“Hello, Mrs. Jones. This is Tanya. I got your number from Harley. I know you-all are friends. I hope you don’t mind me calling you like this. I need to tell you some things,” she said in her singsong, little-girl voice.
“No, of course not.” Are you keeping the place open? I was on the verge of asking, then remembered she’d lost her husband the night before. “How are you doing, Tanya? Are you okay?” I asked, noting how upbeat she sounded, considering the circumstances. “Can I do anything for you? Do you have family nearby?”
“My only family was Charlie, my late husband,” she said with no emotion at all. “Everybody in my family is dead, just like him.”
Hopefully not as violently, I thought, but said, “Is there any-one. . .”
“Dennis has been looking out for me,” she said before I finished, then added awkwardly, “Dennis is like family, in a way. You know? He and Charlie were close once, too.”
“Are you talking about Dennis from the office?” I asked in disbelief, recalling the dismissive ways he often spoke about Risko and how rude he’d been to Vinton. I couldn’t imagine him offering real comfort to anyone.
“Who else?” She seemed surprised.
“It’s good to have somebody close,” I said, taking all judgment from my voice, but Lennox’s words echoed in my head. If it had occurred to Lennox, it had to others as well. I hoped she had an alibi. And that it wasn’t Dennis Lane.
“Well, I guess you’re wondering why I’m calling, right? Well, it’s because of the memorial service. When I get his body back, I’m getting him cremated, real private. I want to have some kind of service as soon as I can, you know. Tomorrow. On Saturday. He’d want it that way. Charlie would. Then I’m opening up the office after that. Monday morning, bright and sharp, because we do a lot of business at the beginning of the week and . . .”
It took me a minute to break in. “You’re opening up the office two days after the memorial service?” I didn’t like Charlie Risko, but even he deserved more than two days of mourning.
“It would be okay with Charlie. He’d want what is best for me, and I just need to put everything behind me, Mrs. Jones. You know what I mean? I just want everything to be behind me.” It sounded like she was crying, a little girl’s scared cry, but then that stopped as abruptly as it started. I had no idea what she meant. I couldn’t get rid of my grief over Darryl, but grief comes in all different ways for different people, and who was I to judge?
“You need to take care of yourself and do whatever makes you feel right,” I said after a minute.
“That’s what Harley says. He’s been real helpful, too,” she added with a sniffle. Harley again. I knew less about my young friend than I thought.
“One more thing. The office is a crime scene now, but that’s over by Monday. The police came to my house this morning to interview me about Charlie. They said they wanted to talk to me while things were still fresh in my mind. I don’t know what kind of things they’re talking about. They asked if they could come to the office and interview everybody who was there the day Charlie got killed. Is that okay? You think that’s okay?”
“They want to talk to us in the office?” I said, shocked. “They don’t usually do that, do they?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never had a husband murdered before. I’ve never known anyone who was murdered before. But that’s what they said.”
How involved are you in this one? I thought, but said, “What did they talk to you about this morning?”
“Stuff about Charlie. Before we got married. And other stuff, too. They told me not to talk to anyone about it.” She paused, as if taking a breath. When she spoke again her voice was strained and frightened. “They have Charlie’s gun. He was killed with that stupid gun he was always waving around scaring everybody with. Even me. The one he swore was unloaded. Guess he was lying about that! They told me not to talk to anyone about it, about the gun.”
“Tanya, are you sure you want to open things up on Monday?”
“I already told the cops everybody would be there.”
“Then make sure you tell everybody to be at work. If someone doesn’t show up, he or she might look suspicious. Do you need me to make any calls for you?”
“No.” She paused, then went back to the memorial. “Charlie didn’t have any family except for me. You know his brother was dead. They all said they’d come to the memorial. Everybody from the office. Even Juda. I’ll remind everybody then. Do you think they’ll all come?”
“I’m sure they will.” Out of curiosity more than anything else, I thought.
“Do you promise you’ll come? Promise. Us widows need to stick together.”
I was struck dumb. Widowhood was not a club one joyfully belonged to.
