“We all did,” said Vinton, suddenly philosophical. “For sins present and past.” He finished off the last of his drink and dabbed his mouth with a napkin.
“Not me,” said Juda quietly. “I didn’t wish him dead.”
“You should have,” said Vinton.
Those last words hung over the table, as if everyone was ashamed of something they’d said. Pretzels were loudly chomped. Drinks were gulped. Nobody ordered another round. Bertie stared hard at Harley, and he stared back, cocking his head as if curious. I studied the faces of my coworkers, hoping for some glimmer that would reveal some hidden truth, but there was nothing I could see.
Suddenly, Juda stood up, stumbling against the table.
“Watch it, girl,” Vinton said, catching her arm to steady her. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s get you out of here. It’s been a
long, ugly day. You’ve got to get something to eat.”
That was the cue for everyone to leave, and after a few awkward good-byes, everyone did, except for me and Harley, who lingered to finish his drink.
“Got a minute?” he said to me after the others had gone. “You feel like something else to drink?”
“Are you kidding? Do I look like I need another drink? You should watch yourself, too,” I said, immediately regretting my words. I was his coworker, not his mother.
“I meant coffee,” he said, with the old Harley grin.
“What’s going on?” I asked as soon as the waitress brought our coffees and a fresh bowl of pretzels.
“I don’t know why Bertie would say something like that. It was like she was accusing me of something she knows I didn’t do. Why would she say that?”
“I have no idea,” I said. It had struck me as strange, too.
“You don’t think I killed him, do you?”
“No,” I said quickly. “Why would you think that?”
“Do you think Bertie does?”
“She was in a strange mood, and she doesn’t drink much. She was probably tipsy. Charlie’s murder has touched us all.”
He gulped down his coffee, followed by a handful of pretzels, and ordered a glass of water.
“If you’re trying to get sober, coffee and water ain’t going to get it. You’ll just be a waterlogged, caffeinated drunk.”
“No, I’m okay. Really. Thanks, Dessa, for staying around. For listening.”
“You haven’t said anything.”
He sighed, something I’d rarely heard him do. “It’s just this whole thing with Risko. It’s bringing up a lot of crap I don’t want to think about, stuff I’d tried to put behind me.”
“Like what?”
He drank the water, sip by sip, then added, “Remember I told you there was bad stuff I’d done? It wasn’t only me, it was other folks, too, and one of them is dead, and that scares the hell out of me.”
For present and past sins, Vinton had said to Juda about things Charlie had done. How present was that evil?
“I take it there was something between you and Tanya before she married Charlie,” I said, taking a leap.
“Yeah. I introduced them. We were all friends. Until everything went bad, got ugly.” He stopped, glanced at his watch. “Look, maybe now’s not the best time to talk about it, right after his death and all.”
“Okay. Let’s wait,” I said, sensing his discomfort.
He nodded. “Let me walk you to your car.”
“If I had a car. Broke down this morning. You can walk me to the bus stop.”
“Bus stop! Come on, I’ll give you a ride.” He grinned his wide, contagious grin. “You trust me, right?”
“Are you sure you’re sober enough to drive?”
“Dessa, you know me better than that! I’d never put your safety at risk.”
“To tell the truth, Harley, I’m not sure what you’d do and how well I know you,” I said after a minute, and meant it.
I’d ridden with Harley only once before. It was a short trip, just around the block. Hanging on like a tick, praying to every god I knew, I had to admit it was fun.
“I’m too old to be a biker chick,” I said, bones cracking like castanets as I awkwardly climbed on the bike.
“Miss Dessa, don’t let people define who you are. You can be anything you want to be!” he said with a reassuring nod. Maybe he was right.
I felt a giddy exhilaration as the wind hit my face and the bike sped me, safe and sound, back to my home. Harley took a look under the hood of my car, and determined all I needed was a new battery. He called a friend who worked for AAA and the two of them got it running with stern warnings that I get it serviced on a regular basis. He left before I could find out what this bad stuff was he wanted to talk to me about, even though I sensed he wanted to tell me. But when I saw him again, it was too late.
Chapter 5
A text from Aunt Phoenix came early the next morning. As usual, she got right to the point. My aunt wasn’t one to waste words.
Sunday brunch. You cook. I pay. No eggs.
My response was equally brief.
Flat broke!
She answered immediately.
Check Bank Account
I was astonished when I did. She had not only paid for groceries but transferred enough money into my account to cover my mortgage for three months. My eyes welled with tears. God knows I needed it. I’d avoided going into the cash Darryl and I had tucked away in our 401ks, but each month money grew tighter, and Darryl’s insurance money was rapidly disappearing. I’d managed to scrape together enough for this month’s mortgage, but next month was looming near. Aunt Phoenix’s loan would definitely carry me through. And I considered it a loan.
