Welcome to Blissville

by Walker, Aimee Nicole

  John and I smeared the ointment beneath our nostrils, stepped into blue booties, and slid our hands into black latex gloves before we entered the premises. We found Mr. Robertson dead at his kitchen table. It looked like he had been reading the newspaper and drinking coffee when he died. If not for the bullet hole in his skull, it would’ve looked like he had a heart attack. There was no weapon in sight, no casing on the kitchen floor anywhere, and I saw where someone had dug the bullet out of the wall where it landed after exiting Robertson’s head.

  “This looks eerily similar to Nate Turner’s and Owen Smithson’s death,” Dorchester said. Both the club owner and the man who had sent him the harassing emails were killed the same way. The killer left behind no trace evidence for us to collect by removing the bullet fragment and shell casings from all three scenes.

  “Call Detective Jade and let him know that we’re not going to make it to Cincinnati today,” I told Dorchester as I began taking pictures with my phone. I would delete them later once they’d been uploaded to my computer and tagged as evidence. The sheriff’s department would take official crime scene photos, but I wanted my initial findings documented. “Let them know the latest development and get them to dig into McCarren. Does the man want this land enough to kill for it?”

  Dorchester made the call then we waited for the coroner to arrive before we touched anything. An odd thought struck me while I was looking around the kitchen. The room was old and outdated, but it was spotless except for the victim at the kitchen table. It was in direct contrast from the dilapidated exterior of the home. I looked in the living room we entered moments before and noticed it was in the same condition. The furniture was shabby looking, but there was no sign of the dust or clutter I would’ve expected from a man who was practically a hermit.

  “Do you find it odd how clean this house is?” I asked Dorchester. “Doesn’t that seem atypical of a non-conforming, anti-social existence?” I expected to see walls of news clippings about conspiracies or alien sightings.

  “Now that you mention it,” he replied. “It’s a cleaner house than I’d expect a bachelor to live in, but he’s former military, and they tend to keep that tidiness with them for their entire lives.”

  It was possible that Robertson kept his house tidy. “Or, he had hired help,” I commented.

  “It’s not public knowledge if that’s the case, but that’s what you’d expect from a very private man,” he replied.

  The county coroner showed up and took his photographs of the kitchen and the victim before he transported the body to the county morgue. A few other members of the sheriff’s department joined us, and we combed the house looking for clues. The rest of the house was as tidy as the living room and kitchen except for one spare bedroom that Robertson used for storage. Inside, there were boxes and boxes of old newspapers and personal files filled with paperwork. It was going to take us forever to go through the files to see if they contained anything pertinent to our investigation.

  The deputies who showed up to assist us carted the boxes to their vehicles and took them back to the sheriff’s office to store until we had a chance to look at them. While searching the living room, I found Mr. Robertson’s checkbook in the drawer of the end table next to the threadbare couch. I found a weekly entry in his register for an Alice Davenport.

  “You know her?” I asked Dorchester.

  “She cleans houses for a living,” he replied, confirming my earlier suspicion. He raised a brow and tilted his head slightly to the right. “I’ve heard about your history with housekeepers, so maybe I should take the lead when we talk to her.” I appreciated Dorchester’s attempt at humor, but I didn’t think anything could put a smile on my face that day. I was wrong. My cellphone vibrated with a text from Josh.

  I love you.

  I found myself smiling amidst the cloak of sorrow and despair that clung to the air around me. I repeated those same words back to Josh in a text. Word must’ve reached Josh already, and he must’ve heard I was on the scene. I felt his lightness and warmth surround my heart, and it grounded me.

  “Let’s go find Alice Davenport,” I told Dorchester. “I’ll let you take the lead just to be safe.”

  Word of bad news traveled faster than the speed of light in a small town. I had known that my whole life—or soon as I was old enough to realize that my mom would know that I was sent to the principal’s office before I even reached his office—and yet it still managed to catch me by surprise at times. There were probably only three houses on that long stretch of the rural route that Lawrence Robertson lived and one of the residents just happened to have an appointment at my salon that day.