She gave me the address of the church where the service would be held, and I promised again I’d be there.
Customers eager for lunch were beginning to come into Royal’s and his quick smile welcomed everyone. Suddenly, he was busy, grinning and greeting customers like family. I tried to sneak out, but he spotted me from the corner of his eye and nodded for me to come over.
“Let me know what happens,” he whispered. “And remember what I said, okay?” He turned serious when he said that, and a frown darkened his face. “Take care of yourself, Odessa Jones. You don’t know who killed that man or why they killed him. Until you know that, everyone is a suspect. You may know something that will put you in danger. You hear me?”
“I hear you.” His warning sent a chill down my back that I didn’t want to feel.
Chapter 4
I was in a sour mood the next morning. First, there was the prospect of attending the memorial of a man I couldn’t stand. Second, my going-to-a-funeral light gray suit was stained with grape juice. The only thing I could find to wear were dark blue slacks and a white sailor blouse that brought to mind the drummer in a navy marching band. Third, my car wouldn’t start.
Our six-year-old Subaru had been Darryl’s domain. He routinely changed the oil, checked the tires, and added necessary fluids at the proper time. I checked the oil and tires when a warning light popped up but blissfully ignored the odd rumble or rattle that hinted something was wrong. I paid for it this morning. It had been fine the day before driving back from Royal’s, but no matter how hard I pressed the accelerator, the car balked. If I hadn’t promised Tanya—twice—that I’d be there, I wouldn’t have gone, but now I didn’t have a choice. I ended up taking an Uber, good money I didn’t want to spend. Lucky for me, there was a bus stop nearby, and I could take a bus home.
Charlie Risko’s memorial was held in a tiny, overheated chapel with dusty stained windows badly in need of hosing. Tanya needn’t have worried: Everybody showed up. It was a lucky thing, too. Except for an elderly church usher and the funeral attendant, who dragged in an oversized portrait of Risko and a small, sad wreath, nobody else came. There were no clients, lawyers, accountants, fellow Realtors, or others one would assume would pay their respects to a fellow businessman.
I made a mental note to look for any of Aunt Phoenix’s glimmers, sparkling or otherwise. I assumed the gray aura that always surrounded Vinton would be visible, and it was; it seemed to have seeped into his bones. With luck, I just might spot something on somebody else. At least there was no nutmeg; if there had been, Vinton’s bitter lemon would have knocked it out.
Bertie wore the same black blouse and skirt ensemble she’d worn every Monday since I’d been at Risko’s. Monday morning is my day of mourning, she’d told me more than once; she had it right today. She’d added a bit of flash with the hot-pink gloves she held in her left hand. They were an odd-looking fashion accessory, which brought an exaggerated eye roll from Vinton, who sat next to me. She was also wearing mismatched shoes—one black, one brown.
“Must have dressed in a hurry,” Vinton quipped more to himself than to me.
Juda, stylish in a Blackglama mink thrown over one shoulder movie-star style, swept down the aisle, only acknowledging
Vinton. Her coat brought back painful memories. My mother, who died when I was in my twenties, had always been proud of her “furs” and had a similar one she wore on special occasions. When she died, she passed it on to Aunt Phoenix, who never wore it because, as she put it, she didn’t like wearing dead animals. It was a petty, quiet resentment I held against my aunt.
“Trust Juda to dress for the occasion,” Vinton whispered.
There were no auras, glimmers, or anything else hovering around Juda. It was as if she were a shell, throwing out nothing. I’d have to ask my aunt about that. She pulled the coat snugly around her shoulders, as though chilled, though it was as hot as a sauna in the small, close room. I remembered Charlie Risko’s nickname for her and wondered if the mink had been his last gift or if the coat was her way of paying her last respects.
Dennis Lane sat next to Tanya in the front row. He wore one of his many trendy suits, classy enough to withstand the scrutiny of a snooty maître d’, sexy enough to make a practical woman forget she was there on business. Tanya, in a cherry-red pantsuit, was a blast of defiant color. Her thick hair, usually bunched in a sloppy topknot, fell freely down her back, framing her thin face in a wildly tangled mess.
