Wanted: Single Rose

by Skye, Mav

  “God, oh, God.” He closed his eyes, wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve and breathed in heavily.

  “Keep to the side, don’t open your eyes. Keep to the side, don’t open your eyes.” He repeated it over and over, and finally, pressing himself against the wall, keeping his eyes closed, he took one step down, then another and another until he knew he was safely past the decapitated head. Once more, he was jaunting down the stairs, wild eyed, with vomit on his sleeves and blood on his shoes.

  Mr. Fiddler’s door stood ajar—just a crack. The same way he had left it when he’d gone to get his key and never returned. “Mr. Fiddler! Hello?” He pushed on the door, and it creaked all the way open.

  Sir Sun entered the apartment. Framed pictures hung in the hallway, in one he spotted Mr. Fiddler’s thick eyebrows and beaked nose. He was younger, standing beside a pretty young woman and an old man. A picnic spread on a bed of green grass and a river lay behind them. Mr. Fiddler had never spoken of family, Sir Sun assumed this picture was from a time long ago in the old man’s past. A piece of notebook paper was generously taped to the wall above the hall light switch.

  On the paper, a child had painted a tall, brick building. There was a happy face peering out one large window. Besides the building in purple ink was: I LUV MY NEW HOME— LUV TAMIKA. Above the building, a red sun flared with blazing rays. From a child’s point of view, the sun represented a happy, sunny day. But to Sir Sun, the sun’s rays bled from the sky, engulfing the building in flames—fire and brimstone.

  He turned from the picture. “Mr. Fiddler?”

  Sir Sun walked down the hallway, all the apartments had the same basic floor plan though the premium plans had balconies in either the living room or by the kitchen. He peered left at the living room, straight ahead to the kitchen, then decided to check the bedrooms first. Both bedroom doors were closed. Perhaps, in his old age, Mr. Fiddler had forgotten what he was doing and had laid down to take a nap.

  He rapped on the bedroom door, then opened it. A nightlight illumined the room. The tidy bed held nothing but a pillow and flannel comforter. The closet doors were closed. Mr. Fiddler wasn’t in here. Sir Sun closed the door and looked back toward the living room. “Mr. Fiddler, I don’t know where you are, but there’s an emergency! Someone’s been hurt. I need my key.”

  As he said the words, he turned to the spare bedroom door, knocked, then opened it.

  Dark.

  He felt for a light switch, found it, and flicked it—Bingo! The room lit up. A pine desk sat against the far wall. A tall grandfather clock tick-tocked in the corner beside the bed, sheets pulled as tight as harp strings. On the other side of the bed sat a matching pine nightstand with a blue lamp. Between the nightstand and the closet, he spotted the key safe. “Thank God!”

  He leaped across the room, taking care not to trip on the wooden chair sprawled across the floor. Sir Sun slid his fingers around the sides of the metal box, feeling along the lip of the door for a decent ledge, and when he found it, he yanked. Hard.

  It didn’t budge.

  He pried his fingers under the metal edge of the box and pulled. Nada. He inspected the box again. In his haste, he had neglected to see the lock on the side of the safe. Of course, there’d be a lock. And the good Super, Mr. Fiddler, would never leave all his tenants keys in an unlocked, unattended key safe. Without the safe box key, there was no opening it.

  “Mr. Fiddler!” Sir Sun yelled again. It was then, he observed once more, the sprawled desk chair. It was out of place in the tidy room. Someone had knocked it over. Had someone else been in Mr. Fiddler’s apartment? Perhaps the same sadistic person who had tortured and murdered the stray. But why would anyone want to hurt Mr. Fiddler?

  A banshee scream from above distracted his thoughts. The scream was different this time. It was more of a whine, a long tired whine.

  Think. Think.

  Police! He needed a phone. He didn’t find one in the spare room or the master bedroom. He sprang to the living room. There was nothing on the TV tray, or on the stand beside the sofa. A deck of cards sat on a card table between the kitchen and living room. Entering the kitchen, Sir Sun noticed a phone charger plugged into an outlet by a lime green 1950’s blender. No cell phone was attached.

