A Glimmer of Death

by Valerie Wilson Wesley

  Praise for Valerie Wilson Wesley’s Tamara Hayle Mysteries

  “There’s a richness of language in Wesley’s writing, joined by a delightful sense of humor. She makes the mean streets of Newark come alive.”

  —San Francisco Examiner

  “A major talent . . . Wesley’s voice—laden with wit, style, and sparkle—is unique in mystery fiction.”

  —The Globe and Mail

  “[Tamara Hayle] has a way with a wisecrack that is positively lethal.”

  —Washington Post Book World

  “A wonderfully believable and independent sleuth who combines intellect and intuition, sexiness and self-control.”

  —Denver Post

  “Outstanding . . . A warm, witty comedy of midlife manners.”

  —Boston Herald

  “An engaging heroine—smart, sexy, tough but tender.”

  —Houston Chronicle

  “The desperate search for a missing child makes Newark PI Tamara Hayle’s eighth outing a chilling, thought-provoking read.... Wesley recounts Tamara’s struggles with equal parts irony, compassion, and insight.”

  —Publishers Weekly on Of Blood and Sorrow

  A Glimmer of Death

  VALERIE WILSON WESLEY

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Dessa’s Go-To Cake

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2021 by Valerie Wilson Wesley

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  The K logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2780-0 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2780-0 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2778-7

  For my sister-cousins

  Joyce, Karla, and our beloved Janis

  Acknowledgments

  There is not enough space on this page or any other to thank the many friends who have supported and cheered me through this book and so many others. Thank you all for being there for me. My gratitude to Selena James, Wendy McCurdy, and the editors at Kensington Books, who believed in me enough to let me try a cozy. My continued thanks to Faith Hampton Childs, my friend and agent, who has been in my corner since I began writing. As always, my love and gratitude to my husband, Richard, for his good spirits and easy laughter when I most need them, my daughters, Thembi and Nandi, for their lean-on-me strength and gracious, loving ways, and my grandson, Primo, for bringing such joy into my life. And, of course, to Junior, the purring inspiration for Juniper, Dessa’s cat.

  Chapter 1

  The office reeked of nutmeg. It tickled my nose, filled my mouth, forcing its way down my throat. Funny thing about nutmeg. A dash can spice up cocoa; too much can make you sick. Determined to ignore it, I focused on the real estate listings in front of me. Yet the smell wouldn’t leave. I closed my eyes, trying to block this pain-in-the-neck, useless sixth sense, but it did no good. To me, Odessa Jones, nutmeg means death.

  “You doing all right over there, Dessa?” asked Bertie Jefferson, the agent in the cubicle next to mine. At Risko Realty, only the owner, Charlie Risko, had an office. Everybody else worked in narrow, shoddy cubes that offered no privacy and little room for laptops, plastic cups, or computer printouts.

  “Do you smell something, like, uh . . . eggnog?” I said, hoping I was wrong this time.

  Bertie sniffed the air. “Eggnog? Naw, just the lingering stink of that nasty body oil Vinton greases himself down with every morning. You sure you’re okay?” Bertie’s eyes, framed by horn-rimmed glasses, looked brighter than usual.

  I forced a smile. “Just discouraged.”

  “Don’t be.” Bertie smiled wide enough for me to spot a speck of light sparkling on a gold-capped tooth. “Believe me, honey, good luck happens when you least expect it. Sometimes you have to make your own, need to smile through your tears till it happens.”

  Smiling through my tears was the last thing I felt like doing, though Bertie did a good job of it. She had reason to believe in good luck; she’d sure had her share of bad. After thirty years of working at the same place and married to the same man, she’d lost her job and man in one fell swoop: Her agency downsized; her husband walked out. Louella, who she called her “problem of a daughter,” disappeared weekly, breaking her heart daily and forcing her to raise Erika, Louella’s young daughter, on her own. Although Bertie adored her granddaughter, she swore the child bore no resemblance to anyone she knew—past or present—and stayed angry at Louella for reasons she never shared. Yet Bertie worked hard each day and carried her burdens mostly in silence. Like nearly everyone at Risko Realty, this place was Bertie’s desperate snatch at sanity and middle-class respectability. Each sale (or promise of one) brought hope and a dream. Bertie had just sold a mid-six-figure Dutch colonial in a “better” part of town. At least for now, Bertie’s dream had come true.

  Risko Realty was a cut-rate real estate agency in Grovesville, an aging New Jersey town stuck between struggling Clifftown and affluent Bren Bridge, a once-upon-a-time “sundown town” that folks like me still avoided when the sun set. Like Goldilocks’s favorite chair, Grovesville was neither too large nor too small. The winding, narrow streets were filled with people of various races, ethnicities, and social classes—much like the mix of folks in my office. Some thought Grovesville the perfect place to put down roots. Others considered it a brief stop toward a brighter destination—Manhattan was just two train stops away. A tasty blend of ethnic foods—jerk chicken, sushi, pad thai, and a twenty-four-hour diner—assured nobody went hungry. Crimes were few and far between, and citizens walked its streets (at a reasonable hour) with no fear. Five years ago, my late husband, Darryl, and I bought our small yellow house—a wedding gift to each other—on one of those winding streets and lived there happily until his sudden death last year. Those were the happiest days of my life.

