by Amber Foxx
“I’ll be done with it in a minute. I can’t just let go of a puzzle if I’m halfway through it.”
He folded his arms across his chest with a half smile and leaned one elbow on the chair arm. “All right. What is your puzzle? As long it’s not about Brazos, I can help.”
“No, it’s about Sylvie. Acting like she knows Jamie when she couldn’t. Pulling off that theft with no fear of getting caught. As if she knew that he’d swallow the whole story and feel sorry for the thief instead of calling the police. If he doesn’t know her, how could she know him?”
“I don’t know.” Stamos sighed, leaned back. “You’re a psychic, why don’t you figure it out that way?”
“I will, when I get hold of some things she touched, in a couple of days. It’s just bugging me right now.”
“Fine.” He sounded annoyed. Maybe martyred. Mae tried not to think that way about him but she couldn’t help it. “So she might not have heard of Jangarrai—but maybe Jamie Ellerbee. Does he ever use that name?”
“Not on his music.” Mae pulled up Google and typed in Jamie Ellerbee. She suspected she was sticking with this puzzle partly because it was easier than figuring out what was going on with Stamos. The search brought up a few items about the Santa Fe High School choir under Jamie’s direction, dating three to seven years back, and some slightly older articles about University of New Mexico Opera productions. “Since he doesn’t know her, for her to know him by that name she’d have to be from Santa Fe or Albuquerque, and into classical music.”
“Not necessarily. Is she the right age to have known him in college?”
“Maybe, but they wouldn’t have been in the same class. Joe Wayne is a little younger than Jamie—though he sure doesn’t look it.” Joe Wayne was the kind of man who would look good all sunburned and weather-beaten until he was thirty-five, and suddenly he’d be an old leathery wreck. Jamie looked younger. “Sylvie’d have to be her husband’s age. I don’t think Joe Wayne would marry an older woman.”
“No, he would only—”
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” Mae blushed, and wished she could take back her words. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s all right,” Stamos grumbled. “It’s true.”
Still rattled by her blunder, Mae clicked on the UNM Opera link. “I guess they could have gone to the opera. Kind of a stretch, though.” She opened an archive of photos from older productions. “Found him. About as famous as he ever got as Jamie Ellerbee.”
Stamos came around and looked over her shoulder. “That’s Jamie?” He breathed out a soft, soundless laugh. “If she’d known him then, she wouldn’t recognize him now anyway.”
A young, heavy-set man with short black hair, dressed for the title role in Verdi’s Otello, wore a look of agonized rage as he pointed an accusing hand at a fair-haired, weeping Desdemona. The sweeping cape and nineteenth-century military costume helped him carry his size with grace, but the aspiring opera singer Jamie Ellerbee was a much bigger man by at least fifty pounds, and bore little resemblance to the world music singer-songwriter Jangarrai of eight years later.
“I know. The opera was kind of a wild guess, anyway.”
“She could have been his high school student.”
“That still doesn’t work. He doesn’t know her.” Mae considered the picture of Jamie with his hair dyed dark, and built like a stereotypical tenor. “Unless she’s changed as much as he has.”
Chapter Fifteen
Sylvie’s name as well as her appearance would have to have changed. Assuming Sylvie was Joe Wayne’s age, Mae tried to calculate the age difference between the songwriter and Jamie. She remembered hearing Joe Wayne’s first hit on the radio. She should have been in college at the time, like Shawn, who’d gone away to school and out of her life. Instead, in a foolish rebound, Mae had married her alcoholic first husband Mack, when they were both eighteen and unqualified for much. Two years later, while working a dead-end desk clerk job, she heard a DJ on the radio announcing the song. “Amazing! This guy is a freshman in college and he’s already got a hit song. Here’s Joe Wayne Brazos with ‘Good Life, Bad Habits.’ He can pay off his loans with this one!” Mae had listened and marveled, not just at the cleverness of the song, but at the singer’s extraordinary situation. She had mentally cheered him on for not quitting college the way some star athletes did, and followed his music ever since.
