by C. S. Poe
I shut my eyes and sagged back against the car seat. The drive took a while as we fought the morning rush. The taxi raked in waiting fees as we sat in gridlocked traffic until finally managing to get out of the hell that was Midtown. When the car came to a sudden halt that suggested it really needed to get its brakes checked, I cracked open one eye.
The woven metal gate was rolled down over my storefront, and the Snow’s Antique Emporium lettering stood out against an otherwise dark window display. Good Books was already open for morning business. I shifted in my seat to pull my wallet from my back pocket.
“Here you are,” I said, passing a bill through the window to the driver. “Keep the change.” I opened the door, took Dillon’s leash, and climbed out of the taxi.
Rossi shut the passenger door and turned to me as the car pulled onto the road. “May I speak freely to you, Mr. Snow?” Breath puffed around Rossi as if he were an angry dragon.
“Knock yourself out.”
“I volunteered for this duty because when a psychopath attacks a cop or a cop’s—”
I smiled.
“Significant other,” he finally decided upon, “it’s an attack on all of us.”
“That’s very noble of you,” I answered.
“It has nothing to do with Detective Winter.”
I made a sound that was more snort than laugh. “Either way, at least I know you’ve got a vested interest in my overall well-being.” I opened my messenger bag, fished out my ring of keys, and walked to the gate. I unlocked it, crouched down, and hoisted the gate up and over my head.
“Mr. Snow?” a third voice broke in.
I turned to my right.
Rossi moved across the sidewalk and stood between me and some guy straight out of Mad Men. “I’m going to need you to step back, sir,” he said, hand going to his coat.
The stranger had a perfectly parted and slicked haircut combined with round tortoiseshell glasses. He was clean-shaven. And based on his trousers and expensive-looking oxfords, he had a suit on underneath the winter jacket. Even though he looked as if he’d stepped off the set of a period film, I could see the family resemblance now. The shade of hair was the same gray as Calvin’s. The height, the build, and while not quite as many—the freckles.
“Wait, hold on,” I protested, reaching a hand out for Rossi. “Marc?”
Confused, wary, and on the verge of raising his hands up like he’d been told to freeze, Marc said, “Yes.”
“It’s okay,” I told Rossi. “He’s Calvin’s brother.”
Rossi lowered his hand from reaching for his concealed weapon.
“Is this how you always greet people?” Marc protested, looking at me but pointing at Rossi, as if he were hired muscle.
“Not typically,” I answered.
Even if Rossi hadn’t nearly drawn a gun on Marc, the man seemed wound especially tight. A palpable, edgy mood. It was a curious thing—how familiar his bulk was, and yet how incredibly foreign his characteristics were. Marc had none of Calvin’s usual cool or calm. He didn’t have that sort of relaxed stance Calvin would often assume when he was listening—the one that still conveyed he was the man in charge and to be respected. Marc’s energy was much more… in your face.
It made me feel forced into a corner.
I’m sure Patrick Swayze would have had something to say about that.
“So,” Marc continued, “you wanted to speak with me. Here I am.”
I glared a little, turned to the Emporium, and unlocked the door. I leaned inside to tap the code on the security panel, then silently held the door for both men to enter. Rossi did so without question. Marc was hesitant but ultimately stepped past me and into the store.
I knew I could have been more polite. More thankful that he came to speak with me before Calvin… but I wasn’t an ass-kisser. Not even—no. Correction. Especially not to Calvin’s family. They’d abandoned him last Christmas. Left him alone after being shot, with no one to care about his life but me. And where had they been when I got wrecked by Pete White in May and Calvin needed an emotional crutch? Not here, that was for fucking sure. A real family makes themselves known in times of need. And my ex-boyfriend was willing to come by the hospital and make sure Calvin was resting and feeding himself as he stressed at my bedside, while Calvin’s own flesh and blood had no idea. Because they hadn’t cared to know.
So screw the niceties.
I pulled the door shut, removed Dillon’s leash, and switched a few bank lamps on as I walked through the shop. I dropped my bag and winter attire onto the register counter, walked to the bathroom in the back, and called over my shoulder, “Excuse me for a second.”
I closed the door, flipped the toilet lid down, and sat. I took a deep breath before leaning over and putting my hands in my hair. I hadn’t actually considered what I was going to say to Marc. It’d been an instinctual thing—to protect Calvin. I had to be careful, especially if this was an honest attempt being made on Marc’s behalf to reunite the family. But I also couldn’t—wouldn’t—be a pushover.
My brain felt like a library card catalog, and I was in a mad rush to find the one title that would help me navigate this sensitive situation with relative success.
Filed under social sciences. Should I start with 302.2—Social interaction, communication? 305.3—Groups of people, by gender or sex? Hold up, 306.7 has a footnote—for problems and controversies concerning various sexual relations, see 363.4.
“This is why no one likes you,” I muttered while raising my head. “You’re in the bathroom making Dewey Decimal jokes to yourself.”
I removed my phone from my pocket and sent Calvin a text to let him know I’d arrived safely.