“Must have forgot to comb it,” Vinton said cattily with a nod in her direction. “Looks like she jumped up out of bed, threw on a party suit, and made it here right before they propped up his picture.”
“People grieve in different ways, Vinton,” I said. “Allow her to mourn in her own style.”
“Humph,” he sniffed and furiously patted his forehead with a Kleenex. “Hot as hell in here. Just like the place Risko will be going.”
I didn’t know about Risko’s final resting place, but Vinton was right about the heat. It was chilly outside but not cold enough for this. Somebody had turned the furnace to full blast and sweat dripped down the middle of my back.
“She’s celebrating the memory of that old fool with every grace he deserved. None,” said Vinton, glancing around the tight, hot room.
His catty comments were beginning to annoy me. “Everyone deserves grace, Vinton. Even Charlie Risko,” I snapped.
Vinton turned and looked me straight in the eye. “You don’t know what grace he deserved and didn’t, Dessa Jones. You didn’t know him like some of us did, so keep your good thoughts to yourself.”
His words hit me like a slap, reminding me once again that there was more to Risko Realty than I knew. They were “family,” in their own way, with family secrets best kept to themselves. I wondered what they could be. Until that moment, I’d put Lennox’s warning out of my mind. I shifted away from Vinton, suddenly cautious and unsure what to make of him. I was not part of the “we” who knew Charlie Risko’s true nature, and I never would be.
The pastor, a balding, soft-voiced soul whose face beamed good works, came to the front of the church to formally begin the service. Apparently, the Risko family had been big-time donors, although Charlie had cut the money off. In light of that, the pastor’s remarks were mainly a celebration of better times and deceased family members. He began by praising Charlie’s father, who had established a fund for the church’s maintenance (spent, I assumed, on the furnace blasting the heat waves). He spoke solemnly of the older brother, Stuart. Vinton, trembling slightly, dropped his head in remembrance. He turned next to the widow, offering this “grieving young woman” his best thoughts and condolences. Tanya, who was sweating like the rest of us, daintily patted her forehead with a handkerchief she’d snatched from Dennis’s lapel and slipped her jacket off her bony, pale shoulders.
I was startled by what I saw. Her arms and shoulders were covered with purplish-brown bruises that traveled within an inch of her neck. I’d volunteered in a shelter that housed abused women, and I knew what I was seeing. Tanya must have felt my eyes on her because she pulled the jacket over her shoulders again, dropping her head as if ashamed. But it wasn’t her who should have been ashamed; it was me. Guilt swept through me because I should have known, seeing the way she acted around him, so scared and obedient. I had been so overwhelmed by my own pain I couldn’t see anyone else’s. Tanya glanced at me, then at Vinton, who shifted his eyes away. “No turtleneck today,” he muttered.
Did everybody know but me? Why hadn’t they done something about it? Were they all complicit? I took a breath as I remembered those women I’d worked with and their vulnerability, wondering where they were now. Had they escaped their abusers, learned to protect themselves, gotten away? Had they killed their abuser before he killed them? Was he abusive? Lennox Royal had asked me yesterday. I don’t think so, I’d stupidly said. If he was, that puts a different spin on things. And what was the spin? Was Dennis Lane Tanya’s savior or another violent choice?
The minister read from Ecclesiastes 3, and, my eyes brimmed with tears. It had been read at Darryl’s funeral by his best friend and was seared into my soul. I closed my eyes tight, trying to block that day from my memory although I knew I couldn’t do it and that it would always be with me.
Vinton nudged me. “You okay, Dessa?” he asked. I realized I’d been trembling like he’d been before.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, touched by his concern.
As the minister was finishing his reading, Harley, late as usual, rushed into the church and took a seat by the door. Tanya glanced back, mouthing something to him. He nodded in return. Louella followed him in, her head bowed, surrounded by the glimmer of sorrow, still hardly noticeable. Bertie must have seen her, too, but didn’t acknowledge her. I caught Harley’s eye and shook my head like a scolding parent. Embarrassed, he shrugged, smiled shyly, and glanced away. I’d scold him later, I decided. He wasn’t kin but we were friends and he looked distressed. I needed to find out what was going on. He must have sensed my concern.