  “I saw a coroner’s van at Lawrence Robertson’s house while I was heading to town,” Sheila Jones said from Heather’s chair. “Bless his heart; I hope he didn’t suffer too terribly because Lord knows he suffered enough during his lifetime.” To the best of my knowledge, no one truly knew the man, and it felt like Sheila’s words were more like posturing than a genuine remark.

  Lawrence Robertson reminded me of the next-door neighbor to Kevin in the first Home Alone movie. He had a solemn, almost scary countenance about him. As a child, I was afraid of him, and I thought his house belonged in an episode of Scooby Doo, but as an adult, I got more of a lonely vibe from him instead of spooky. I decided to tune out the gossip about the death of a sad man to focus on the contrary head of hair I was working.

  “Probably a heart attack or a stroke,” another client remarked.

  “It could’ve been,” Sheila answered, “but I’m not sure why Josh’s boyfriend would’ve been on the scene if it had been natural causes.”

  That got my attention and my sadness over Mr. Robertson dying alone transferred to my good-looking man who had to deal with the ugliest aspects of life daily. The urge to reach out to him was strong, but I shelved it until I finished with my client. I sent him a brief text during the few minutes between clients so he’d know I was thinking about him. I hadn’t expected a quick reply, but I received one. I love you! There was no way in hell I’d ever grow tired of hearing those words come from his mouth or seeing them in a text.

  Just that little contact with him was enough to help me push my sadness away and get back to work. I had a long day ahead of me, and a sad Josh created sad-looking hair, and that would never do. I pulled myself up by my Andrew Christians, though not hard enough to give myself a wedgie, planted a smile on my face, and greeted my next client.

  My day hummed along like a well-oiled machine with little disruption to my carefully crafted control until he walked into my salon. The wind had kicked up just as he opened the door, blowing his long locks around his head like he was shooting a shampoo commercial or vying to be the next book cover model sensation like that dude plastered all over the bodice-rippers my mom used to read when I was growing up. I got my first boner looking at his chiseled chest and square jaw while imagining how silky his hair would feel as I brushed it. What was that model’s name? Fabio!

  Fabio 2.0, as I thought of him, approached Chaz with a winsome smile on his face. He extended his hand toward Chaz, who simply stared at the man for a few awkward seconds before he snapped out of it and shook his hand. I had never wished to be a woman before, but I surely could’ve used a pair of “mama’s ears” right then to hear what they were discussing. Then I saw Chaz turn his attention to the computer as he looked through the calendar to book the new neighbor an appointment. I secretly hoped that Chaz wasn’t booking the client under my name, but I had a sneaky feeling I wouldn’t be so lucky. There was something about the guy, a vibe he gave off or something, that made me uncomfortable.

  I wasn’t the only one looking at the newcomer; every eye in the room was on him. He must’ve felt our laser-like focus on him because he turned away from Chaz and looked around the room that had suddenly grown quiet beneath his attention. He smiled uncomfortably at the attention he received and offered a small wave to the crowd. Welcome to small town America, buddy!


  “I need a big cock!” Savage’s loud squawk broke the awkward lull that had descended upon us. Fabio’s eyes widened until I thought they’d pop from their sockets.

  “Dirty Bird,” I yelled back at Savage automatically.

  “Dirty Bird,” he repeated.

  “I think I’m going to like living here,” the stranger said. I couldn’t tell what color eyes the man had, other than they were light, and focused on me. I wasn’t on the market for anything he had to offer me, and I’d gladly let him know at my first opportunity.

  “It’s unforgettable,” Chaz replied then handed the stranger an appointment card. “We’ll see you soon.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” the man said to Chaz without looking away from me.

  The entire exchange was weird and unsettling, so I returned my focus back to my client. The chatting and gossiping resumed as soon as Fabio 2.0 left. “Do you have any Easter plans?” I asked Mrs. Adams.

