by CJ Love
But it has been a stressful half-hour.
The Cheery Cherry smelled of cream and sugar and chocolate and bananas. Black and white tiles covered the floor like a chessboard. The ceiling was sculpted, and if a person stared at it long enough, the sculpting looked like scoops of vanilla ice cream. Pink awnings jutted from the white and pink-striped walls.
“I haven’t seen you for a while,” the teenaged girl behind the counter said to Delia. She had stringy blond hair and a bad complexion. “Did you finally get tired of ice cream?”
Blasphemy!
“No,” Delia told her, stepping up to the sneeze glass and gazing at the rainbow of ice creams in buckets beneath her nose. “I’ve just been trying to cut back.”
The girl was kitty-corner to her, and she swept her brown eyes over Delia’s hips. “Are you eating something else instead?” She chewed her gum a second longer and then blew a decent-sized bubble.
What the…? Too far, girly!
That is not what she said. Instead, she explained, “Look, I’m in phase two of my emotional eating routine. I’m not eating it every day, but only when I need extra emotional support.”
The girl nodded without a lot of interest. “The usual then?” she asked, grabbing an ice cream scoop from one of the water bins.
“Yes,” Delia answered, packing a lot of emotion behind the word.
Since she’d already pumped gas, Delia opened the chocolate swirl and took two bites while driving the interstate. She flipped the lid back on and pulled into the gravel parking lot of the Boroughbridge House. The apartment building was a three-and-a-half-story structure painted clay red with green window trim. The fire escapes were bright blue.
Grabbing her ice cream and purse, Delia got out of the SUV and started across the parking lot —just as her downstairs neighbor, Olivia Earl, whipped her gunmetal gray Jeep next to Freddy. For the last two days, Olivia had carried around a giant agave cactus in the cargo area of the vehicle.
Nobody in the building said anything about it, but Delia thought there was a shared thought of, what the hell?
Olivia’s Jeep had no door panels or roof on it, ever. So when it rained or snowed, the woman used the vehicle as-is. Delia’s most significant question was how does she drive and smoke at the same time? And how does the cactus feel about getting ash all over its thorns?
Voices from the right side of the building caught her attention. She recognized Thomi’s first. She was on the fire escape, on the second-floor landing, and she laughed at whatever Eddie had just said. They came down the steps together then, holding hands.
For a brief moment while driving home, Delia had wondered if Mate Oswald had gotten to Thomi and killed her. That’s why her bestie hadn’t come to the grand opening. But the young woman certainly seemed healthy now. Actually, she glowed with her love-light turned on high. Thomi had swept back her hair into a thick yellow headband that matched her blouse.
I should just ask her why she didn’t come to the bakery … no, she obviously forgot.
Still, this was important to Delia, and if she didn’t say something, she’d grow bitter over it and carry a hurt feeling around forever.
Changing directions, she met the girl and Eddie at the bottom of the fire escape.
“Oh, Delia, there you are,” Thomi said, her pale brown eyes twinkling bright with love-dew. Yes, love-dew. It was a thing.
“I missed you today,” Delia told her.
There, that wasn’t so hard. I can confront when necessary.
“What?”
“The bakery opened today,” Delia reminded her.
“Oh yeah,” she said. “How’d it go?”
“Good, really good…” Ask her why she didn’t come! “We had quite a crowd.”
“Wonderful.” Thomi stepped onto the gravel and patted Delia’s forearm. “Listen, Eddie and I are off to Rocco’s. Will you tell me all about it later?”
“Sure, of course,” she said, stepping aside to let Eddie off the fire escape. “Have fun.”
And off they skipped toward Eddie’s Mustang.
They didn’t actually skip, but they might as well have for all the teetering they did between them.
She’s in love. Eventually, Thomi will snap out of it and remember other people love her too. And no feeling sorry for yourself, Delia Grace! Off you go to eat ice cream.
