A Glimmer of Death

by Valerie Wilson Wesley

  “Thank God that’s over,” Vinton said as he continued typing. Juda, her voice overly cheerful, made another call. They were pretending not to hear her. A stream of sweat rolled down my back. I closed my eyes to shut myself off.

  * * *

  Darryl teasingly called me Deanna Troi, an “empath” from one of his favorite TV shows. And empaths, according to Darryl and the Star Trek writers, absorb emotions, get overwhelmed by other people’s problems, have generous hearts that open too wide, and grab everything around them. He was right about one thing: I do take other people’s emotions—anger, sorrow, fear—and pull them into myself. A gift from the gift I suppose, although it skipped Aunt Phoenix; empathy was not her strong suit. It did, however, belong to my late mother, Rosemary, who Aunt Phoenix never tired of saying was too sensitive for her own good. Maybe I was, too. I remember watching my mother close her eyes and go somewhere inside herself when people were cruel, or angry, or things got scary. She left whenever she argued with my father, which was seldom. Or when Aunt Phoenix made her cry, which was often. When I’d ask her where she’d gone, she’d smile. I can’t recall all the times she left me.

  Shutting my eyes didn’t work this time. I had to actually leave. I picked up my bag, slipped on my headphones, and walked away fast, putting as much space between me and Risko Realty as I could. It didn’t help that it was October, the month Darryl and I got married. Most days, I managed to fight my looming sadness, but between the nutmeg, Risko, and Bertie’s sorrow, everything was welling up inside me. Somehow, I got to the park where Darryl and I used to jog, found our bench, played Darryl’s playlist, and despite the curiosity of a couple of kids, cried for the next ten minutes. The sun was fading but still shining. I could feel its heat on my face. I closed my eyes as I let it warm me. I made myself hear Darryl’s voice telling me I’d be okay. I breathed in slow, felt better, took some turns around the track until it was dark and the sun was gone.

  It was time to go back to the office. Maybe Bertie would still be there and we could talk; maybe Harley had finally made it in with my grande coffee. I knew one thing, though: I wasn’t yet ready to face my empty house. I spotted a motorcycle parked down the street but couldn’t make out if it was Harley’s or Risko’s and didn’t feel like walking toward it to find out. The office seemed empty, which was fine, although Dennis Lane must have forgotten his laptop, which was still in his cubicle.

  I pulled up a website and had cruised through about a dozen listings before I noticed the light shining under the door in Risko’s office and realized he was still in there. Suddenly, he began shouting and cursing out some poor soul with such venom and hatred it made me cringe—and I don’t shock easily. My empty house was looking better by the minute. Too tired and disgusted to stay and hear any more, I picked up my belongings and headed home as fast as I could.

  * * *

  Home is a neat Cape Cod with a tiny brick front porch and a backyard I plant with spearmint, basil, and thyme in the summer. There’s a working fireplace in my living room with comfortable easy chairs on either side, and enough space on the rug in front for Juniper, my plump black cat, to sit on without getting singed. When I settle down at night to watch Netflix or Hulu, I sip a cup of chamomile tea or a glass of merlot (depending on the day) and try to be as calm as I can and at peace with the world. This was a merlot night.

  As usual, Juniper greeted me at the door, hoping for a cat treat he knew I’d deliver. The vet had told me to cut down on the treats, but I’m a fool for my pet and he knows it.

  “No more, you plump little creature,” I scolded as he scrounged for more, then felt bad for fat-shaming him and gave him another, which he eagerly gobbled down. Juniper was good company. My only company, if truth be told, and I was becoming dangerously dependent on him. Darryl would not have approved.

  Despite everything, I found myself thinking about Risko Realty, wondering what had happened with Bertie and hoping Harley’s temper hadn’t gotten the better of him. I knew I had to find other things—and people—to worry about, but it was hard to do. Darryl was the sociable one in our marriage who made friends for us both. I was the lonely planet depending upon his sun to connect and reach out. But the friends we’d made as a couple slowly slipped away after his death. A few acquaintances remained, like the owner of Royal’s Regal Barbecue, and Julie Russell, who was in her early sixties and lived next door. She was recently divorced (an unpleasant, unexpected surprise) and mostly kept to herself. But I’d never really reached out to her. My only kin nearby was Aunt Phoenix, a mixed blessing. I finished off the last of some leftover barbecued chicken from Royal’s Barbecue (since I rarely cooked anymore), poured a generous glass of merlot, and settled down to watch a movie on Netflix.

