by Livia Quinn
Dick stood leaning casually against the front of his shop, arms crossed, revealing his true intention, to do nothing, and enjoying my struggles. “You should grab a napkin, Dick; the sarcasm is dripping down your shirt,” I said through clenched teeth.
Dragging the box off the edge of the pickup, I lugged it slowly up each step as he watched, a mean smirk on his face.
“Swing the door open wide, please.”
He followed me into the shop, and I thought, stay away from me, just before I felt the pinch on my butt. I whirled. The corner of the box hit Dick in his considerable belly causing me to lose my grip. Ok, so maybe I uncurled my fingers a wee bit. The box upended, slamming down onto the floor.
“Yowww!”
Too bad, Dick’s foot was between the package and the floor. Oh, well...
Dick struggled to pull his foot out from under the box. “You bitch! I’m calling the cops.”
“Suit yourself,” I said. “Meantime, hold it right there while I scan the confirmation.” I aimed the scanner at the barcode and heard the bleep as it registered the delivery. “Allllrighty then. Have a good day.” I smiled sweetly and started for the door, but it was blocked by a familiar figure.
Not now. Not now. I stomped my foot down and huffed out a breath.
“Ms. Pomeroy,” Sheriff Lang tipped his hat with a lifted eyebrow that asked, you again?
My thoughts exactly. “Sheriff.”
Behind me, Dick whined, “Sheriff, I want her arrested for assault.”
The sheriff and I both turned like our heads were on swivels and looked at the hulking, red faced slob swaying on one foot at the other side of the four and a half foot package, trying to look mortally injured.
“I assaulted you? You creep!” My temper returned with a vengeance. And when I got mad... Come to think of it, my emotions seemed to be getting the best of me today.
“And you are?” the sheriff asked the flower shop owner, taking his trusty notebook from his pocket.
“Dick—”
“—Head,” I finished.
Dick glowered at me. “Dick Randall. Mayor Randall is my brother.” He flung those five words at the law officer as if to say, “you might as well haul her ass to jail right now.” The sheriff’s lip quivered as though struggling not to smile.
“How unfortunate for you,” I said.
The sheriff turned to me, his face now carefully stern. “Miss Pomeroy, if you can’t restrain yourself, I’ll have to ask you to wait outside while I get Mr. Randall’s statement.”
I wasn’t going anywhere while Dick gave his statement. I stomped to the front window and looked at the arrangements in the display.
Flowers by Dick. What kind of name was that for a flower shop anyway? The arrangements in the window were chinzy fabric or plastic, his stamp on each abomination as unique as a criminal’s fingerprint. Come to think of it, his idea of art should be a crime. Everything looked like it’d been mass produced in a sweatshop and shipped by the container load. Cheap.
“I was trying to be a gentleman—”
“Oh, puleeze.” I spun and caught the mean smile on Dick’s face just as the sheriff spun toward me.
“That’s it.” He waved his hand in the direction of the door. “Out. I’ll take your statement when I’m done with Mr. Randall’s.”
Fuming, I strode out onto the front porch, throwing myself onto the bench by the diner. What I really wanted to do was give ol’ Dick a major zap with my Zeus juice. Unfortunately, I seemed to be zapped out. Too bad I didn’t catch him elsewhere with the corner of that package.
I sat forward, my shaking hands hanging between my knees, and took two long breaths. It wasn’t just my hands. I felt like all the forces of weather my kind influenced were clashing inside me.
Listening to Dick’s whining voice from inside, I looked at my watch, and groaned. 12:15. Now, I was at least two hours behind schedule, and I had an Xpress delivery that had to be delivered on the other side of town before 3:00. I might have to ask someone, a supervisor someone, to deliver it. Ugh!
Jack
I went looking for Pomeroy and found her sitting on the bench checking her watch, her foot tapping the porch impatiently. She still hadn’t recognized me and the jury was out on whether I wanted her to or not. She could certainly benefit from an Anger Management Class, though Dick Randall would try anyone’s patience.