Feeling a ball of dullness in the pit of her stomach, she walked to the front of the building and through the double door entry. She’d go out of her way to climb the stairway inside the building. The fire escape would’ve been a quicker commute, but Delia never took it. That was because she always liked to give herself the best statistical chance of survival. Go up solid concrete stairs or go up rickety metal steps that might come loose of their bearings? Did she want the fastest route or the one she might die on?
Her apartment was on the half-fourth floor of the building in the four hundred square foot attic space. She’d lived at Boroughbridge house for nearly five years now and loved her spot high in the trees. Behind the building was Spotted Duck Woods.
Someone came up the steps behind Delia.
Mate?
She turned around on the second-floor landing, heart leaping into her throat, and about to lose her ice cream.
But it was only Christopher Cornwall coming up the steps. He was probably in his forties and had pale brown hair that curled around his ears like tidal waves. Right in front of him were two Corgi dogs. Chris called to them, “Excuse us, Delia. We’ve talked about this. Stella, Winston, stop running.”
Delia nodded at them, back to the wall, death grip on her ice cream purchase, and allowed them to run past her up the next set of steps.
She was on the third floor when she heard someone crying. As she came around the corner, she saw Sanya Ashbury trying to stick her key into the lock on her door.
Oh, geez.
It was odd to see her cry, though. She was more of an I’ll-give-you-a-reason-to-cry type. She was Jeanette Loring’s sister.
Would it be rude if Delia slipped behind Sanya the same way she’d stayed out of the dog’s path, by keeping her back to the wall and scooching along? After all, her apartment door was only four steps away.
Suddenly, Sanya lifted her face to the ceiling, cursed a stream of blue words, and knocked her head against the door.
Delia’s mouth dropped, and before she could stop herself, she asked, “Is everything alright, Sanya?”
The woman nearly jumped out of her green yoga pants. Sanya was somewhere in her forties, looked to be in her early thirties. She had her ombre-colored hair up in a ponytail and had very dark brown eyes. Every inch of her was muscle because Sanya was into cross-fit training. She lifted truck tires.
I can’t lift bicycle tires.
“Nothing is wrong with me,” Sanya said, staring at the door straight ahead of her.
Delia shrugged. It was a relief to move on. “Okay.”
Sanya laid her head on the door again —actually right on the peephole. It’d leave an indention if she didn’t move her head soon. “I didn’t think I’d miss him.”
Her husband, Reg Ashbury, had been murdered a couple of months ago. Actually, someone tossed him out of one of Delia’s windows. At the time, Delia thought Sanya could’ve been the murderer because she never seemed to like her husband much. It was pretty hard to imagine her missing him.
“Do you mean Reg?”
“Of course, Reg,” Sanya said. “He was definitely a dork, but…”
“You loved him.”
She nodded and finally pulled away from the door. Turning, she leaned against the wood and caught Delia’s eyes.
Delia’s eyes caught something, too: Sanya’s earrings. They were silver and beautiful and shaped like daggers. And that pretty much summed up who Sanya was as a person.
It’s almost too on-the-nose.
She said, “Every time I see a news story on the television, I think of him and how he’d come up with a theory on what really happene
d.”
Delia let out a breathy laugh. “Yes, Reg and his theories.”
Sanya rubbed her eyes with her finger pressed in hard. “I can’t get my door opened. I never needed the key when Reg was here. He was always home before me and usually waiting right here.”
Delia nodded and felt a rush of sympathy for the widow. Reaching forward, she took the key ring. “Here, let me try.” She stepped forward and inserted the key into the lock. The door opened quickly. “There you go,” she said and handed Sanya the key set.
“That was very kind of you, Delia. Thank you.” She started forward but then paused. She blinked her dark eyes several times and then cleared her throat. “I’ve not always been nice to you. I’m sorry.”
Delia frowned. “Thank you for saying that.”
Sanya waved her hand toward the living room. “Do you want to come in for a glass of wine?”
