by Diana Saco
“You okay, Sha?” Al asked concerned.
“Um, yeah. Just got up too fath. Uh, fast,” I said, wondering why I was suddenly having speech problems.
Chloe gripped my arm and put her hand on my forehead. “You’re running a fever,” she said softly.
The touch and compassion reminded me of a former time. I found the childhood memory soothing and leaned into it like a warm blanket. When I opened my eyes, I was looking down at Chloe’s bosom and realized that I had dropped my head on her shoulder. I pulled back and looked to see if she’d noticed.
She raised an eyebrow at me.
“Chloe, will you take this couillon home, ya think?”
“Hey, not nithe,” I protested. “Um, nniccce,” I said more deliberately.
“Come on,” Chloe said.
“Wait. Med’sin.” I went back to my desk and started grabbing my jacket, car keys, cough syrup bottles, and laptop all in one heap.
“Hang on,” Chloe said. She pulled up my laptop bag and put the computer and medicine bottles in it before slinging the strap over her shoulder. She then helped me into my jacket, grabbed my car keys from me, and turned me toward the door.
“Bye-bye,” I said as I passed Al. “You big couillon,” I added.
I could hear him laughing as we left.
*****
I don’t remember much about the elevator ride down or getting into my car. The next thing I do remember was sitting in the passenger seat and lolling my head over to watch Chloe driving. She had her sunglasses on against the beams of light that were streaming in through the windows. They painted fascinating highlights in her long, dark hair. She looked over and saw I was awake.
“This is not acceptable, Nina,” she said. “I don’t like being around someone who doesn’t self-medicate responsibly.”
“It was just cough slyrrup,” I replied. I blinked nonchalantly, hoping she didn’t notice the way I slurred.
She smirked. “You bought that bottle this morning. It’s already half empty.”
“You sllay half empty. I sllay half full.” I was impressed by my ability to be philosophical despite having a fever and overdosing on cough syrup. I studied Chloe’s expression to see if she was impressed.
“Oh, brother,” she said.
I sighed. I drank some water to help clear my head. We spent the next several minutes in an uncomfortable silence. When I spoke again, I was relieved at least that my speech wasn’t as slurred.
“Why are you so angry with me all the time now?”
“I’m not angry with you, Nina. We had a disagreement. You were trying to warn me that I might get arrested. I simply preferred not to worry about it before it happened.”
I considered her words. “Okay, so that time, I was saying half empty, and you were saying half full,” I restated with a drowsy smile.
She smiled back. “Told you you had a way with words.”
“So are we okay now?” I ventured.
“I’m okay. You’re still drunk on cough syrup.”
“Drunk?” I asked, fishing the bottle out of the bag on the floor. “Do you think this stuff has alcohol in it?”
“Don’t know. I just know you’re under the influence and acting like a—what was it Al called you—a ‘couillon’?”
“Again, not nice,” I protested.
“What does it mean, anyway?” she asked.
“It means you think I’m an idiot.”
“Okay, that’s more harsh than I meant. I’d settle for ‘goober.’ ”
“Are all of your points of reference food related?” I asked.
“Pretty much.”
“Yeah, mine, too. For example, sometimes I think you’re as nutty as a fruitcake. Other times I think you’re a marshmallow. And this case of yours is no piece of cake.”
“Fine, but you still have to save my bacon,” Chloe added.
We laughed. Another silence followed, this time a comfortable one, and I knew then that we were going to be okay.
“Tell me a story, Chloe. Tell me your story.”
“You ran a background check on me, didn’t you? You already know my story.”
“Those are disconnected bits of data. I want narrative. I want ‘once upon a time’ kind of stuff dripping with blood, sweat, and tears.”
I looked over and saw Chloe swallow. She seemed apprehensive, and I hadn’t meant to put her on the spot.
“Never mind,” I said. “I already know the plot points,” I added softly, trying to let her off the hook.
It was quiet for a long while afterward. I started to nod off but was pulled back when I heard the low vibrato of Chloe’s voice.
“My oldest memory is of me sitting in my grandmother’s kitchen pulling sticky raisins apart.”
I opened my eyes and watched Chloe as she told me her story. Her expression was wistful.
“I think I was about four,” she continued. “My grandmother used to make cinnamon rolls from scratch. They were the gooiest I ever remember tasting. I would help her by getting the raisins and the pecans ready. Her rolls always had raisins and nuts. And vanilla, too. She added vanilla extract to the dough.”
“Is that why you like to bake?”
Chloe cocked her head to the side considering. “I suppose. I don’t remember very much else from my time with her. Just the warmth and sweet smells of her kitchen. And an overwhelming sense of contentment.”
“Did she teach you how to cook?”
“Oh yes. It worked out well because when she started to become sick, I already knew my way around the kitchen and was able to cook most of our meals. We would have been able to manage a while longer if she hadn’t had a stroke that left her virtually paralyzed. Next thing I knew, an ambulance came to take her to a nursing home, and I was carted off to the first of several foster homes.”
“That’s awful,” I said.