  “The children and grandchildren will be coming over after church for dinner and an Easter egg hunt,” she replied. I honestly tried to pay attention as she prattled on about the food she planned on making for the event, but I couldn’t stop wondering what Fabio’s purpose was going to be in my life. I didn’t believe in coincidence and the man showing up at my salon the day after he moved in next door reeked of something more than happenstance.

  I thought I nodded and made the appropriate comments to Mrs. Adams during our mostly one-sided conversation until Meredith told me otherwise during our short afternoon lunch break in the kitchenette where we scarfed our carryout food from the diner that Chaz kindly picked up for us.

  “She’s talking about serving fried frog legs, and you made these yum sounds in your throat like you couldn’t wait to jump all over that,” Meredith said smugly. “Seems to me you were a little distracted by the visitor to the salon.”

  “I don’t like that guy,” I said emphatically.

  “What did he ever do to you?” Chaz asked, clearly confused by my attitude. It was one that they hadn’t seen since I fell hard for Gabe.

  “Seriously, sugar. Where’s the hostility coming from?” Meredith asked.

  “It’s just a feeling I had when I watched him move in yesterday.” I closed my eyes and tried to pull up the exact emotions that washed over me, but the only one I could grab onto was fear. I was afraid of the stranger even though I didn’t know why. “I just feel like this guy is bad news. Please tell me he didn’t book an appointment with me,” I told Chaz.

  Chaz grimaced then said, “Um… I can tell you what you want to hear or I can tell you the truth. Which is it?” he asked. Meredith laughed while I groaned.

  “How soon?” I asked, referring to the remark that Chaz made to the man about seeing him soon.

  Chaz’s shoulders hunched up and he cringed before answering. “Next week.”

  “How?” I demanded. I was always booked up for nearly two months in advance.

  “Mrs. Melanski had to reschedule because she’s having a procedure on her bunions,” Chaz answered.

  “Dude! Don’t say the word bunion while I’m eating,” Meredith told our friend.

  “You just said it,” Chaz replied saucily.

  “No, I just repeated it and only after I held off the urge to throw up in my mouth,” she retorted.

  “Kids, can we please focus here?” I asked, raising my voice so they could hear me over their bickering.

  “Ohhh, I love it when Jazz goes all daddy on us,” Chaz said excitedly to Meredith.

  “Me too. I notice he’s getting better at it now that Gabe’s in his life. I bet they role play,” Meredith mock-whispered to Chaz behind her hand.

  “I think you’re onto something, doll. Notice how that bird screams ‘Big Daddy’ all the time now. Jazz blames that on Gabe, and we thought it was because he was teaching him new words. Oh, Gabe was, alright, but not in the way we first thought.” Meredith leaned forward, propped her elbow on the table, and rested her chin in her palm. “Come on, sugar; you can tell us the truth. You’re the ‘Big Daddy,’ aren’t you?”

  Chaz and Meredith burst into laughter as if that was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. Had I been in a better mood, I might’ve laughed along with them. The private joke was on them anyway because I had tapped that sexy ass and owned it the previous night. I felt damn proud of myself that I could please my man the way I did. They, however, would never know that because it wasn’t something I’d share with them. What Gabe and I had was too special to blab about like some lame-ass locker room story swap. Their laughter faded and the smiles slid off their faces when they realized I wasn’t joining in. I could see the concern that they’d offended me written on their faces.

  “I’m not upset,” I told them. “Not with you, anyway. It’s that new guy, Fabio.” That got them laughing again.

  “That’s a good one,” Meredith replied. She started mimicking the model’s lines from his famous butter commercials.

  “Emory has similar looks to Fabio but his hair is darker, and he’d need to gain about thirty or forty pounds of muscle to reach Fabio’s bulk,” Chaz added with a snort.

  “Emory? Is that his name?” I asked

  “Emory Jackson,” Chaz answered. “You know, he has this weird way of looking at you like he sees inside your mind.”

  “Yes!” I exclaimed. “That’s what I felt when he caught me being nosey when he moved in yesterday. It felt like he was looking into my soul from so far away.”