I felt a little queasy as I stood again, but it was nerves. I left the room and poked my head around the corner. Rossi was standing beside my closed office door, leaning against the wall. He texted on his phone with one hand and occasionally raised his head to watch Marc. Marc hadn’t moved very far from the front door, but he was looking around the showroom floor with obvious curiosity. I tried to imagine seeing this place for the first time through his eyes. Cavernous, jam-packed with oddities from a previous century, hectically decorated for the holidays, and run by a sarcastic oddball fucking his brother.
The thought, while self-deprecating in delivery, was certainly true.
But then, in that same second, I realized: I didn’t care.
I was exactly the guy he saw, and I wasn’t trying to be anything more.
I was a weird, cynical, borderline-asshole shop owner, and the only damn person whose opinion mattered besides my father’s was Calvin’s.
Marc was not Calvin.
And it was that awareness that put confidence into my step. Maybe Calvin would be upset. Upset that I weaseled my way into a conversation he should have been having, but I had nothing to gain and Calvin had everything to lose. Sure, if Marc was cruel, the words would hurt me. I was human. But I didn’t have a history with him for those words to tear me apart and make me bleed. They’d be superficial wounds.
Nothing I hadn’t heard before.
I squared my shoulders and made my way through the maze of displays. “Sorry about outside,” I said to Marc, stopping about two feet away from him. “Rossi is a cop. He’s been assigned to protect me.”
The tightness of Marc’s mouth softened a little. “Oh… ah… I see.”
I glanced at Rossi, who quickly looked at his phone again, and pretended he couldn’t hear us. “So you want to see Calvin.”
“Yes.”
“Why now?”
“What do you mean?”
I shrugged. “Is it the convenience of being in the city?”
“No. I live in Philadelphia. I travel to New York for business quite often.”
Wow. Wrong answer.
But Marc was still talking. “With the holidays approaching, it seemed like as good a time as any to at least reach out.”
“So for the last twelve months,” I began, “Calvin has
been patently ignored by your entire family, with the exception of his ailing uncle, because your conscience hadn’t acquired enough guilt yet? Amazing what ’tis-the-season does for some folks.”
“It was not my intention—”
“I somehow doubt that.”
Marc was being surprisingly composed, all things considered. He put his hands into his coat pockets and stared at me. “When Calvin was in the hospital last year, he said he had met an antique dealer while working a case.”
“Uh-huh.”
“A man.”
“Oh yeah. An educated, successful businessman, who has never cheated on his taxes.” I smiled sardonically. “What a delinquent.”
“I never forgot your name when he told us,” Marc finished.
“We like using an ampersand,” I replied.
Marc took a deep breath, then slowly released it. “Calvin obviously felt you were worth giving up his family over.”
“No,” I said sternly, pointing an accusing finger at Marc. “Don’t you dare. Say what you want about me. Whatever you’ve got, I guarantee I’ve heard worse. But don’t you think for one moment I’m going to let you emotionally guilt or blackmail Calvin over one of the hardest decisions he’s ever had to make for himself.”
“What was that?”
“Allowing himself to be happy,” I said. “You made a conscious decision when you walked out of his hospital room. And you’ve continued to consciously make a decision each day you haven’t picked up a damn phone to call him.”
I had to stop. I realized I’d been taking a step forward with every word I spoke, and had breached Marc’s personal space. It was kind of startling to realize how much anger had been building up inside me toward a man I’d never met, never spoken to. I wasn’t doing a hell of a lot to make myself likable either, but that didn’t matter.
I didn’t matter.
“Your brother is an incredible person,” I said, voice low. “And I feel like… you have no clue.”
“I’m here,” Marc answered. “Aren’t I? I want to fix this.”
“Fix your relationship or fix him?”
The bell over the Emporium door chimed. “Good morning!” Beth Harrison of Good Books called cheerfully as she shuffled inside.
I looked at her. “Now’s not a good time,” I stated.
“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so,” Beth answered. She put her bejeweled glasses on with one hand, the other hugging two items to her chest. After giving the room a brief assessment, she asked, “Who died in here?”
“What?” Rossi asked, quickly coming to attention.
“What?” Beth echoed.
I held my hands up for everyone to stop. “Figure of speech, Rossi.”
Beth narrowed her eyes and gave Marc a visible once-over. She turned to me, jutted a thumb at him, and said accusingly, “You never told me your gorgeous fiancé had an equally gorgeous sibling.”
“Beth!” I shouted.
“Fiancé?” Marc protested.
Beth held her hand out to Marc as if she were royalty. “Beth Harrison.”
“You and Calvin are engaged?” Marc sputtered.
“Oh my God,” I groaned. I took my glasses off and covered my face with my hand.
Beth made a face. “Was it a secret? You’re wearing a damn ring, Sebby.”
“And he hadn’t noticed. Thanks, Beth.”
She huffed and walked toward me. “I brought you something.”
“A tire iron?” I put my glasses back on.
Beth’s brow furrowed. “Why would I bring you that?”
“So I can knock myself out?” I smiled sweetly.
“You’re so dramatic.” She plucked the book nestled between her chest and a manila envelope. “I picked this up yesterday at a yard sale in Queens.”