  When the phone rang, I knew who it was but answered anyway.

  “I know it’s been a bad day, Odessa, but put down that wine. Best get yourself a flask of brandy to take the edge off . . . troubling times.” Aunt Phoenix’s gravelly voice was surprisingly comforting. “It’s curry for me. Strong curry. More powerful than nutmeg, so consider yourself lucky.” I didn’t bother to ask my aunt how she knew what was going on or what I was drinking. “I miss that boy, too,” she added, remembering it was the month Darryl and I married. From the moment they met, Darryl and Aunt Phoenix were fast friends, an utter surprise to me. “Did you play that number like I told you to?” she finally got around to asking.

  “No, Aunt Phoenix, I didn’t play that number like you told me to do,” I said, mildly irritated, knowing that if I had, my major problem would be solved. Aunt Phoenix was known around town for her uncanny ability to choose winning numbers in the state lottery. She didn’t win big but she won frequently. “I need to ask you a question about the glimmer. Can a person pass a bad glimmer on to somebody else?”

  “Depends on the glimmer. Depends on the person. Don’t you work at that Risko Realty place? Better turn on the news. I love you, Odessa,” she said and hung up. Our conversations were always brief.

  It was the lead story with lights shining hard on the place I’d just left. Charlie Risko had been shot dead in his office. The police were looking for leads. His killer was still at large.

  Chapter 3

  “Shame for a man to die like that, in his own place of work,” said Lennox Royal, the owner of Royal’s Regal Barbecue. I wondered if he was thinking about himself and his kitchen. “If you ask me, the wife had something to do with it. It’s always the spouse,” he added with a weary head shake. I hoped his past wasn’t informing that, too. He knew what he was talking about, being a retired police detective; he probably knew his way around a murder case. But it was hard to imagine that Tanya Risko, with her sweet face and childlike manner, could shoot her husband in cold blood. Yet sweetness is known to hide sour; the prettiest flowers, from oleander to lily of the valley, are often the most deadly. And like everybody else who worked at Risko Reality, I had no idea of who the girl really was. I couldn’t depend on the gift to tell me, even though it had tossed out the nutmeg yesterday. (I had to give it that.) “So what kind of man was he?” Royal continued as he filled an oversized saltshaker. I shrugged and sipped my coffee. No sense in talking bad about the dead.

  * * *

  I’d been sitting at Royal’s counter for the better part of an hour. This was my second cup of coffee and third glazed donut. I was his first and only customer. His place was famous for barbecued ribs and fried chicken wings, not so much day-old donuts and coffee strong enough to stew your liver. But I was desperate and had nowhere else to go.

  I’d awakened this morning with my usual Friday thoughts—thank God I can sleep late tomorrow, what to wear to work, where to go for lunch, what to buy for dinner—then sat up with a start. I wasn’t going anywhere. Charlie Risko was dead. Risko’s Realty was probably closed. I tried calling Bertie then Harley to get their takes on what had happened and find out if they were feeling the same way as me, but neither answered their phones. I left messages for each, hoping they’d g
et back to me. I desperately needed to talk to somebody. Aunt Phoenix was out of the question.

  Stumbling into the bathroom then the kitchen, I slumped down at the square oak table Darryl and I had bought at a yard sale two weeks before he died. It pulled out to seat six and we’d planned to have dinner parties. One more thing that was never going to happen. I took a breath, closed my eyes, and made myself stop thinking. Risko Realty had given me somewhere to escape to each morning. My coworkers weren’t friendly, but at least they were people—unlike the chubby little creature chowing down on the cat food I poured into his dish.

  “What should I do, Juniper?” I asked, as if he could answer. Puzzled, he glanced up, licked his chops, then went back to his meal. “Thanks for nothing,” I said.