“The first home I was sent to wasn’t so bad. My foster mom was kind to me, and even took me to visit my grandmother. But two years later, my foster dad got a job out of state, and because I still had a living relative in Phoenix, everyone decided it was best for me to get reassigned. I didn’t want to leave my grandmother anyway. But my next family wasn’t so accommodating. I had to sneak out of school to visit my grandmother, which got me into a lot of trouble. All that truancy and misbehavior made it into my file, and once you get labeled a ‘difficult child,’ no one wants you. By the time my grandmother died, I was twelve and unadoptable.”
“Because you were too old?”
“Partly that. And partly because I was too smart for some rules. Adults don’t like children who think for themselves. Too bad for them. I became good at separating the wheat from the bull. I could tell which rules were meant to protect me and which ones were meant just to make someone else’s life easier.”
“Were you punished?” I asked.
“Of course. I got grounded a lot. But even I recognize how lucky I was. A couple of my foster parents had drinking problems and one was addicted to pain medication, but they were never abusive. It also helped that one of my foster brothers was into kickboxing and other martial arts. He taught me a few tricks. That came in handy when I struck out on my own after turning eighteen. I actually broke a guy’s nose once.”
“What? That’s terrible!”
“He had it coming,” Chloe said. “I was hitchhiking across New Mexico and accepted a ride from the only person who had been willing to stop in the last hour, a fifty-something trucker headed for Bartlesville, Oklahoma. We rode for a couple of hours talking about all the best food stops along Route 60. And I was really enjoying myself, too! Truckers know all the best places to eat. Then in Socorro, which is just south of Albuquerque, he pulls over and asks if I’d like to start thanking him now for his taxi service.”
“That’s gross!” I said.
“Very! And then he says he’d be willing to take me all the way to Bartlesville as long as we make a few stops along the way so I can thank him again.”
&nbs
p; “What did you do?”
“I said ‘thanks but no thanks.’ I started to get out of the truck when he made the mistake of grabbing my arm. I didn’t even think. My defenses kicked in, and I just jammed the heel of my hand into his nose the way Tommy had taught me. I heard this crunch, and then blood started spurting all over his face. I grabbed my bag and tumbled out of the cab.”
“What did he do?”
“He called me a ‘crazy bitch,’ gunned his engine, and left me in his dust. I was so hyped up on adrenalin that it wasn’t until after I could no longer see his truck that I realized I was still bouncing on the balls of my feet ready for a second round.”
“That sounds awful,” I said.
“No, it was good. It taught me a lesson. About being more alert—more careful about the people I trust.” Chloe paused then, considering. “I think I owe you an apology,” she said after a moment.
“What for?”
“For being on my guard with you. For expecting a second round. You didn’t deserve that.”
“Is that what you were doing?” I asked.
“Yes, I think so.” She glanced at me. “I guess I have a lot of baggage,” she admitted.
“Who doesn’t?” I said. “But just remember, Chloe. Life is like air travel.”
“Oh? How so?”
“You pay extra for baggage.”
“Ah.”
“Pretty deep for someone under the influence of cough syrup, huh?”
“Yes, but I hope your puns get better when you’re sober.”
I sighed. “Alas, they do not.”
15. Lovely Young Red-Headed Men
In the weeks leading up to her trial, Chloe and I grew closer. After making peace, we made friends. The downside was that I became even more frustrated not knowing who killed Monica Munch. It also shot my impartiality all to hell. Chloe was in my custody so that I could prevent her skipping town. The irony was that all I wanted to do now was help her run away.
These were dangerous thoughts to be having while driving my car with Chloe next to me as we headed west on the I-90 out of Boston. I had obtained special dispensation from The Powers That Be to take Chloe into Boston to meet with her editor. We had then planned to drive into Charlton, Massachusetts, to interview staff at the college where Maxine Moffit used to work. She and Marvin Munch were still our best suspects. Frankly, except for Chloe, they were our only suspects. This was why getting Chloe out of Dodge was such a seductive idea. It would have been so easy to keep going west and then maybe north, into Canada, leaving all the worry of the trial behind us. But Chloe wouldn’t run away with Mason’s $200,000 bail hanging in the balance. And I was too dang professional to consider compromising my ethics just to turn my friend into a fugitive from the law.
“You know, Thelma, it’s real tempting to make a run for it,” Chloe suddenly said.
“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing, Louise.”
She chuckled. “Yes, if it weren’t for Mason’s money and your reputation, I’d tell you to gun the engine. Of course, we’d have to go get a convertible first. All the best car getaways are with convertibles.”
I laughed and shook my head. It was uncanny that we both had been playfully bouncing the same idea around in our heads, and that we had kicked it away for the same reasons. “Tell you what,” I said, deciding to share more of what I’d been thinking. “When this is all over, let’s go somewhere together. Just hide from the world for a few days.”
Chloe didn’t reply, so I looked over for a moment to see if she’d heard me. She was looking back at me with a grin on her face. “I’d like that,” she said at last. Then she sighed and added, “Looks like I’m going to have free time anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“My editor decided to pull me off all current assignments until after the trial. And he hinted that even then, he may have less work for me.”