  “Dammit!” This was exactly why Sir Sun preferred a good old standard rotary installed permanently to one’s wall. He would have guessed Mr. Fiddler was one of the few decent ones left who still used a landline. Whatever the case may be, there was none to be found in the apartment. And the cell was with Mr. Fiddler, wherever he was.

  Another scream moaned above, it was quieter, tired.

  Sir Sun strolled the living room, back and forth, back and forth, his hands behind his back. He sat down on the couch, tapping his jaw. He stared at the living room window.

  An idea struck. He ran to the window, threw it open, and leaned out, inspecting the rickety old steps of a fire escape. The steps had been built in such a way that you couldn’t see them from the window unless you looked directly up or down—which he never did. He’d completely forgotten about them.

  The sun had already set, taking the rain with it. In its wake, darkness inked in the naked space, drowning the moon in an unsettling fog. Sir Sun couldn’t see the street.

  He marched to the kitchen, grabbed a butcher knife from the knife block beside the sink, then finally, with a plan and a weapon, climbed out of Mr. Fiddler’s window and up the fire escape.

  5

  Velva Meow

  Sir Sun flew up the rusted steps, the creaky metal threatening to break. His apartment was straight up from the Super’s, the empty second floor the only space between them. At the third floor, he reached his living room window.

  The window was shut. Blinds down.

  He had left the living room window open, so he and Velva could enjoy the sound of the rain while they ate. It felt like a hundred years ago. Now, Velva was probably as dead as the cat—chopped bit to tortuous bit by a madman.

  Sir Sun pressed his ear and cheek against the window. He thought he heard something, the sound of a door slowly opening or a chair being drug across the floor. He turned his face and listened with his other ear. The sound of dragging was gone, replaced by a low-pitched rise and fall of notes—like music.

  Who knew what the sick bastard was doing.

  He snatched Mr. Fiddler’s butcher knife out his back pocket, put his fingers on the window ledge and yanked up, expecting it to be locked. To Sir Sun’s surprise, the window slid up easily and quietly.

  He breathed once, twice. Then, like a circus lion jumping through a hoop of fire, Sir Sun dove straight through the open window, plunging into the blinds with his arms outstretched, the knife firmly in hand.

  “Let her go or I’ll use this thing!” He burst into the living room, his foot catching on the window trim. He fell face first to the carpet. He broke the fall by rolling, the blinds wrapping about him like binding ropes—everything blurred and spun. He felt pinching, bruising. He tasted blood. In all the racket, the knife had gone missing. He knew the murderer had to be close by, so he did the only thing he could. Sir Sun let out a guttural—No, monstrous—cry, hoping to scare the madman off long enough for him to get his bearings. It came out sounding like Blackbeard the Pirate: “Arrrrrrrrrrr!”

  He paused a moment from his thrashing and raised his head up above his chest. As his vision cleared, he first spotted the gas fireplace, roaring with flames. Above it, his bone orchid bowed her head, peering at him as if he were the madman.

  Punk chords burst from a small device sitting by his orchid. He recognized it as an iPod.

  Something was wrong. Not in a bound up, abducted by a serial killer kind of wrong, but in a misunderstanding kind of wrong.

  He heard movement from his couch. He smelled perfume. Then her voice, oh God, her silk voice flowed like golden honey sunshine. “Oh, there you are.”

  He froze, then rolled from his left to the right toward her voice.

  There, reclin
ing on his couch in soft candlelight with long-legged stems and voluptuous blooms, drinking wine and nodding her head to punk music, was a woman who could only be Velva.

  Her red velvet lips blossomed into lily-white teeth, her smile was one of amusement. “That’s quite an entrance.”

  She cocked her head playfully and observed Sir Sun. She set her wine down on the coffee table and retrieved a cigarette and a zippo from her purse. She brought the cigarette to her red lips, paused, then closed her mouth over the end of it and lit up. The black gloss of the Zippo held tiny diamond studs that spelled the word WICKED.

  Sir Sun watched, transfixed. Mystified.

  She lowered the cigarette from her lips, and blew out smoke. It whirled and twirled in the air, mysterious as its mistress.

