Boiling Over

by Thea McAlistair

  He laughed. “Well, if it comes to that, I think I will be more diplomatic.” He leaned his head against my shoulder. “I don’t like making people angry because I can.”

  “No, you don’t, do you?” I looked at him. “I like that about you, you know? You’re so nice. Nicer than me, anyway.”

  A smile crept up his face. “You are nice, just a different sort of nice. You don’t like when people are pushed around.” He leaned in and kissed me. “Now, tell me more about the things you like about me.”

  “Oh, well, you’re handsome. And smart. And patient. And you make me laugh even when I don’t think I feel like laughing. And you calm me. And—”

  The rest of my list got cut off by Sev’s mouth on mine. I clung to him greedily, sure something or someone was going to storm in and ruin everything. He seemed equally as frantic like he, too, was afraid of time being cut short. We groped our way to the bedroom, where I nearly cracked my head on the brass headframe as he pushed me backward onto the blankets. He fell with me, laughing, setting off the bells in my head.

  He stopped, a confused expression on his face. “Is there something in your pocket?”

  I tried to pull him back down to me. “Just happy to see you.”

  He sighed. “It’s uncomfortable.”

  “Fine.”

  I reached into my pocket, and my fingers closed around his knife. I’d forgotten all about it. Whoops. I brought it out and showed him.

  “Didn’t need it,” I said.

  He pushed the blade back toward me. “Hold on to it, caro. If I need it back, I will tell you.”

  “Are you sure?” I turned it over in my hands.

  “Positive.” He took the knife from me and tossed it onto the side table. “Now, where were we?”

  Chapter Nine

  “How do you do that?” I asked.

  Sev paused. “Do what?”

  “Get your clothes and everything so fast.”

  He laughed and continued brushing out his suit. He’d already changed into something more casual and combed his hair. Meanwhile, I was still searching for my other shoe, which was not under the bed where I thought I’d kicked it.

  “I suppose it’s practice,” he said.

  Somehow, I hadn’t expected that answer. But why shouldn’t I have? There was no way I was the first person he’d been with. I probably wasn’t even the first person he’d been in love with. I couldn’t even say that about him, and I was a lot younger. And yet the idea left me with a sour taste in my mouth. I wanted to know who and how many and how much more he cared for me over them.

  A knock on the front door snapped my thread of thought. Sev moved faster than I did, sliding against the wall and flicking aside the curtain. His shoulders relaxed.

  “It’s Crista,” he said.

  Crista? What was she doing here? I gathered my remaining bits of clothing and bolted up the staircase with them before Sev opened the door.

  I caught pieces of his welcome and her response, and of those, I understood almost nothing since it was in Italian. I shuffled the rest of my clothes on and skidded back onto the upstairs landing. Sev was already walking toward the kitchen, and Crista stopped and smiled at me as I tried to descend the stairs like a normal person.

  “Ah, there you are. Miss Lamar said you were home.” She touched the trousers still draped on the railing. “I should fix these?”

  “Please?” My brief conversation with Sev about our funds flickered into my mind. “What’s your going rate for mending?”

  She waved a hand. “No, no. For Bella’s friends, it is free.”

  I wasn’t quite sure how ready I wanted to be called Bella’s friend, but I knew how good it was to save a penny or two. “Well, thanks.”

  “I like to help where I can.” She began examining the tear. “If you will excuse me for saying so, your hair is…” She gestured at the back of her head.

  I became aware of how mussed my hair was. “Oh.” I tried to brush it down with my hand. “I, uh, took a nap.”

  “Ah. Well, I am glad someone has found the time to rest,” she said as she folded my trousers over her arm.

  Had I just been insulted? I wasn’t sure. She walked toward the kitchen, saying something in Italian. Sev’s voice answered her, and she giggled as she crossed the threshold and out of sight.

  I needed to smoke.

  Out on the porch, the ever-present heat felt extra stifling after our unplanned exertion. We needed to get out of this stupid town, away from the warmth and the stares. And, yeah, maybe even away from Crista.