  I rummaged through the cabinets for an overlooked jar of instant coffee, not my favorite thing to drink. I usually picked up my morning coffee at the Starbucks on my way to work. There was nothing here. I slumped back into my chair. Nowhere to go. Nobody to talk to. No coffee to drink. Royal’s Regal Barbecue suddenly came to mind.

  * * *

  “I mean, was he a good man, or thank-God-that-rascal-is-dead kind of guy? A man with some heart, or the classic SOB?” Royal asked again, noticing my attention had strayed.

  “A capital S capital O capital B,” I said, forgetting my reverence for the dead. He chuckled and I laughed with him, realizing suddenly I’d forgotten how good it felt to laugh in the morning. I’d never thought of Royal as being handsome but at that moment I did. He was always joking with customers about eating too much of his own potato salad and his need to get back to the gym, but nobody agreed with him, and I’d noticed Georgia, his assistant cook, and more than one of his female customers give him an appreciative eye. He was tall and well built, but not overly so. His slight beard was lightly sprinkled with gray, which made him look distinguished yet approachable, and he had a quick smile that was slow to disappear. His eyes smiled, too, and never hid his feelings—probably a dangerous thing for a cop, as was the warmth he showed everyone who entered his place. He quietly fed those too broke to pay, listening patiently to their promises of reimbursement. Sometimes they were good for it; most times they weren’t. He was a good man, unlike the recently deceased. I could say that without hesitation. But laughing with him now, I realized it was the first time I’d laughed with a man in a very long time. I stopped myself and took a sip of coffee.

  These days, I hardly noticed men at all, handsome or not. Noticing felt disloyal, like I was betraying my love for Darryl, which was silly, but I couldn’t get over it. Cutting myself off from the world would be the last thing Darryl would have wanted. I hadn’t been a nun when I married and had known my share of men, some with good hearts, some without. I’d had a disastrous engagement that ended a week before we were to get married and pretty much committed myself to living solo. Until I met Darryl.

  “Whoever it is, man, woman, or both, is still at large, right?” Royal asked, pouring me another cup of coffee and bringing me back to his place. “Need some milk in that? I know it’s strong. I like it strong. Always forget most people like it, what do they call it, café au lait?”

  That made me smile, too. “How come you say both?” I said, turning again to Charlie Risko’s murder.

  “If she’s going to do it, the wife, it’s probably with somebody else, unless he was abusive, knocking her around, then she’d kill him herself before he killed her. That’s a different case altogether. Was he abusive?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “If he was, that puts a different spin on things. Have you talked to anybody at work? When something like that happens, people can’t keep their mouths shut.”

  “Not yet,” I said, thinking again how isolated I was from my coworkers.

  “Did she have something going with somebody on the side?”

  I remembered how Tanya had looked at Dennis Lane, but that wasn’t on the side. That was in plain sight for everybody to see.

  “I really don’t know,” I said after a minute. Bertie had never mentioned anything like that, and she wasn’t one to keep those kinds of observations to herself.

  I checked my phone to see if she or Harley had called back, but neither had. But there was a text from Aunt Phoenix. Her texts were occasionally quotes from Maya Angelou, which I welcomed; more often they were the daily lottery numbers that she wanted me to play. Her eyes weren’t what they used to be, and she was known to hit wrong numerals or letters. But I needed the money, so I decided to take a chance.

  “Do you sell Pick 4 lottery tickets, Mr. Royal?” My question took him by surprise.

  “Mr. Royal? How long have we known each other, Mrs. Jones? Long enough to be on a first-name basis. Please call me Lennox. Lennox Royal. Sounds like a fancy china pattern, doesn’t it? But it’s the name my mama gave me.”

  “Odessa,” I said, extending my hand as if we were meeting for the first time. “But most folks call me Dessa.” My full name had come out before I’d thought about it. It sounded strange to say the whole thing. Dessa was usually how I introduced myself these days. Nobody but Aunt Phoenix called me Odessa.