I didn’t like borrowing money from my aunt because I didn’t know when I’d be able to pay her back. Although she claimed her lottery winnings were plentiful, they were just that, “lottery winnings.” She believed her good fortune would last forever. I wasn’t so sure. As a matter of fact, I had the same doubt about her weekly windfalls as I did about the “gift” in general. They couldn’t be trusted. My aunt was a woman on her own—a senior woman on her own—with, as far as I knew, no visible means of support. When Darryl was alive, we assumed we’d play an important role in her financial well-being, that she might be dependent on us someday, and that was fine with both of us. My feelings toward Aunt Phoenix were complicated, but Darryl adored her. His parents had died when he was in college, and she seemed to fulfill his desire for an elder attachment. I didn’t have the same need.
My mother, Rosemary, had two older sisters, the eldest being Aunt Phoenix. Everyone called my mother Rosie, and she was known for her cheerful disposition and loving ways. I inherited her deep dimples, which some said gave my face a sweetness like hers. Even though the gift skipped her and landed in my lap, she was the family favorite, and when she died, there was a hole in everybody’s world, especially mine. Where my mother was relaxed and friendly, Aunt Phoenix was mercurial and distant. My mother hated confrontations. Aunt Phoenix, as scrappy as a feral cat, loved a good fight. My mother never admitted it, but I always sensed she was fearful of her sister, as one can be of a bossy, controlling older sibling. For better or worse, she passed her wariness down to me.
My belly always got tight, as if preparing for an unpleasant encounter, whenever I visited my aunt. I felt it this morning when I pulled up to her tiny two-story house surrounded by shrubbery that bloomed with pink flowers in spring but was now as thorny as a briar patch. She loved to garden. Tomatoes and squash flourished in her backyard, as well as black-eyed Susans, her favorite flower. The yard was barren now, but she grew summer herbs in small clay pots in sunny windows. She lived in what might be considered a questionable neighborhood. Houses on either side had been broken into, but my aunt’s was never touched, which didn’t surprise me. Crooks knew who to mess with and who to avoid. Her front door swung open before I could ring the bell. That didn’t surprise me either.
My aunt was what some folks might call a character. Even without the gift.
She was a thin, wiry woman, agile and quick as a girl, who walked fast and talked in short staccato sentences, much like her texts, which she preferred to conversation. This morning she wore a flowered kaftan and slippers made from alligator skins. (She seemed to have no problem wearing dead animals on her feet!) She loved wigs of every imaginable color, style, and shape. Some were long haired, the kind you’d expect to see on a teenager, and others were short and conservative. She had one styled in a short blond Afro, and another with twists vaguely resembling dreadlocks. Several were 1950s pageboy; others were pixies à la Audrey Hepburn. In the summer, she wore a wide-brimmed sunbonnet, which brought to mind an elderly toddler. She was wigless and hatless today. Her dazzling white hair shone in the sun like a halo around her perfectly oval face and brown skin, as flawless as a baby’s.
Aunt Phoenix didn’t suffer fools gladly. She was known to turn off her hearing aid when she didn’t want to hear something you had to say. It was an odd act of passive aggression from a woman who had no qualms about telling you off. She’d pulled it on me more than once, yet she seemed in a relatively talkative mood this morning, and the knot in my stomach relaxed.
“Hello, my dear. What’s for brunch?” she asked when I stepped inside. I gave her a peck of a kiss on her cheek and caught a whiff of Chanel Noº5 (of all things) that she wore on special occasions.
“Since omelets and quiche are out, I’m making crab cakes, but I need to use eggs to bind them and for the muffins. Is that okay?”
“Must have read my mind,” she said with a mischievous grin.
I followed her into her sunny, tidy kitchen, surprisingly updated for someone who didn’t like to cook. The kitchen table was in a corner and just big enough for two, and she’d splurged on tableware today. It was set with a linen tablecloth, matching napkins, bone china, sterling silverware, and gleaming crystal glasses.
“This is beautiful, Aunt Phoenix!” I said when I saw it.
“Special occasion,” she said with a wink.
When I began to cook, I realized how much I missed it. Cooking had always been a form of meditation for me, and I could lose myself in the mundane motions, no matter how difficult the recipe or meal. I loved a tranquil, silent kitchen, with only the hum of simmering sauce or the peace that comes with the rhythmic kneading of dough for bread.
Aunt Phoenix’s kitchen was calm, just the way I liked it. She studied me, as attentively as an apprentice, while I mixed and shaped the crab cakes, placing them in the refrigerator to chill before frying them. I made the muffins, tossed together an arugula and spinach salad, then whisked my special vinaigrette dressing. I’d bought a coleslaw mix with cabbage and carrots (I wasn’t up to shredding today) and blended it with good mayonnaise, a bit of sugar, lemon juice, and cider vinegar. Aunt Phoenix was partial to ginger so I’d bought a tin of ginger snaps for dessert from a specialty shop. Since she didn’t touch coffee, I planned to serve the cookies with herbal tea; she had every imaginable flavor. It was a good meal, and I was proud of it.