  “So, what do you think?” She raised an arched brow at Sir Sun. When he didn’t respond, she stretched out her bare legs the full length of the couch. Her skirt bunched up over her knees, over her thighs. She was a vision of relaxed elegance, peering at Sir Sun expectantly.

  Sir Sun, tongue-tied, said, “You’re… you’re… I mean you’re not a…”

  The song from her iPod filled in his response.

  So did Velva. “A Madman?” She giggled and sat up, wrapping her slim, curvy legs around the front of the couch. “I meant the song, do you like it? It’s called Madman from the Guillotine Theater album.”

  Sir Sun’s mouth felt dry. He put his lips together but couldn’t respond. Did she say guillotine? He stared at her, open-mouthed, from the carpet, his arms still bound to his side by the cords from his window blinds.

  “You’ve heard of Cuddly Toys, right?” She arched her brow again.

  Speechless, Sir Sun shook his head.

  “Hmmm…” Velva brought the cigarette to her lips once more, watching Sir Sun, measuring him up. She came to a decision and leaned over, blowing out the candle on the coffee table. She stubbed out her cigarette on the candle tray, then picked up the stem of her wine glass and stood. She patted her flat stomach, adjusting the waist of her champagne pencil skirt. The first few buttons of her sapphire blouse were unbuttoned, so that the collar slouched comfortably right above her collar bone, the deep v of the blouse snug between her breasts.

  She walked around the coffee table snatching up Mr. Fiddler’s butcher knife as she continued to the fireplace. Her feet were bare. Sir Sun rolled back towards the fireplace, mesmerized. She placed the wine glass and knife on the mantle next to her iPod, and rested her hands on it, her back to him. She appeared to be considering something.

  The song switched to violins and cellos. They played pure and sorrowful rising to a high-pitched crescendo. The euphonic chords reminded him of the dark before the sun rose. He had always felt it was a scary time for the flowers and plants of the earth. Because if the sun didn’t rise, they would crumple to the dirt from which they sprung. There was no running away, as much as the vines tried to escape. He said, “Who is this?”

  Surprised, Velva turned, taking the knife from the shelf with her. Her face was full of pained emotion. “Epilogue by Apocalyptica.”

  They both listened in silence; the spell soon broken by The Cars singing Tonight She Comes.

  Velva played with the edge of the butcher’s knife while swaying to the music. Running her fingers up and down the edge, she danced a few steps forward until her toes touched Sir Sun’s nose. He could see straight up her skirt to her garter belt.

  Once again, he was tongue tied, bewildered. Was this really happening?

  She bent down towards his face, holding the blade over his head.

  Sir Sun gulped. Hard.

  She giggled. “Oh, now, I can tell you know this one. I bet you even have a record of one of their albums.”

  She paused, waiting.

  He nodded. “Um, yeah…”

  She raised an eyebrow, drawing the point of the knife from his face to his exposed throat. She tapped it on his Adam’s apple. “Which one?”

  He whispered, “Greatest hits.”

  Velva’s dark eyes sparkled in amusement. She nodded and in one swift movement, she drew the blade down the full length of the blind chords. Sir Sun was free.

  Velva dropped the knife on the carpet and backed up toward the fireplace, leaning against the wall beside it.

  With his bindings broken, his mind pulled from Velva’s spell. He could breathe again. Think.

  And the first thing he thought of was the door. Sir Sun brought himself to his knees, noticed the vomit on his sleeves and rolled them up, then he ran his fingers over his balding head. “It was locked.”

  “Excuse me?” Velva raised her brows.

  He pointed towards the hallway. “The front door. It was locked—”

  “Locked?” she said, shocked. Her eyes danced, dark in their mystery.

  Sir Sun said, “I was waiting for you, after you buzzed me, and when you didn’t come up, I worried.”

  Velva looked toward the hallway, then back at Sir Sun, waiting for him to finish.

  “Well, then I stepped out when you didn’t arrive and saw the dead cat.”

  “Dead cat?” She glanced at Mr. Fiddler’s knife she’d dropped on the carpet and rubbed her hands together uneasily. “I didn’t see a dead cat. You’re starting to spook me. Is this some kind of joke?”