“Oh no,” Delia said, a tight feeling searing through her chest. They might be having a moment —at the moment —but Sanya Ashbury was not someone with whom to make friends.
I do need some new ones, however. But, Sanya? Should I ask her to the movies?
Delia held up her package. “I’ve got to put my groceries away and feed Clawdius. But, thank you.”
“Right,” Sanya said, as though she knew it was only an excuse. “Maybe next time.”
“Yes, next time,” Delia told her and moved toward the last steps to her apartment. She felt sweaty and guilty —and greatly relieved.
I wish you all the best, Sanya. But you are bossy and deceitful.
Opening her own door, Delia set her bags down and then closed and locked the door. Glancing toward the fire escape exit, she saw the lock was set —as was the kitchen window.
From the spot by the door, she could see into her tiny bedroom. If Mate were hiding there, Delia would be able to see him. The room barely had space for the twin bed and bookshelf. But the bathroom…
She’d left the door cracked that morning with just enough space for Clawdius to get into his litter box.
But what if Mate hid behind the door now, waiting for Delia to settle in with her ice cream before springing out at her?
Something rubbed against her leg.
Her brain knew it was Clawdius, but Delia’s body reacted as though a shark swam through the apartment and grazed its teeth against her shin. Goosebumps ran the length of her shoulders and then spread across her scalp. A shock of electricity bolted along with the entire network of her nervous system, and she froze, except her lips. She whispered, “Behold, Clawdius.”
It was how she always greeted the orange tabby cat whether she was terrified or not.
He greeted her back with a low-throated growl.
Delia’s eyes grew wide, and she glanced at Clawdius.
His big green eyes glanced at the ice cream bag.
“You have to help me open the bathroom door if you want some of this,” she whispered, shaking the bag a little.
Wait!
She needed a weapon.
There was nothing much to use. Chenille pillows decorated the loveseat near the window. There was a lamp on the table, but it was more of a plastic stick with a shade. There were knives in the kitchen, but Delia had always heard whatever weapon a person used to defend themselves could be turned against them.
She spied a BIC lighter-wand on the kitchen island, right next to a Bahama Breezes candle. Grabbing the lighter, she faced the bathroom door again. She pressed the button and was ready to pull the trigger of it.
WHY are these things so hard to light?
With her free hand, she put her fingers on the door…
Tried to light the wand again…
She pushed open the door.
Chapter 3
“As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport.”
The stupid wand wouldn’t light, so Delia threw it into the bathroom, sans fire.
The thing clattered off the toilet and bounced off the tub.
Clawdius reacted the same as Delia by running across the living room and standing on the loveseat.
She grabbed her heart and let out a little laugh. “Okay, we’re alive.” Stepping off the loveseat, she straightened her gingham blouse and rolled her head to lessen the tension in her neck. “Now we can eat ice cream.”
After two pints of Chocolate Swirl, Delia sat back on the loveseat and put one booted foot on the coffee table. Clawdius had long ago finished his tiny cup of vanilla and now waited patiently by the kitchen window to go outside.
“You have to wait,” she told him. “I can’t move yet.” Delia hadn’t eaten that much ice cream in a while. She didn’t feel so full, however, as she was disgusted with herself. Ice cream was like a one-night stand. It promised so much love and acceptance, but once all the gorging was over, there was nothing but shame. Delia couldn’t even look at the cartons or spoon.
She stared at the ceiling instead. Who knew how the day would end up? She’d been so excited about opening King Lears and working with Juliet and Paris. Now Mate was on the loose, and Sanya had tried to ply her with wine.
Thomi hadn’t shown up and never looked at her text.
Not only did her stomach hurt, now her chest hurt.
My mind is clear and alert…
The thought had nothing to do with what Delia had been worrying over; it was just something she repeated to herself when she felt overwhelmed by the grand opening or when she dealt with family dysfunctionalities.
My mind is clear and alert.
Yes, by God, it is!
Delia stood, picked up the empty cartons, and moved toward the kitchen. Once there, she lifted the window.