Mae was a year younger than Jamie, so that would make Joe Wayne still a little younger. If Sylvie had been Jamie’s student, she would have to have been in the first high school choir he’d directed.
Stamos’s hand reached around Mae, not to embrace her, but to shut down her laptop. He kissed the top of her head, resting his hands on her shoulders. Without any overt signals, subtle sexual energy flowed from his touch, both welcome and unwanted at the same time.
Mae placed her hand on Stamos’s. “Thanks for putting up with my doing that. I get like a beagle on a scent when I have a problem to solve.”
“Admirable. But it is someone else’s problem.”
He kissed her ear, and she pulled away, suddenly uncomfortable. Was it because he was right? Or because, in spite of the warmth of his voice, the words sounded cold? Maybe she couldn’t do anything about Jamie’s problem tonight, but it wasn’t as if being stalked was exactly trivial. Standing, she closed her laptop and put it away in its case. “I need to get some sleep. You wanted me to get off this computer and rest. I’m going to.”
“And that’s the only reason you’re ...” Stamos studied her. “Unresponsive?”
“We’re taking it slow. We both need to. You know that.”
“I understand.” He nodded, started for the door, and stopped. “You’re sure it’s not this Jangarrai, this ... déjà vu all over again?”
“He’s not your déjà vu.”
“You think not? The sensitive singer-songwriter, stringing the country with a chain of broken hearts?”
“Jamie?” Picturing him as a womanizer was absurd, but all Stamos saw was a musician, a softer, darker version of Joe Wayne. “Come on. You met him. He’s not like that.”
“Then why is this woman stalking him? Maybe he did something to her. Have you thought of that? It could be revenge.”
Mae followed Stamos to the door. “Not a chance. I can see you might not like him—he can be kind of annoying—but trust me, he’s nothing like Joe Wayne Brazos. Brazos is a dawg, and Jamie’s a big ol’ pussycat.”
Stamos’s frown gave way to a hint of amusement, his lips curving along the edge of a smile, and he kissed her. “May you never describe me as either.”
Showering and getting into bed alone, Mae felt both relieved and disappointed. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what was wrong between her and Stamos. Had she jumped to the conclusion that he was wonderful too fast, and now reality was catching up? Had she latched onto his flaws to avoid intimacy? Was she still not ready, or was it him? She didn’t know what to think of her own feelings. Maybe she had her guard up somehow because of talking with Hubert. He’d been hard to get over.
Lying in the dark, listening to distant traffic, Mae thought of Hubert and Jen still on the road in the storm, maybe with Sylvie trailing them, while Jamie was parked somewhere off I-85, getting one night free of her.
What if she did want revenge for something? She was a Texan. Didn’t they all have guns? No, that was ridiculous. Sylvie wasn’t violent. Clever revenge, like the “Love Handles” song, was more her style. What could she want revenge for, anyway? Jamie hadn’t given her a bad review, unless she’d been his student and gotten a D in music. A successful songwriter wouldn’t have had a bad grade, though, and Jamie would never have had an affair with a student. A problem of that nature was out of the question.
The answers would have to wait for a psychic journey. The strangeness of Sylvie’s behavior and the effect it had on Jamie justified that kind of search. Mae would have to find Jamie in Norfolk and get the junk from his van, and a gift bag. Nothing her or
dinary mind could access made any sense.
In the morning, Mae checked messages before going down for coffee. A reassuring voicemail from Hubert told her he had gotten home safely, but the power was out. The twins thought it was fun at his parents’ old farm when they had to use the fireplace and candles like when the house was built. They said it was like going back in time.
Her stepfather, Arnie, had a trailer in Cauwetska, and his call about the storm was less cheerful. He had no heat, his street was flooded, and he didn’t want her to come down until things were livable. Could she stay somewhere in Norfolk for a day or two?
Mae called him back. She knew people from her five months’ stay in the city after her separation, and assured him she could find a place. She hoped she was right, since she couldn’t afford more nights in hotels. The big question was, which of her friends or former clients who hadn’t evacuated had electricity?