  There was something off about her I couldn’t place. Or maybe my unease came from something she had said, going around telling everyone about us. Maybe it was the fact she remained here alone when there was nothing to recommend the place. Surely, there was some family, some friends to stay with? Some better job than random housework? She had to be staying for some reason.

  The door behind me opened, and I turned, expecting Crista back. Instead Sev appeared. He smiled as he slid his own cigarettes out of his pocket. “Great minds, yes?” he said.

  “Yeah.” I glanced at the door again. “Isn’t Crista going to go home?”

  “I told her she might as well stay. She was going to have to come back in an hour to cook anyway.”

  “Do you think it’s okay to leave her alone in the house?” I asked.

  Sev gave me a confused look. “I imagine she won’t set anything on fire. She’s not like me with the stove.”

  “No, I mean”—I lowered my voice—“you don’t think she’ll snoop around or steal anything, right?”

  “Even if she did, what are we hiding?” He held up a hand to stop my protests before they started. “Among our things. There’s almost nothing to go through anyway, and nothing worth taking.” He huffed. “You should be ashamed for thinking such things.”

  Should I? On the one hand, Crista hadn’t done anything to deserve my distrust. On the other was that nagging feeling… “It’s not her, specifically,” I said. “I grew up down by the train tracks at home in all those slums. You left your window open for a minute, and by the time you turned back around, all your furniture was gone.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Only a little. It isn’t really safe there. Go ask Pearl if you don’t believe me.”

  Sev went quiet, probably trying to piece together what I’d said. His version of crime was genteel silk suits and sequined dresses, singers and champagne, a wink and a stack of bills passed under a table. Even the bloody aspects were full of romance. It made a much better story to be killed in a drive-by with a Tommy gun outside a restaurant than to be beaten to death in an alley because someone wanted your holeless shoes.

  “Well, in any case, Crista would not,” he said. “You don’t need to worry about every little thing, Alex. It will make you crazy if you try.”

  Spoken like someone who hadn’t had to worry about money or food or rent most of their life. But he had a point. “Yeah, I know.” I sighed. “A lot of stuff’s gone wrong, and I keep expecting more.”

  Sev nodded. “I know. Here. You forgot this,” he said. The knife appeared in his hand briefly before he slid it into my pocket. “You’ll give Pearl a bad example, not picking up your things.”

  I shrugged. “If that’s the worst thing I show her, I’ll consider it a job well done.”

  “Well, if she is here and not in the slums at home, then that is already a better job.” He patted my arm and smiled again, his eyes tracking over me. They settled on my hair, and he chuckled. “You need to do something about your hair. It looks like you rolled out of bed.”

  I threw a look over my shoulder to make sure Christa couldn’t see. “How about this option: We go back to bed, and I worry about it later?” I whispered against Sev’s neck.

  He laughed and squirmed so he was out of easy reach. “Great minds again. But unfortunately”—he stubbed out his cigarette—“we have a guest, and one of us is going to have to get Pearl from school
soon.” Discreetly, he ran his hand across my back. “There are many tomorrows, caro. No need to burn it all up at once.”

  The first tomorrow was, of course, Saturday. I felt more than a little ashamed I’d let myself get carried away the day before. And I couldn’t imagine Bella was too pleased she’d been stuck in prison an extra twelve hours because I’d decided spending the afternoon with my boyfriend was better than gathering evidence to get her out. So, first thing in the morning, I went for my next target—Richard Trask, Walter’s brother.

  Stepping into the library was like stepping back in time for me. I’d spent a lot of my childhood in them due to my general dislike of other children and my refusal to spend more time with my drunk bully of a father than was absolutely necessary. Got teased a lot for it—people tended to think I ought to be playing football instead of sticking my nose into books. Not that I regretted it. Books were better than people, after all, and the library was free and safe. And, of course, books had fueled my career choice. Nope, I had no bad thoughts about libraries. At least so far.