  Velva retrieved her wine glass from the mantle and strode to the dining table, her hips moving like a dream. She helped herself to another glass of cabernet, her cute bottom all bound up in leaflets of champagne fabric. She tilted her hips to the side as she sipped.

  “No.” Sir Sun watched her, wanted her. He wanted her perfect form stretched out on the couch again. Speaking of which, how had she’d gotten on his couch in the first place?

  He gazed away from her to clear his head. “How did you get in here?”

  With her back to him, she shrugged, and continued sipping at her wine.

  Her dismissal irked him. He’d spent the last hour running up and down the stairs, listening to the scream of a tortured woman, dodging a mutilated decapitated beast on the stairs and, to make matters worse, Mr. Fiddler was missing. There was a madman afoot. He deserved to ask a few questions. Somehow, he knew Velva had the answers. “And please, help yourself to another glass of my wine.”

  Velva laughed. “My, is that sarcasm I hear? Don’t mind if I do.” She topped off her glass. “Besides, you did agree to dinner. Am I not your guest?” She flashed him a grin. Her teeth were a lily-white that he’d love to lick to a shine.

  Wicked Game by Chris Isaak played on her iPod.

  It was… distracting. “Don’t change the subject. How did you get in here? The door was locked.” He stood, strode to the table and poured himself a glass of wine. His hands shook—an effect of standing near her.

  Velva played with the stem of her glass. “The door opened just fine for me.”

  “What?” He almost dropped his glass.

  Velva shrugged. “Yeah, I got bored waiting in the hall. Knocked, then tried the handle. Opened right up. Figured you’d ran out to grab something last minute. You must have used the stairs while I went up the elevator. I figured I’d missed you.”

  Sir Sun watched her carefully. “The elevator is out of order.”

  She stopped playing with her glass and looked at him. “Oh, well, it worked fine for me.”

  Sir Sun frowned and folded his arms. “But…but I heard you scream.”

  “What?”

  “Not twenty minutes ago, I heard a woman screaming in my apartment. It was awful. Like she was being torn to pieces.”

  Velva tilted her head and sipped her wine. She walked to the fireplace and fingered his orchid. “I thought you said you were locked out of your apartment.”

  “I was.”

  She slammed her glass down by the orchid and turned, her hair forming a perfect dark ring around her shoulders. “You do know, Sir Sun, that you sound perfectly mad. Dead cats, screaming women, locked doors.” She pointed at the mess of chords and plastic blind
s on the carpet. “Jumping through your window with a butcher knife… You’ve even got blood on your shoes!” She pointed at his shoes.

  Guilty.

  Her voice softened. “You’ve already proved to me who you are, what you are. So you can just stop this right now.” Velva put her hands on her hips, an angry goddess. She was more attractive than ever.

  Sir Sun stood deflated and small by the dinette, holding the stem of his glass he didn’t even have the guts to finish. His stomach churned in turmoil. Now Velva hated him, and they both thought he was loony tunes.

  And maybe, just maybe he was. Or maybe she was.

  He kept glancing at Mr. Fiddler’s knife. Whatever happened this evening, he’d feel better with it in his hands.

  “Oh, Sir Sun, you look so distressed. You should finish your wine.”

  He set his glass down, still watching the sharp glint of the knife in the firelight.

  She asked, “Would you feel better with it?”

  This made him look up at Velva. She was watching him. “The blade, do you want it?”

  He nodded.

  She walked forward, slowly, moving her hips seductively, purposefully. She bent forward towards the knife, revealing her full cleavage. He blushed as she rose and handed him the knife—handle first.

  “Tell you what, partner. Let’s go check out the stairwell for a dead cat and you can prove to me you’re not crazy.”

  Sir Sun, tongue-tied, again, stuck the knife back in his back pocket.

  She stuck out her hand. “Let’s start over. I’m Velva.”

  Sir Sun gently took her hand, kissed it. “A rose by any other name wouldn’t do.”

  She giggled and dragged him by the hand to the hall, where she slipped on her heels. “So, how did this cat die?”