  Lennox gave me a slow, wistful smile. “I’ve always loved that name. It’s a beautiful one you don’t hear much anymore. My grandma was named Odessa. Put me through college with what she earned as a cook. She was the one who taught me how to barbecue. To answer your question, I only sell one. Powerball. So you a gambling woman? Not that I have anything against gambling women,” he added after a beat.

  “Not really. I have a family member who thinks she has an inside track.”

  “There is no inside track. My ex-wife was a gambler. Believe me, that inside track can run right through you and those who love you.”

  “Is that why she’s your ex?” I asked before realizing it was none of my business. The man giving me his name didn’t give me the right to jump into his personal affairs.

  “That and other things.”

  The shift in his gaze told me the other things weren’t about to be shared. I quickly changed the subject. “How’s Lena doing? I haven’t seen her in a while.”

  His eyes lit up at the mention of his daughter. “She’s doing just fine. At school now. If you stay around here long enough, you’ll see her.”

  Most nights Lena sat in a distant corner—earphones covering ears, hands grasping her iPhone—always staying close enough for Lennox to keep an eye on her but far away enough to feel safe. Lena, twelve years old, was on what’s called the autistic spectrum. After Lennox’s wife left, he retired from the force to run the restaurant and take care of his daughter full time. Lena looked like her father, except she must have gotten her mother’s eyelashes, which were long, and her plump cheeks, which you wanted to pat except Lena was too old for that, and if you reached for one, she’d be startled and move away. We met Royal through Lena.

  Darryl was a special-ed teacher who worked with autistic kids, and Lena was one of his students. Lennox would stop by the school every now and then to check on his daughter while I waited for Darryl to get off work. He’d mentioned Lena’s father was a cop. I’d had a couple of bad experiences with policemen and wasn’t sure what to expect. But no other parent was as patient or gentle with a child as Lennox Royal, which had impressed Darryl, too. Father and daughter had come to Darryl’s funeral, Lennox Royal weeping but trying not to show it. Lena rocking back and forth, trying to find a safe space in a room filled with sorrow.

  “You know that if the murderer, be it woman or man, is still out there, you could be in danger, right?” His question took me as much by surprise as mine probably had to him about the Pick 4. For an instant, I could see the cop. Businesslike, no-nonsense gaze lowered slightly, no smile visible, eyes demanding the truth and nothing but the truth. I looked for a sliver of a smile, hoping he was half joking; he was dead serious.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I think I’d know if I was in danger.”

  “You never know when you’re going to
be a victim,” he said, with a trace of condescension.

  “I’m pretty sure I would,” I said, thinking about the gift but deciding not to mention it. Common sense told me that Lennox probably was not a man who put stock in smells, sounds, and colors that foretold the future. He was practical, earnest. I sensed that much about him. Even Darryl had been doubtful about the gift when I finally got up enough nerve to tell him about it. Better keep that one in the family, he’d said with an amused chuckle. He was definitely not a believer. Until he met Aunt Phoenix.

  “Just be careful,” Lennox said, obviously concerned. “I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Well, there aren’t many murders or murderers in Grovesville,” I said after a moment or two of coffee sipping and donut chewing.

  He paused before responding. He wasn’t a sighing kind of man, but I could almost hear one. “Odessa, this isn’t the only place I’ve worked. I was in Chicago for a while, and before that LA. I saw more anger, kids killing each other over BS like wearing the wrong color or something dumb like that, than I ever want to see again in life. I’ve seen my share of killings, let’s put it that way.”

  “But Grovesville is—”

  “People are people. You never know what demons they carry around. What’s going to make them finally break.”

  I’d forgotten to put my iPhone on vibrate, and the “duck” ringtone, which I’d put on to entertain Juniper, honked its way into the silence that followed Lennox’s recollection.

  “Lena likes that one, too,” he said, amused by the sound. “No matter how many times I hear it, I look for a duck. Always makes her laugh.”

  “I need to find something more appropriate,” I said, quickly turning it off.

  “Well, not necessarily. You’ll always know it’s your phone that’s ringing. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “If you’re under thirteen,” I said, startled by the name that flashed on the screen. It was Tanya Risko, as if summoned by our discussion of murdering spouses. As soon as Lennox left to sign for a delivery, I called her back.