“How come?”
“Because apparently it doesn’t look good for a children’s book illustrator to be on trial for murder. Go figure.”
“That’s not fair! Whatever happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty’?”
Chloe looked at me funny. “You’re not really that naive, are you?”
I smiled. “No, I’m not. I just thought you needed me to be ‘Nina the friend.’ You know, your ’second,’ as Lily put it at the séance. That means I’m supposed to stand by your side and rage against the world for all its injustices toward you.”
“Of course. Nice raging,” she said.
“Speaking as ‘Nina the seasoned detective,’ however, business is always about reputation, so I get it. But I don’t have to like it.”
“Thanks. I mean that.”
“What will you do?” I asked.
“Luckily, I don’t have to do anything right away. Despite Mason’s comments at my arraignment, I have enough in my ‘modest’ savings account to live on for almost a year. I could work on some art projects I’ve had on the back burner. Or I could bake all my favorite desserts every day for a year and eat myself into oblivion.”
“Or o-blimp-ion!” I suggested with a grin.
“Right! Into oblimpion. Want to join me?” she asked.
“I may have to pass. I still have to be able to chase bad guys. I’m not just a sidekick, you know. I do things. Important detective things.”
“Or you could try doing important writer things,” Chloe said carefully.
“I do that, too,” I said with a shrug.
“When was the last time you took a writing retreat?”
“I’ve never been on one.”
“Seriously?” she asked. “You’ve never taken time off just to write?”
“What would be the point? I haven’t had a project worth taking the time off work for.”
“I don’t always have a project when I go on art retreats,” she said. “They’re just great places to network, decompress, get ideas. I go to bake-offs and cooking workshops for the same reason.”
I just shrugged without saying anything. Of course the retreats were great for Chloe, I thought. She was already a professional artist and a talented cook. She didn’t have anything prove.
“What exactly do you think goes on at a workshop?” she continued. “Do you think someone is standing at the door to check your credentials?”
“Someone is always checking credentials,” I said. “Even informally. We’re always judging what’s good and what isn’t.”
“I’m amazed at how wrong you are about the whole process, Nina.”
I smirked. “You’re not seriously telling me that you haven’t seen or tasted genuinely awful creations at any of your workshops, are you? Or that you’ve never read a book so bad that it should never have been written?”
“I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Nina, but you have to promise not to tell anyone, okay?”
“Okay,” I mocked. “I promise.”
“All right, here’s the secret. I have drawn pictures that were so bad that I had to throw them away. I’ve made whole cakes that I had to dump down the disposal. I’ve even had hundreds of project ideas that never got off the ground because I’ve had to reject them as downright sucky ideas.”
I sighed. “What’s your point, Chloe?”
“Artists are just people who create artwork,” she said. She paused, but I could tell she wasn’t finished. “Bakers are just people who make baked goods. And writers?”
She paused again, only it was so long this time that I looked over and saw she was waiting for me to prompt her. I rolled my eyes.
“What about writers, Chloe?” I prodded.
“Writers, Nina, are just people who string words together until they have a written work. Nothing guarantees that the outcome of any of those actions is going to be acceptable, let alone extraordinary. But the people doing those things are still artists, bakers, and writers.”
“Okay, I get it. I’m a writer,” I said relenting.
“Actually, I’m not sure you
are.”
I looked over at Chloe like she had two heads . . . with two faces on each.
“I thought you were trying to convince me that writers didn’t have to be good to be considered writers,” I protested.
“Yes, and you managed to miss the point exceptionally well, Nina.”
“Which is?” I asked.
“To be a writer, you have to write!”
“Ah, I knew there was a catch,” I quipped.
“No matter how bad it turns out, a book is written because it demands to be written, Nina. I bake for the same reasons. Because I have an idea for a dessert that I just can’t stop thinking about until I make it. I don’t worry about the outcome, and you shouldn’t either.”
“What should I worry about then?” I asked.
“Nothing!” she said. “Just let the creative process take you hostage. Write because you have characters that have squatted in your brain and are refusing to leave until you give them their day in the sun. Write because they demand your attention. Write because they’ve stranded you in their world, and the only way out is to map it for others. Don’t be afraid of writing, Nina. Be afraid of not writing. Be scared of losing your characters. Be their hostage knowing that if you don’t tell their story, they’ll be gone forever. Quite simply, forgotten,” she added with a fluttery wave of her hand for emphasis.
I mulled over Chloe’s metaphor and tried to remember if I had ever felt seized by an idea in the way she had just described. Had I ever let myself become a hostage to the process of writing a story? I felt my forehead wrinkle with the effort of squeezing those memories out. I recalled only a couple, including that story about the boy who had wanted to fly to Pluto. I sighed again, frustrated that I didn’t have more.
“How can you be so sure I have more of those stories and characters banging around in my head?” I finally asked.
Chloe smiled. “The whole frustrated writer thing is a dead giveaway,” she replied. “You wouldn’t care about writing if you didn’t already have something you were dying to say, no matter how buried it is. That’s why I think you’d benefit from a retreat. And sharing is entirely voluntary.”