Then there was the call I’d received this morning from a councilman’s wife about a missing golf club she claimed her mail carrier, Tempe, had stolen. Sure, I’d just met this carrier today but her being a thief didn’t track for me.
“Miss Pomeroy.”
She jerked up off the bench like a child’s jack-in-the-box, her hand on a cocked hip. “He’s lying, you know.”
“You didn’t drop the box on his foot?”
I almost laughed when she stammered, “Well, yes...er, no… but he wasn’t trying to help me by pinching me on the as... butt. If I hadn’t had my arms around that package, I’d have given him more to worry about than a dinged toe.”
I chuckled. Randall had been goading her. Her emotions were so close to the surface that she was an easy mark for someone like him. “Just the facts, ma’am,” I quipped, trying to give her a break but she wasn’t helping her case.
“Surely you don’t believe that lying—” She vibrated with frustration.
I held up my pad, “Let’s start from the top. You got out of your truck...” I moved my pen in a circle.
Her shoulders rose as she looked up at the sky then blew out the rest of her mad. “Okay, but sheesh...” She ran her hands through the dyed strands of her hair. “I am getting so far behind,” she said, sounding near tears.
She recounted her version of the events, her animation causing her hair to fly around her shoulders. It was close to how I’d assessed the situation, having seen Randall’s type many times over the years, their M.O. being mean arrogance and casting blame like manure. “When it sticks, they win.”
“What?” Tempe frowned up at me.
“Just going over my notes,” I lied. “Come with me.” I led the way back into the flower shop where Dick was sitting on a chair making a fuss over his reddened toe.
He glared at me. “She should have to pay for the doctor’s charges—”
“Get over it, Randall. I’m leaving both statements in writing just in case any further incidents should call for a review. Understood?” I won the staring contest, though Randall grumbled under his breath.
“She should have to at least apologize—”
“Like hell,” Tempe said. “This isn’t the first time you’ve caused me grief, Dick.”
“Oh, no.” Dick rose and looked like he wanted to advance, but I was in the way. “We have a history,” he said putting emphasis on the first syllable.
I turned to look at Tempe and met eyes the color of a derecho, the tumultuous teal colored clouds on the edge of a straight-line wind. I felt like the referee between a lightweight and a super heavyweight, and right now… I’d have bet on the storm.
I pointed at the floor between them, and delivered my best glare, the one that works on everyone—except my daughter. “Starting now, the history stops here.”
Prolonged silence.
“Are we clear, people?” I pushed.
No answer, but Tempe turned and stomped to her truck. Dick shoved his foot into his shoe and limped around behind the counter.
I stared at the ceiling and counted to twenty. After Tempe spun out of the parking lot, I walked next door to finish my lunch.
Chapter 7
The carrier is the first line of defense.
* * *
Tempe
For the next two hours I made headway. I delivered three certifieds, gave some tourists directions, documented undeliverable pieces, tried without success to run over Mrs. Wilson’s crazy tire-biting cur dog, and left my route at two-thirty to catch the Xpress delivery so I could retain some Brownie points with my supervisor.
&
nbsp; I still couldn’t reach River or Phoebe.
“Perkins,” the supervisor on duty answered when I called for permission to leave my route.
“Hey, Richard, just wanted to let you know I’m diverting to Newcastle for the Xpress, then I’ll come back to Enchanted Glen.”
“Having one of them days, huh, Temp?”
“You heard about Dick?”
“He called Bancroft and complained.”
“Great!”
Ed Bancroft was the corporate man in charge of EVAL certifications, and he was looking for any opportunity to trim the budget.
“What did Bancroft say?” I rubbed at the tension creeping across my scalp.
“He told Randall he could always drive the twenty miles to pick up his packages but then he wouldn’t get an opportunity to harass you.”
“Sweet.”
“Yeah well, then he said...” Richard huffed out a sigh, “tell you to be in his office no later than seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Blast.”