When she went downstairs, Stamos was waiting for her at a table in the tiny breakfast area. He seemed to be in a better mood than he had been since the concert, smiling warmly, with coffee and juice and oatmeal set at a place for her already. It was a little presumptuous, guessing what she’d want to eat, but it wasn’t a bad guess.
On the TV high on the wall behind him, a national morning news show’s weather staff prattled about the history of December hurricanes with a cheerful fascination that reminded Mae of sportscasters getting wrapped up in baseball statistics. “We haven’t had a December hurricane since 2003, when there were two,” the woman said. The man countered, “Of course you’re not old enough to remember Alice in 1954. That one came so late it lasted into January. So this is not one for the record books.” The woman turned to the camera and got back on track. “Sylvane has already weakened considerably, moving up into Maryland as a tropical storm. Parts of eastern Virginia and North Carolina are without power, but there have been no reported fatalities.”
Mae sat down with Stamos and thanked him for getting her meal, sipped the stale-tasting coffee, and told him about Arnie’s situation.
“You could stay with my dramatic Greek mother, my surly Greek father, and my spooky and even Greeker Aunt Christina,” Stamos offered. He peeled a banana, laid it on his plate beside two heavily peppered boiled eggs. “We don’t have power, but we’re not flooded. I’m sure we would all be compatible.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. We’re delightful. I’m the only normal person in the family. It’s fun to watch the show, if you stay detached.”
“No, thank you.” He’d become charming again this morning, but not enough to tempt her to accept the offer. “If your mama is anything like my drama mama, she’ll think it means something if you even introduce me, let alone bring me there overnight.”
“No doubt she would. But you have to stay somewhere. Where is your mother?”
“In Florida with husband number three, or soon to be number three. I can’t keep track.”
“So where will you stay?”
“I’ll try my old roommate, or some of my old training clients. Whoever’s got power.”
Mae’s former roommate had no electricity. Neither did her former boss at the Healing Balance Store where she’d been a psychic in Virginia Beach. Both were happy to hear from Mae, but couldn’t have a guest in their circumstances. Mae hadn’t known most of her clients well enough to ask the favor, but there was one she had seen three to four times a week. The woman had been difficult and demanding, but they had developed a rapport. Mae called her.
Pamela Giardi had power: electrical, personal and financial. The wealthy businesswoman’s house was in Norfolk’s Ghent district, close enough to the Eastern Virginia Medical School hospital to get electricity restored promptly. Her several shops and galleries were in the same neighborhood. In her typical arrogant manner, she drawled, “Of course, if you stay with me, you’ll have to give me an in-home personal training session. My new trainer isn’t half as tough on me as you were.”
“Sure. I can do it after I get some sleep. Don’t they have power at Oceanfront Wellness? We’d do better there.”
“No. A lot of the city is still out. In fact, I’ll have another guest Monday and Tuesday. The hotel he was supposed to stay in is dark. One of my husband’s hotels.”
How strange. Andy Giardi owned so many hotels, he could hardly take care of all his customers by bringing them home. “Maybe the power will be back on in Cauwetska before your guest gets there, and then I’ll be gone.”
“Mae. It’s not back on in half the civilized world, do you really think they’ll fix it in Cauwetska?”
Mae ignored the disparagement of her stepfather’s hometown. Pamela was right. Cauwetska would only have power near its hospital for a while, too. “Will I be too much trouble, with another guest?”
“No, the house is huge. And I don’t do trouble. In fact I should make out pretty damn well if you give me a training session and my other guest is as good a cook as he says he is.”
Mae had an uneasy thought. One of Pamela’s shops sold exotic musical instruments like didgeridoos and Native American flutes as well as ethnic art, clothing, and jewelry. The upstairs art gallery was sometimes used as an intimate concert space. Jamie was on his way to Norfolk after Richmond. The only reason for the Giardis to take a hotel guest into their home was if they had an investment in that guest. It would be classic Jamie behavior to offer to cook. “Jangarrai?”
“Yes. How did you guess?”
“I know him.” How awkward could this get? Mae hoped Arnie got power and heat and that the floodwaters went down overnight. Not likely. “He loves to cook. Stock up on the beans and tofu if there are any stores open.”