  “Just how long were you creeping on the guy?” Meredith asked. I could only shrug because I wasn’t sure how long I stood there trying to guess who was moving in. “Is it possible you gave him the wrong idea with the amount of attention you bestowed upon him?”

  “I don’t think so,” I replied, but I guessed it was possible.

  “You’ll just have to set him straight if he gets out of line,” Meredith said sternly.

  Chaz snorted and added, “Or let Detective Big Guns do it.” I pinned Chaz with a look that said only I got to call Gabe cutesy names.

  Break time ended and we went back to the main salon area. For the first time in months, I felt like my life was spiraling out of control. I took stock of all the amazing things I had in my life and told myself I was absolutely ridiculous to fret. What kind of trouble could Emory Jackson possibly cause for us? A delivery man came through the salon door before I could answer myself, and I had to admit it was a welcome distraction from my thoughts, but not because the guy had any interest in me. Nope! He only wanted to give his package to Meredith.

  My heart felt lighter when his big blue eyes locked on Meredith, who tried her damnedest to act like she didn’t know he was there. Usually, Chaz handled all the deliveries for us, but this guy walked right past him and headed straight for Mere. I couldn’t keep the smile off my face as Meredith carried on with styling her client’s hair like she didn’t know he was standing a foot away from her with his heart in his hands.

  “Excuse me, miss,” he said softly. Thank God, the poor guy got past his stuttering whenever he was near her.

  Meredith let out a resigned sigh and turned to face the guy. She pointed her comb in Chaz’s direction and said, “He signs for our deliveries.” She’d told him that every time he delivered to our salon.

  “Yes, but this package is just for you,” he told her. He set the package on her counter but made no attempt to leave afterward.

  I’m not proud of the snort that slipped out until I saw the irritation on Meredith’s face when she glared at me. I wasn’t the only one intrigued by the interaction between Meredith and Delivery Dude. Her client watched the byplay raptly with shrewd speculation glistening in her dark, intelligent eyes. It was too bad for Meredith that her client happened to be her mother when Dewey Eyes showed up.

  Mama Richmond turned her salon chair around and looked the guy up and down. “Who’s your friend, darling girl?”

  “He’s not my friend, Mama,” Meredith said between gritted teeth.


  “What’s your name, handsome?” Willa asked, even though she could see his embroidered name on the chest of his uniform. It was hard to miss with the way his shirt clung to his muscular torso.

  “My name is Harley, ma’am,” he said politely. “Harley Sutherland.”

  “Respectful,” Willa said. She extended her hand to him and said, “I’m Willa Richmond and this one’s,” she hooked her thumb in Meredith’s direction, “mother.”

  “I was going to guess older sister perhaps,” Harley said when he shook her hand. “You don’t look old enough to be Miss Richmond’s mother.” Oh, the guy was laying it on thick.

  Willa giggled and covered her hand over her heart. “A charmer too. Snatch him up,” she said to Meredith in her no-nonsense voice.

  “Mama, I don’t think this is the time or place…”

  “You’re not getting any younger,” Willa told her. “So, Harley, do you like children?”

  “I adore kids,” he replied with a smile. “I have two nieces and three nephews. I’m their favorite person on the planet.”

  “You hear that?” Willa asked her. “He loves kids.”

  “Mama.” Meredith put so much pleading in that single word.

  “Child, don’t even act like you weren’t expecting that package today at work instead of home. You’ve been tracking the progress on your phone app thingamabob and don’t think I didn’t notice that you wore that powder blue top that everyone says looks so good with your complexion.” Harley beamed with joy at the prospect of Meredith wearing a special shirt for him.

  “And you,” Willa said, returning her attention back to Harley. “Are you serious about wanting to date my daughter? Are you one of those asshat white boys who doesn’t want their white friends and family to know that they’re dating a black girl?” Willa wanted to know. “She’s had enough of that bullshit. So, if you’re not man enough to want to show her off on your arm then walk away right now.”

  “I’d be honored to have her on my arm,” Harley said, looking into Meredith’s eyes.