulled Chloe’s hair. “She needs help.”
“Leave me alone,” Chloe said.
“I’ll come with you, Chloe,” said Mason.
“You can’t, bro. What did I just say?”
They were finally out of the city, over the bright, freshly minted bridge. The countryside went from urban to rural in the space of two city blocks and a farm. Inside the cramped cab, their tired chatter faded.
“What’s the name of the town we’re going to again?”
“Carnikava,” Blake said. “Chloe, why do I have to tell you where you’re going?”
“Not Carnikava,” the cabbie said. “Tsarnikava.”
Blake studied the map. “Says here Carnikava.”
“Tsarnikava!” the cabbie yelled.
After five tense minutes, Chloe spoke again. “How far is … Tsarnikava from here?”
“Twenty kilometers!” the cabbie said. “Maybe … twenty … FIVE!”
“Thank you!” she shouted back. She glanced back at Mason. His eyes were closed. He hated stridency, yelling. How did one yell thank you in Latvian? You’d think Chloe would’ve thought to pack a Latvian–English dictionary. Just to learn how to say thank you, or where is …? or how much?
“Paldies,” said Blake.
Oh, great. So he knew how to say thank you. She retreated into herself, her gaze on the fields. How could her grandmother have an aunt still living? It made no sense. “Chloe, did you say your family were bee farmers?” Blake asked.
“I never said that.” Did she say that? She couldn’t remember.
“You did say that. I bet they have awesome honey. I can’t wait.”
“Did you say beer farmer?” Mason deadpanned.
“Yes, that’s right, bro. Beer farmer. You got it.” They started roughhousing over Hannah. Chloe felt better. Maybe they could leave the aunt’s house after one night, stay in a Riga hostel? She thought this, but then she checked the meter. The price was ratcheting up like a champion swine for sale at the Fryeburg Fair.
47.