“Hey, Dessa, want to go get a drink? I could use one after that,” he said, grabbing my arm as I left the church.
“After what? You missed the whole darn thing!”
“Wow, I guess I did,” he said with a teenager’s shrug, charming and annoying. “Listen, I need to talk to you about something. It’s important.” I studied him, looking for a clue—glimmer or otherwise—but saw nothing.
“Someone say something about a drink?” said Vinton, coming up behind us and breaking into the conversation. “I’d like to come, too, if you don’t mind. I could use one. You want to come, Juda?” he added before we could answer one way or another.
“Where are you going?” asked Juda, pulling the mink coat tightly around her for warmth.
“Taft’s, knowing Harley. Come on, Juda. You know you don’t have anything better to do, do you?” Juda glanced away, as if she was embarrassed.
“You going? Dessa? I’ll go if you go,” Bertie said, edging closer to me as if for protection.
“Where’s Louella?” I asked her.
“Gone, I guess,” she said. I thought I saw the glimmer of a yellow glow when I’d said her daughter’s name but it quickly disappeared. Aunt Phoenix had told me once that a yellow glimmer could mean fear or anxiety. Then she’d quickly added that sometimes it simply meant the sun had hit you wrong. It was impossible to pin my aunt down on any of this stuff, and I’d stopped trying. Bertie was tough, with an edge that could turn mean. What or who was she afraid of? Could it be Louella? Did she know something about Risko’s death?
“Sure. Come on, it might do us both some good,” I said.
“I don’t do much drinking.”
“Neither do I.”
“I trust you, Dessa,” she whispered low, so only I could hear her. “You’re the only one I can,” she added, almost as an afterthought.
I squeezed her hand reassuringly, telling her she was right.
* * *
Taft’s was a shadowy bar and grill three blocks away, the kind of place you go when you don’t want to be seen in daylight. We crowded around a table in a dim corner of the room, and the waitress plopped down two bowls of stale pretzels. Harley ordered the first round of drinks, and
before we could finish them, Vinton ordered a second. Dennis Lane waltzed in from nowhere, plopped down at our booth for a hot minute, and ordered a third, compliments of Tanya Risko. He finished his drink in a gulp and went back to wherever he’d come from.
“Wonder where the widow is,” said Vinton, chomping on a pretzel.
“Wherever he went,” said Juda.
“Charlie would have killed her sooner or later. She must have known that.”
“I wasn’t going to let that happen,” Harley said, so quietly you had to be sitting next to him to hear it.
“You don’t know that,” said Juda. “You don’t know him like I did. He wasn’t always like that. He never touched me.” She finished off her second drink and picked up the third, a bit of it dribbling down her chin.
“I didn’t kill him, but I’m glad he’s dead,” said Harley, his gaze fixed on the table.
“He deserved to die,” Bertie whispered. “He did terrible things. Knocking her around like he did. Bruising her body like that. My daddy used to do that, hit us until we were bloody, pound on my mama’s face until she couldn’t see straight. He deserved to die, too, but nobody killed him. Somebody should have. Harley, you say you didn’t kill him, kill Charlie? You sure about that? You could have. You were the last person to see him, weren’t you? I saw your bike outside when I left.” Bertie’s voice was calm yet accusatory. She took off her glasses, as if emphasizing what she’d just said, then slipped them back on.
My heart jumped. I’d seen a bike, too, but assumed it was Charlie’s. Everyone stared at Harley. His eyes darkened as his jaw tightened.
“You think I killed him! Come on, Miss Bertie. You know me better than that.”
“I don’t know you at all,” Bertie said.
“I wasn’t the last person to see him alive. That would be the person who killed him. I hated the guy for all kinds of reasons, but not enough to kill him.”
A Glimmer of Death Page 4