I brought the cover close. Miss Butterwith and the Dear Departed.
“I know you already own it,” she continued, tapping the cover. “But look inside.”
I opened the book and on the title page was a scrawled name. I glanced up over the rim of my glasses. “Is this really Christopher Holmes’s signature?”
“Feel better?” she asked, a smirk growing across her face.
“How much?”
“Bring my account up to date, and we’ll call it even.”
“Like hell. You owe me close to a grand.”
“Mr. Snow,” Marc interrupted.
I held a finger up, to which Marc made a sound of offended protest. I nodded my head at the envelope Beth still clutched. “Is that for me too?”
“Hmm? Oh, it’s your mail.”
“What?”
“It’d been stuck between the links of your gate this morning. I took it with me.” She handed it over.
I quickly set my autographed cozy mystery aside and snatched the envelope. “No postage,” I stated, studying both the front and back.
Beth was nodding. “This is a nice neighborhood, but we still live in New York City. I mean, hell! I once saw a man attempt to steal a refrigerator off a delivery truck.”
I turned away and started for the counter, zigzagged around displays, and bolted up the steps. I set the envelope beside the register and crouched. I tossed boxes and bags aside, knocked over a roll of gift wrap and spools of ribbon, before standing with a letter opener.
“What’s going on?” Rossi asked. He pocketed his cell and approached my right side.
“Mr. Snow!” Marc finally sounded pissed and as if he were ready to strangle… well, me.
I sliced across the top of the envelope and unceremoniously dumped the contents out. Half a dozen human teeth skittered across the countertop. The discoloration on them was sure to be blood.
“Son of a bitch,” Rossi whispered.
A plain sheet of paper rested message-up. Spencerian script twisted my gut into a knot so tight, I had to gasp for air.
The Wars could have come to an end.
But he lost his head.
Party A now allots Party B forty-eight hours in which to retrieve the artifact (see message #1.) Failure to safely procure said article within the determined timetable will forfeit Party B’s right to the collection of a most substantial sum—Calvin Liam Winter—hereby known as Party C.
Hope you’re satisfied.
A Collector.
And underneath… the rendition of a human skull.
Chapter Seven
NO.
No.
Absolutely fucking not.
My hands shook as I struggled to free my cell from my pocket. I chose Calvin’s name from the list of recent contacts and put the phone to my ear.
It rang and rang and rang.
But no response.
That was normal, though. Because Calvin was working. And sometimes he couldn’t answer.
This was New York City.
Crime happened.
People died.
And it was Calvin’s job to investigate the situation.
That was all. Because anything else—anything more—would absolutely be too fucking absurd to even consider.
Rossi reached out for the note on the counter, but I lowered the phone and grabbed the letter opener with my other hand.
“Don’t touch it,” I threatened.
“Those are human teeth.” He motioned at molars with his own phone. “I’m calling for backup.”
I raised the letter opener like a dagger and held it out at Rossi. “Just be quiet and let me think!”
“I can arrest you right now,” Rossi retaliated.
“Sebby,” Beth called.
“Put that thing down before you hurt someone,” Rossi continued.
“Sebby.” More insistent.
I clenched the letter opener and phone so tight in both hands, I was surprised neither broke. I felt completely overwhelmed, like my system was about to combust from the onslaught of sensory stimulation. At once, my dim and cozy shop was too bright, the unrelenting voices were too loud, too harsh, and as I struggled to br
eathe, all I could think was that the incentive to solve this case had never been about money, extortion, or even allowing me to live—it’d been about Calvin.
Because I was not like most men.
I’d never gotten caught up in past mysteries for fame or fortune. My own safety hadn’t even been a factor. To the dismay of the Collector, I’d dug my heels into the ground hard this time, refusing to budge and taking my retirement from sleuthing seriously. They’d prodded my ego in all the right ways, but my future with Calvin was more important than their mystery. Finally. But whoever this Collector was, they got smart. They dangled in front of me the only motivation in this entire goddamn world that would make me walk barefoot through fire.
Calvin.
“Everybody shut up!” I screamed as the seams that held my sanity together unraveled faster than I could stitch them closed.
A pin could have been heard falling a hundred yards away in the silence that followed. I dropped the letter opener to the floor and gripped the edge of the counter. My extremities felt cold and tingly—a dire warning of imminent dry heaves and a possible blackout. I fought to take a deep breath, but I could barely manage more than a gasp.
Was I having a panic attack?
A heart attack?
Stroke?
“I got a text from Calvin,” Beth said quietly.
I raised my head. She was holding her phone up, waving it back and forth. From where she stood—all the way across the showroom—she had no idea what this note from the Collector said. Beth had no clue at all what was transpiring at that very moment.
I’d just tried calling Calvin. Why didn’t he answer? Why did he text Beth?
Beth turned her phone around again, studied the text through her bifocals, and read aloud, “Don’t involve the cops.” She glanced at me. “The hell does that mean?”
I immediately called Calvin again. It rang three times and then stopped as if it’d been answered.
No one spoke.
“Calvin?”
No response.
“Calvin?” I choked. “Where are you? Please—who is this?”