By three-fifteen I’d made up time. I took the curve out of Camelot Court and the familiar rhythms of my job became like a delivery dance as I guided the truck with my left hand on the wheel and feathered the fingers of my right through the sun warmed air out the open passenger window. I glided to a stop as something moved in my peripheral vision.
Lancelot, the twelve-foot alligator and Enchanted Glen’s bona-fide water hazard, plodded across the fairway behind the Karrakas’ house. Lancelot rarely appeared on the golf course during the day, but after living to such a ripe old age in the slew behind the clubhouse, he probably knew the course was closed on Monday.
I watched him slide into the swampy slough on the other side of the third green. I’d been fourteen when the parish decided to cart Lancelot to parts unknown (or supply someone with a gator tag) and fill in the slough prior to the development of the Enchanted Glen Country Club. Environmental activists and “Children for Lancelot” had come out of the woodwork to protest the plan. I thought my slogan was the best—Without Lancelot there is NO enchantment.
At the Gator Run stop sign, I looked down the cart path marked by white lines and considered not driving through the loop by the clubhouse since they were closed. Odds were they hadn’t left any mail in the box, but I decided to play it safe in case I was being monitored. I drove between a stretch of live oaks toward the stately white building at the head of the circle drive.
Carts were backed up to the side of the building. The parking lot was bare except for the maintenance man’s old pickup peeking out from behind a long dumpster, and as I’d expected, the mailbox was empty. I eased forward, glancing over at the front of the building out of habit, and braked.
The door to the clubhouse was partially open. The wind had probably blown it open when maintenance neglected to lock it. I looked at my watch. 3:22. It wouldn’t take but a second to check it out.
The carrier is the first line of defense, was the training mantra that rang in all postal carriers’ heads. I put the truck in park and cut the engine. Approaching the front door, I called out, “Yo, the clubhouse. Anyone here?”
Yo, the clubhouse? I huffed out a nervous breath.
I pushed the heavy door with one finger. It slid open smoothly, silently. The wind caught it, sucked it closed, then swung it open again exposing the darkness beyond like the hungry maw of some mythological serpent. Okay… no more Titans movies for you.
The foyer carried an aura of old money, which seemed amplified by the vacant atmosphere. Mahogany shelves ran the length of the entryway on one side topped by a display of clubs by some of the biggest names in golf. The white and black checkerboard floor gleamed from a fresh waxing. To my right was a glass counter stocked with golf balls, gloves and specialty tees, some of which were strewn across the floor behind the counter. I heard what sounded like maintenance moving chairs around.
“Hellooo, mail service.” No answer. The banging in the other room continued. What was he doing back there?
I moved toward the noise but stopped as I was confronted with an invisible wall of odor, like rotten eggs and something dead, coming from the hallway. Gagging, I buried my nose in the crook of my elbow. That’s when I saw the long line of shiny reddish black goo spoiling the checkerboard pattern.
“Zeus!” I leaped back a step.
My breath hitched and I felt my cheeks flush. With jerky motions I grabbed at the display of clubs. They clattered to the floor. A snick and thump came from the locker room. Now my aura thing was kicking in and the message I was receiving wasn’t good. I bent down looking for the largest, longest, most dangerous looking club and hefted a Greg Norman wedge.
I backed toward the door but Menori urged me to fight. My heart accelerated, and blood rushed through my veins like a flash flood. Fingers tingling, I prepared to defend myself.
A squeak of metal came from the locker room. Someone was trying to open the exit door.
On a whim, I yelled, “Police.”
Chapter 8
I locked onto the remnant of River’s force like a Star Trek tractor beam.
* * *
Tempe
Agh. I didn’t just do that. Now what, Stop or I’ll shoot? With the heavy wedge in my fist, and a rising press of power I didn’t quite know how to control, what should I do next?
Well, duh. Run like hell.
I backed up to do just that, when the intruder in the locker room rammed the panic bar and escaped down the outside pathway.
Leaning on the wedge and gasping for breath, I cast menori out to search for any sign of life. Better late than never, right? I was alone, except for whoever was at the other end of that trail of blood.