“Beans and tofu? I’m going to have a vegan in my house? God, I hope he’s not holier than thou and virtuous. If he is I’ll kill him—after his concert.”
Jamie thought death jokes were funny. He would have liked that. “Don’t worry. He’s not at all holy, and his cooking’s so good you won’t even notice it’s vegan. You won’t have to kill him.”
“Because,” Stamos said under his breath, sprinkling more pepper on a boiled egg, “someone else will do it for you.”
Mae shot him a scolding glance, and he whispered that he had been joking.
“Good,” Pamela said. “He’s playing at Spirit Body tomorrow night. I’m advertising that we’ve got power. That should bring people.”
“So should his music. It’s a perfect fit with the instruments you sell.”
“That part’s kind of a pain, actually. His manager told me all his stuff was stolen. I have to loan him some drums and a didgeridoo, but I suppose that should help me sell them. And I need to sell tickets, too. You’d better be coming.”
Staying in Pamela’s house, especially with Jamie under the same roof, Mae had no choice but to go. No matter how complicated their friendship was, she loved Jamie’s voice. She would enjoy hearing him, and she could finally get the objects Sylvie had touched to use for psychic work. “I’ll buy one ticket, maybe two.” No, Stamos resented Jamie. “Probably one.”
She finished getting directions from Pamela, which included warnings for which highways across the state were flooded and reminders of which Norfolk intersections were underwater. Mae remembered those places well. Even a thunderstorm would turn some spots in the city into pools deep enough to stall a car. She thanked Pamela and put her phone away. “Was that killing joke about you, or about Sylvie?”
Stamos was in the middle of eating his egg, and indicated he preferred not to talk with his mouth full. Jamie would have talked, and then apologized with his usual over-dramatized shoot me. After taking a sip of coffee, Stamos said, “There was not that much thought behind it. No more than your friend had behind hers. People make jokes like that all the time. But if it bothers you, I will not jest about harm to him, in spite of the fact you will be staying in the same house with him and attending yet another of his performances.”
“I thought I’d be in Cauwetska with Arnie. It�
�s not like I came all the way here to see him. Pamela owns the place where he’s playing. What am I supposed to do? You could come with me. His music is good, and you liked it fine until you met him. You still listen to Joe Wayne and he’s done you a whole lot worse than just get on your nerves.”
“Fine.” Stamos shut down. “We have a date.”
What have I done? Mae felt guilty for mentioning Joe Wayne Brazos. It had been petty, and beneath her. What had made her do that? Jamie’s friendship with Mae was salt in the Joe Wayne wound. “I’m sorry. We don’t have to go. We can do something else. I can tell Pamela, and Jamie—”
“No, it’s all right.” Stamos smiled, and relaxed his shoulders back. “These are my issues, not yours.”
“Are you sure? We won’t just have Jamie to deal with. My ex-husband and his girlfriend are going to the concert. It’s gonna be kind of weird all around.”
“Really? Your ex-husband with his girlfriend.” Stamos nodded, seeming to watch his thoughts. “Then he should see you with a man who treats you as you deserve, who,” he gave her a wink, “puts you on a pedestal and worships you like a goddess. That will make him realize what he has lost.”
Worships me like a goddess? Did Stamos feel that strongly about her, or was he thinking about Joe Wayne’s sketch of Diana? “I’d like having you with me, but you don’t need to make him uncomfortable. Hubert’s not a bad guy. If you don’t want to go, don’t make that your reason.”
“Of course not. I’ll need a break from my family, and it will give me an excellent excuse to escape. I have a date.” He reached across the table and squeezed Mae’s hand. “I shall take pleasure in your company and your beauty, and in heat and electricity. Your,” he paused, giving the effect of editing out the adjectives he wanted to apply, “friend has a magnificent voice. I shall enjoy that, too.”
“Thank you. You’re a real sweetheart.”
He smiled. “And not a bad one.”
There might yet be hope. Stamos had made a joke about Joe Wayne.