Clawdius tried to get out before the sash was far enough up and then clawed the wood to stay on the sill.
“Where’s the fire?”
The cat righted himself and jumped onto the fire escape railing.
“Stay out of Mr. Williams’ apartment,” she reminded him. The last time Clawdius slipped through Mr. William’s window, he somehow got Mrs. Williams’ urn open and then sneezed into the ashes.
After watching Clawdius for a moment, Delia’s eyes drifted to the dark clouds moving in from the west. She’d been so busy recently that she hadn’t had time to watch weather reports. Her eyes dropped toward the parking lot. Had she closed Freddy’s windows?
Yes, they were closed … why is Eddy’s car still in the parking lot? He owned a relatively new black Mustang, and he’d parked it next to Thomi’s Aztec.
Delia leaned to the left.
Yes, they were still in the car. The back of Eddie’s dark head moved as he adjusted his position. It must be a pretty intense conversation to stop him from starting the car and driving to the restaurant. Indeed, they could talk on the way or converse over dinner.
Was he declaring his undying love? Was Thomi? They both acted lovesick.
Thomi more so, though.
She’d fallen fast for Eddie; had only seen him once and was online searching for elopement flights. True, Eddie was good-looking with his washboard abs and steady eye contact, but so what?
Why don’t I like him?
Delia was a red-blooded female and Eddie had rescued her from certain death. That’s what infatuations were made of, so why wasn’t she crushin’?
Because of the umbrella.
Delia nodded and threw the ice cream carton into the trashcan beside her leg.
That’s why I don’t like you fancy Eddie with your fancy umbrella.
Eddie Chester was a man of style, and he owned an expensive black umbrella with a wolf’s-head handle. Or, maybe it was a dog’s-head. The thing’s cover wasn’t the usual fabric wrap but an etched cylinder made of chrome or possibly aluminum. But that wasn’t what was so fascinating about it; it was the way he used it.
The first time Delia saw Eddie, he opened it and shut it just after he spoke to Reg Ashbury. The following day, Reg was poisoned and thrown out of a window.
My window.
And what about Alfie Clemmons? Mate said he hadn’t killed Alfie, yet Alfie died of methanol poisoning, too. Thomi’s dad, Louie Edgar, was left for dead and injected with methanol.
But, had one man done all of that, or had one gang done all of that?
Oh, oh, and there’s the matter of Eddie’s name.
He presented himself as Eddie Chester when his name was actually Edmund Gloucester. Delia knew his proper name because she’d slipped into the Mustang one late night and saw Eddie’s car registration.
Which makes me sound like a criminal.
Turning, she shut the window and moved back toward the loveseat.
Edmund Gloucester… who are you exactly?
Was he the leader of the Bloods, or Crips, or a knight in shining armor who took a knife in the shoulder for a woman who lived in the same apartment building?
I’m going with the leader of the Crips.
* * *
Delia had gotten spoiled, sleeping in until seven and then heading to the bakery. Now that it was open, she had to get out of bed by four o’clock and be at work by four-thirty.
Clawdius waited for her outside the apartment door. He smelled of hotdogs and men’s cologne.
“You slept with Titus, didn’t you?”
Titus was her downstairs neighbor who played the banjo when he wasn’t at work at Sam’s Club. Delia was pretty sure the guy thought Clawdius was his cat. She saw him carry cat litter up the stairs and Temptation cat treats.
Apparently, we have joint custody. And, if that’s true, I’d like vet support payments, please.
It was less than a five-minute drive to Bloomfield Hatch.
The smell hit her when Delia opened the back door: Cinnamon, sugar, yeast … ah, that new bakery smell.
For several days, she and Becca had baked bread and cookies and cakes. She’d made a list yesterday of the treats she wanted to start this morning. Once King Lears began to receive steady orders from restaurants, she’d hire another baker to keep up the donuts and cookies. Delia would always be the one to make the hot foods.