Dread settled on me as I followed the putrid smell past the bar toward the locker room, and nearly hurled the piece of fried chicken I’d grabbed at the UPak-It fifteen minutes earlier.
A nude body lay in the access hallway near the locker room. The man’s face was so battered and bloody he was unrecognizable. I retched and spun toward the wall, pressing my jacket lining tight to my nose and mouth.
Zeus’ dead bolts! Could this day get any worse?
There was something about that smell… The coiled elements of my heritage twisted, reassessing sensory data, analyzing cell degradation, moisture and blood into their individual components. I had a flash of insight prompted by this new ability.
The body on the floor looked human, but he wasn’t a man at all. He was a variant—not a species you wanted to meet in a dark alley. I leaned over to get a better look at him and reached down to feel his neck, not relishing the idea of putting my hand on him.
The squish and slide of my foot in the dark blood threatened my equilibrium. I managed to regain my balance, when a familiar green object caught my eye, lying on the floor just inches from the man’s outstretched hand.
“Is that what I think it is?” I looked closer.
The object looked like a small pointy witch’s hat but was in fact, a lid—to my brother’s amphora. What was it doing here, beside this dead fae? I focused, sending the tendrils of my force behind the malodorous wall. It twisted around the body and the nearly solid rankness, searching for an essence I now recognized. River’s.
“Oh, no.” Where was he? Why hadn’t I recognized his presence immediately? “River!” I called. Nothing. My breath was coming in gasps as I rejected thoughts of bodily harm like this being done to my brother. “No,” I cried. No. He must be okay. I faltered briefly, closing my eyes and concentrating.
I swallowed and cast menori forward, stepping over the body and around black congealing blood. The Breath curled around chair legs, over counters, behind appliances. It avoided an air conditioning vent and exited the kitchen. I followed.
In the members’ lounge slash gym, I glanced over at the closed exit door and stopped in front of the flat screens and wet bar. No sign of River. Had my brother been here? If so, what had happened to him? Could the fae have fought with him? My mind was in turmoil. Too many
questions. So much weirdness. I couldn’t handle much more of this.
River. Where are you? I pressed my fingers to my jaws to release the tension settling there. My body quivered as if I was in a freezer but I don’t get cold. Everything that had happened today came rushing at me: River’s missing amphora, Marty’s appearance, the contractor’s call, the lunatics…was it all connected? Get it together, Tempe.
I looked at the expensive decanter of whiskey. Just a sip might help calm this raging sense of chaos inside me. I wavered. Tempestaeries and earth elements don’t harmonize which is why I usually abstain, but in the end, I splashed a small amount of golden liquor into a glass with shaking hands and chugged it.
Fire burned like lightning down my esophagus and forged through my veins as I followed menori’s progress. If River wasn’t here, then it must be his amphora. Like a slender trail of smoke, menori drifted into the vent holes of one of the lockers, identifying my brother’s essence. What was his amphora doing in that locker? Who was the variant out front and what did he have to do with River?
I should call 911, but they couldn’t help the creature in the front room. And my cell phone was still in my truck. For only a second I vacillated—get my phone and wait for the authorities, or get my brother’s genie bottle. No contest.
I turned back toward the locker. The room spun. Probably shouldn’t have had that little drinkie. I did feel calmer however, the shaking subsiding.
I locked onto the remnant of River’s force like a Star Trek tractor beam.
Forget 911. I had to find my brother.
The locker that held his bottle was secured with a hefty combination lock. It’s a little more complicated to zap that kind of lock, or maybe I just wasn’t thinking clearly. I had the solution, though, in my left hand—the heavy wedge.
I spread my legs like the golf pros I’d seen on TV, pulled the club back and swung hard, hitting the combination lock dead center—which accomplished nothing, except the lock seemed to taunt me with its imperviousness. I hit it with more force, over and over and over until finally it shattered into smithereens. Tossing the club aside, I opened the door to the locker and stared at my brother’s amphora, lying on its side on the top shelf.