  The sun beamed through the large front windows in what would have been excellent reading light in the winter, but in the heat, it caused the temperature in the room to soar. I shuffled my jacket off and draped it over my arm as I inspected the rest of the interior. It wasn’t large, only the front reading space partitioned from the actual stacks behind it. In front of both sets of windows were long tables with simple hardback chairs for working. Across from the entrance was the check-out desk smack between two arches leading to the rows of books beyond. Arthur Parrish sat at his oversized librarian desk, scribbling something into a notebook.

  “Hello, Mr. Parrish?” I whispered.

  His head jerked up, sending his glasses sliding down his nose. He pushed them up with two fingers and smiled. “Hello, Mr. Carrow, nice to see you again. Have you come to open a library card with us?”

  He practically beamed as brightly as the sun in the windows. And why would he not? Fresh blood in a place like Chickadee probably didn’t happen very often. There wasn’t even anyone in here, and it was a Saturday. I decided I might as well let him lead me a little bit before I started asking if he’d seen Richard Trask around.

  “Um, yeah. I figured we’re going to be here a while, and I know I go through about a book a week.”

  “Wonderful!” He started scrabbling in the desk for the proper forms. “I understand there’s another logophile in your household. Mrs. Manco said she spotted a typewriter in your front room.”

  Why did Crista feel the need to chatter about me to strangers? “Another what?”

  “Oh, forgive me.” Arthur slid the paper and a pen at me. “A word lover. I assume it’s you if you’re reading a book a week. Though I’m sure Mr. Arrighi does as well.”

  There was something in his tone I didn’t quite like. “Sev—I mean, Seb reads too.” Dammit. I busied myself filling out the paperwork with all my false information so he wouldn’t catch a glimpse of my reddening face.

  Either he didn’t notice or didn’t care about my defensiveness. “Is there any particular genre you’re interested in?” he asked. “We have all the classics but very few contemporary pieces, I’m afraid. Though I’m sure your niece would be very glad to know we got a collection of children’s books donated recently.”

  I stopped paying attention. He was so chatty for a librarian! Was there something in the water here that made people not shut up? I flourished the signature a bit too broadly on my fake name and shoved the materials back at him.

  “I have a question unrelated to the books,” I said. “Do you remember the guy who was renting out the Reeds’ place when Mr. Manco was killed?”

  “Oh.” Arthur rocked back in his chair like I’d ripped the title page out of his favorite novel. “Oh yes, James Smith. Quiet fellow, kept to himself. He didn’t come in here, though, I’m afraid.” Arthur sighed. “Many people here are not enamored of the written word. The Howes come in, of course.”

  Oh, my God, why is he still talking? “Also,” I said, interrupting Arthur’s monologue about Judith’s reading list, “I wanted to offer Richard Trask my condolences on the loss of his brother, and I was told he was here often.”

  “Yes, he is here. He’s here quite often.” Arthur leaned forward again and lowered his voice even more. “But I don’t think he’s in much of a condition to speak with anyone at the moment.”

  That sounded suspicious. “Regardless, I’d like to meet him. Now.”

  I straightened and squared my shoulders. I was a big guy, and most men did not want to mess around with a big guy. Arthur was no exception, and he scrambled out from behind the desk.

  “Very well, follow me,” he squeaked.

  He slipped into the room with the books and dove straight ahead. I glanced at the shelves. They weren’t quite as sparse as they could have been, but some sections seemed underpopulated. We passed by them too fast for me to feel proper disappointment and soon reached the back wall where there was a gap between shelves. Instead of another case, there was a cushioned bench with a bundle of fabric on it. No, not fabric. It was a man curled up asleep.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” said Arthur as he took a cautious step backward. “Just so you know, he doesn’t like being disturbed.” He scuttled back to the front room.

  Well, at least I’d been warned. I grabbed what I assumed was Richard’s shoulder and shook him.

  He exploded outward with a yell that echoed in the otherwise silent library, arms and legs striking me. I held my ground—I’d taken much more forceful hits in my life. After a few seconds of his thrashing, I pushed him back onto the bench. He settled into a sitting position and stared up at me with bloodshot eyes.