  “You’ve only been here, what, couple of months? No time at all. I might have a few rental leads for you,” Bertie said, but I barely heard her. My mind was racing. The smell of nutmeg, grown stronger, was back.

  * * *

  I have what some folks call “second sight.” I look like any woman in her early forties patiently waiting her turn in a beauty salon or checkout line. My round brown face, “cute” haircut (or so people tell
me), and quick dimpled grin often remind strangers of a beloved sister or cousin, which I always take as a compliment. Six months before Darryl died, a streak of silver hair suddenly appeared on the left side of my head. Darryl jokingly told me to dye it blue, which I did, but now it’s back, and I’ve decided I like it. It’s distinctive, different, like other things about me. I can sense, smell, and hear things other folks can’t. Hazy auras, sometimes with color, which my aunt Phoenix calls “glimmers,” appear when certain people enter my space. I can “read” rooms and know intimate things about their occupants. When bad things are on the way, I sense them. Every now and then, other people’s words tumble out of my mouth. (Thank God, that’s not often!)

  But I’ve grown to distrust and resent this “gift.” Where was it last year when my life fell apart? Why did it give me no warning that Darryl would drop dead of an aneurism? Or that I’d be on the verge of losing our home? Or that D&D Delights, the catering business we started, would go bankrupt because I couldn’t bring myself to cook? This “gift” had failed me in every imaginable way, and I was sick of having it. Despite what my aunt believes.

  Aunt Phoenix, my informant on all things extrasensory, claims the gift is a family heirloom passed like a china soup tureen to those who deserve it. (As if anyone needs a china soup tureen.) She says my gift will grow stronger and more varied the older I get. (It’s strong enough now, thank you.) I have distant cousins, Aunt Phoenix claims, who can wash dishes with the flick of a finger or trip a man going downstairs with the nod of a head. But my aunt does enjoy the occasional nip of cherry brandy from the flask she keeps tucked in her purse. I often assume her tales are flavored accordingly.

  Yet despite my mistrust, I can’t dismiss the gift altogether. It has warned me about risky houses and lying sellers. It has suggested the odd spice to jazz up rice pudding or tone down hot pepper sauce. I can’t count on the thing but dare not ignore it. And here it was this morning, masking death as nutmeg.

  * * *

  “Hey, Miss Dess, how you doing today?” Vinton Laverne asked as he eased into the cubicle near Bertie. Nutmeg was overtaken by bitter lemon. Vinton was a short, wiry man older than me by a decade whose clothes aged him by two. His taupe three-piece suits, striped mohair sweater vests, and rimless glasses gave him the look of a stodgy bookkeeper about to retire. On my first day at Risko Realty, I’d noticed that he was surrounded by one of Aunt Phoenix’s glimmers—mouse gray—as if it were inspired by his clothes and being. I’d gotten used to it, though, and barely noticed it anymore. According to Bertie, who had some goods on everybody, Vinton had been with Risko Realty for decades—through the deaths of Leon, the patriarch; his older son, Stuart; and into the reign of Crown Prince Charlie.

  “Did you see Charlie yet?” Bertie asked Vinton as he turned on his laptop.

  “Yesterday, just before you. Made my quota so he stayed off my tail. You did okay?”

  Bertie grinned and pointed to a magnum of cold duck on her desk; it was Risko’s idea of a celebratory award. “This is my lucky day, you-all. I got the wine and found these gloves cheap, cheap, cheap on eBay last week.” She pulled out a pair of hot-pink leather gloves and waved them in Vinton’s face. Bertie loved a bargain and at least three times a week displayed her latest online finds despite the quiet annoyance of the rest of us. “Take a look.” She tossed a glove to Vinton, who slipped it on his thin hand.

  “How come you got pink?” he said.

  “I like pink!”

  “Well, they do make a bold statement, I’ll give you that. But they’re so loud you can hear them arguing.” Vinton cackled and tossed them back.

  “You need to make a bold statement with the clothes you’re always wearing around here. Half the time, you look like you’re headed to the graveyard,” said Bertie with more than a touch of malice.

  “Well, there are statements left better unstated,” said Vinton, not to be outdone. “I’ll make my statements, and you make yours, loud as they may be. You meet with him yet, Dessa?” he said, changing the subject and turning his attention to me. I’d gotten used to the quarrelsome banter between the two of them and was glad not to be drawn into it. Occasionally, Bertie had a nasty, cruel streak that surprised me, and Vinton was often her victim. I was glad he’d answered back this time. Aunt Phoenix’s glimmer told me he had a troubled soul, and I keep a warm spot in my heart for troubled souls.