  Mess didn’t even begin to describe Richard Trask. No tie or jacket. Just a wrinkled flannel shirt untucked from oil-stained work trousers. His black hair hadn’t seen a comb that day, and his cheeks hadn’t seen a razor in several. Below the stubble, his cheeks were flushed. I recognized the spidery nature as a sign of a drunkard. And now uncoiled, I smelled the whiskey on his breath. Memories flickered, all of them unpleasant.

  “Who are you?” he croaked.

  I wanted to punch him in the mouth and tell him I was the nightmare of all alcoholic assholes, but the image of Sev’s concerned face rose in front of me. To him, I was a better man than all those mob goons he’d spent his life with, the ones who thought violence was the answer to everything. Fine, I’d do this as gently as possible.

  “My name is Alex Carrow,” I said quietly. No need to shout and make Arthur more nervous than he already was. “I want to talk.”

  His eyes darted around me, looking for a means of escape. “About?”

  “Your brother, Walter, is dead.”

  “Oh, like I could forget that.” He made a sound like giggling, except it was tinged with bitterness. “Listen, I don’t know who you are, but you must be new in town or else you’d know me and my brother never got along.”

  He patted his pockets, and my hand automatically went to my own. My fingers closed around Sev’s knife, but I released it as soon as I realized Richard was only going for a flask. I rolled my eyes at my own jumpiness.

  “Why didn’t you like your brother?”

  He took a swig from the flask and closed it again. “I don’t have to tell you nothing. I don’t know you; you don’t know me. You oughtn’t be prying into the lives of strangers. Did Bob Kelly put you up to this? Wouldn’t put it past him. Snotty little stuck-up know-it-all.”

  As much as I enjoyed hearing Kelly being insulted, I didn’t want to spend all day coaxing answers out of someone who didn’t want to give them. Maybe if I started bribing the flies with honey instead of vinegar? “I don’t have anything to do with Sheriff Kelly.” I gestured at the other half of the bench. “Can I sit?”

  “Can’t stop you. Public space.”

  “I wanted to say I was sorry for your loss.”

  Richard snorted and crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah,
and my ma was the Queen of Sheba.” He turned to look at me. “You’re the first person to say that to me, you know.”

  Christ, really? Even Logan had offered condolences when Donnie died, and he’d been the one who killed him. “Then I’m sorry for that too. My own brother, Martin, died a little while ago, so I thought maybe you needed someone to talk to.”

  Richard gave me a suspicious glance. “Yeah, but you liked your brother, didn’t you?”

  Like wasn’t even strong enough of a word. Martin had been my best friend, sometimes my only friend. He had been like an older brother to me, and every time I said it as a lie, the reality of it became more obvious. “He was the kindest man I ever knew,” I said. “And he didn’t deserve all the terrible things that happened to him.”

  Richard nodded and fiddled with the flask cap. “Yeah, can’t say that about Walter. Well, I know some of it wasn’t his fault. He was always better at stuff. Smarter, faster, better looking. Had a way with the ladies most everyone would envy. You get a big head when you’re already on top.”

  So, Trask had been arrogant. Not unexpected. It would take someone with a lot of confidence to run a business and hustle booze over the border. But a lot of people were arrogant, and they weren’t getting murdered all over the place. And baby brother Richard didn’t seem to be the raging kind of jealous that gave people blunt force trauma. At least, not in this moment.

  “Well,” I said, “what did you like about your brother?”

  “Dunno. We didn’t speak to each other much since our parents died.” Richard continued twisting the lid. “A couple weeks ago, he came here and said he wanted to talk about money.” The cap squeaked as he unscrewed it completely. The smell of whiskey drifted into the air, displacing the smell of paper. “He said he felt bad our parents had left everything to him, and I got mad ‘cause if he really felt that way, he could’ve given over my fair share at any time in the last five years, and he didn’t. And I told him so, and he stormed out. I haven’t heard a word from him since. And now look what happened.”