  “Not yet,” I said. “His e-mail said he’d see me when he got in.” My chest tightened when I thought about it.

  “Sorry, shouldn’t have mentioned it.” Vinton must have noticed my expression. He threw Bertie a knowing glance. I slumped down in my chair.

  Once a month, Charlie Risko met with each of us to discuss our status. The top-seller got the cold duck. Those with good sales got thin smiles. “Losers,” who barely made enough for their desk fees, got a growl and were given a deadline of two months to cover what they owed for fees and insurance. He was also known to take out his .38 and playfully place it on his desk beside his motorcycle helmet, deerskin gloves, and latest issue of Swank magazine. He swore the gun was properly licensed, never loaded, and joked that he had friends in high places, implying he could get away with shooting somebody if he felt like it. I assumed he meant it to be funny, but it scared the heck out of me. You could never really tell what Charlie Risko was up to. He had an ugly sense of humor and was as unpredictable as he was spiteful. Since I was one of those losers he often referred to, I desperately studied the printout of rental leads (that might someday become home purchases) and wondered how much longer I’d have a desk in this crowded space. I prayed he wouldn’t tease me with his licensed, “unloaded” gun.

  Selling real estate had once seemed the perfect way out of my financial problems. I figured I could make my own hours, leaving time to shore up D&D Delights. After I got my real estate license, I imagined a small agency like Risko Realty would offer a quick, easy way to earn some money. I hoped that being surrounded by pleasant office mates would force me to leave the home I share with my cat, Juniper, and get through the loneliness that often consumed me. It seemed the perfect place to start my new beginning. But “new beginnings” are never the beginnings you think they’ll be.

  * * *

  When the front door to the office opened, then closed with a slam, I jumped, assuming it was Charlie Risko. It was Juda Baker, Louis Vuitton bag swinging gamely from her bony shoulder. She settled gracefully as far away from me and Bertie as she could get. Vinton promptly deserted us and sat down next to her.

  “You see Charlie last night?” he whispered, loud enough for us to hear. “You okay?” he added. Juda gave a dramatic shake of her long blond hair.

  From the moment I set eyes on Juda Baker, I sensed she kept secrets. I also knew she was a liar. For one thing, nappy, black roots peeked defiantly through her golden mane. There was nothing wrong with dying your hair. I did it myself when that silver popped out, but to claim your “natural” color was inherited from your Swedish grandmother when that was clearly not the case was a step too far. Her Louis Vuitton was an obvious knockoff, which made me wonder what kind of a fool buys knockoffs when the “knockoffs” have knocked out the real thing. Although these were small, innocent deceptions. I sensed there were more. Juda never spoke to me or Bertie. I assumed it was because she didn’t want to be identified too closely with other black women, which annoyed the heck out of me and Bertie. This morning was no exception. Never know where someone’s Nikes have jogged, Darryl liked to say, and in the spirit of my late husband, I gave Juda another try.

  “Morning, Juda,” I chirped from my cubicle. As usual, she ignored me. As usual, Bertie rolled her eyes and spat.

  The screech of a motorcycle halting outside the building pulled my attention from Juda back to the front door. Everyone stopped what they were doing, looked up, and took a collective breath. Charlie Risko, his young wife, Tanya, hanging on his arm, strolled lazily into the office.

  Risko was five foot six with a broad
moon face and ruddy cheeks. The thin red hair underneath his helmet was cut in a mullet—short in front and on the sides, long in the back—and his pointed, ragged beard resembled a woodpecker’s crest. Jeans, meant for a man twenty years younger and thirty pounds thinner, fit his wide behind like a sausage casing, while his snug T-shirt rode dangerously up his back, revealing flesh as pale as a trout’s belly.

  Tanya was tall and disturbingly thin, making up in youth and style what her husband lacked in both. Her black leather pants were as snug as a snake’s skin, and stiletto-heeled boots shot her six inches above Risko. Tight turtlenecks of various colors covered her lean body from hips to neck and always peeked from under her black leather moto jacket, giving her a dangerous air, but her dreamy, heavy-lidded eyes and high-pitched voice gave her a little-girl’s charm. When she spoke, she drawled out her words, as if unsure of them.

  “Hey, Studebaker, how you driving this morning?” Charlie yelled to Juda as he ushered his wife into his office. “Seemed to be driving all right last night. Who haven’t I met with? Mrs. Odessa Jones, right? Anybody seen Lane? Or that damned Harley? Tell him to bring his thuggish butt in whenever he gets here. I got something to say to him,” he added, slamming the door behind him.

  “Studebaker?” I mouthed to Bertie.

  “Must have been some kind of pet name he gave her when they were going together back in the day,” Bertie whispered back. “Makes you wonder what last night was about, doesn’t it?” We glanced surreptitiously at Juda, who feverishly studied the listings in front of her. Bertie had once mentioned that Charlie fancied himself a ladies’ man, and had slept with three agents in the office. Two had quit, and I was reasonably sure Bertie wasn’t the third.