I waited for just the right time to bring up the money to thank her. I also needed to find out more about the glimmers and what they meant. That moment came after we’d eaten our meal, and washed and dried the dishes. I brewed some Lemon Zinger tea for her in a tiny delicate teapot and poured some hot water in a mug for myself, adding two bags of oolong and lots of honey. We settled down in her white-walled living room, as spick-and-span as the kitchen, me on her stiff sofa covered in paisley print. She added a shot of cherry brandy to her tea and began rocking in her vintage bentwood rocker.
“How’s Juniper doing?” she asked out of the blue, which startled the heck out of me. He’d just entered my mind because I’d forgotten to check his dried food dish.
“Fine, as far as I know.” I wondered with a touch of anxiety if she knew something about my cat’s well-being that I didn’t.
“You’re a very talented cook, Odessa. Time you got back to it,” she said, taking a sip of tea. I yearned for a cup of strong coffee; the oolong wasn’t cutting it. “Thank you for brunch.”
I cleared my throat. “Aunt Phoenix, I’m the one who needs to thank you. Thank you so much for the money, for—”
“Stop right there!”
“I promise I’ll pay you back. I’ll just need a few months with, well, at Risko Realty.” I stumbled over the words. “I promise . . . ”
She turned off her hearing aid.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Aunt Phoenix!” I said, not hiding my irritation. “You’re like a kid who puts her hands over her ears so she can’t hear her parents!”
She turned it back on. “Listen to me, Odessa. You’re the only family I’ve got close. It’s my responsibility to help you if you need it. And, my dear, you need it.”
“What are you talking about?” I said in amazement. “You have other family. What about Celestine, in Pasadena?” She shrugged. I’d always suspected that Aunt Phoenix had something to do with the lack of communication between me and other members of my family, but I couldn’t be sure. I knew she’d never admit it. She surprised me this time.
“As a matter of fact, I have reached out to Celestine, and she’s coming for a visit. We’re sisters and we need to spend more time together, and she wants to see you.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that, and it’s about time. But what about those cousins you’re always talking about, the ones who can wash a dish with a wink and fell a man with a sneeze? What about them?”
She smiled at that. “I do hear from them from time to time. Delightful girls, all of them.” I had to take her word for that since I’d never met them. “Thanks to their gifts, they don’t lack for much. They don’t need my help.”
“Good for them!” I muttered. She raised her eyebrow.
“Like I keep telling you, Odessa—” She paused for a dramatic moment, then added, “If you’d played those numbers like I told you, you wouldn’t be in this fix! How many times have I told you to listen to your gift?”
Annoyed, I went into the kitchen to get us both more tea and considered adding some cherry brandy to mine as well.
“Like I keep telling you, Aunt Phoenix, I can’t trust it,” I yelled from the kitchen as I waited for the water to boil. “It’s let me down too many times.” I added hot water and another teabag to her teapot and freshened up my cup.
“That it has,” she said in a quiet voice I could barely hear, an admission that surprised me.
I returned to the living room and we sat together in tense yet contemplative silence. Since we were on the subject of the gift, I decided to bring up the glimmer. She spoke before I could say anything.
“It wasn’t that it didn’t warn you, Odessa. You were just too wound up in happiness to hear it. The kind of joy you and Darryl shared makes it hard to listen to warnings, to hear bad things,” she said, her voice as gentle as I’d ever heard it. “Sometimes one can’t see or hear things because one doesn’t want to.”
“Did you know?”
She sighed without answering, and I knew she never would. If she’d known, she wouldn’t have wanted to cause me pain, and what did it matter now anyway?
“The truth is, Odessa, death has the final say. Always. Even the gift can’t predict that.”
“What kind of a useless, stupid gift is that? How can death rule over everything? How can happiness make you deaf, dumb, and blind? Tell me that, Aunt Phe!” I said, sounding like a teenager and returning to the nickname I used to call her. My eyes filled with tears, and I blinked them away.
She sat next to me on the couch, taking my hand in hers. I’d forgotten how soft her skin was, how much her hands reminded me of my mother’s. I swallowed a sob. She hugged me tightly, and the scent of cherry brandy mixed with Chanel was pleasant and comforting.
“I’m sorry. I wish I were more like Rosemary, as sweet as she was. Unfortunately, I’m all you’ve got. At least for now. But Rosie was far too sensitive for her own good. Taking in people’s sorrows like she did, claiming them for h
er own.”
I didn’t like to hear her criticize my mother and pulled away. She took out a linen handkerchief that smelled like roses and was warm from being tucked deep in her bosom and handed it to me. I hadn’t realized I was crying until I held it. Was it for my mother or for Darryl this time? For everything? Aunt Phoenix, uncomfortable with tender emotion, brought it back to where we’d started.
“You asked about the gift? None of this stuff is cut and dried, like mixing . . . muffins or boiling water. It comes, lingers, and disappears with no reason or warning. Sometimes it’s so strong you can’t ignore it. Like the nutmeg you smelled when that nasty man was killed. Then you have to let it in. Listen to it. But other times it’s not.
“Smells are easy. Glimmers are something else again. Sometimes they’re strong, sometimes not so much.”
“Like with Uncle Tim.”
“Don’t mention that terrible man to me!” She chuckled and wrinkled her nose in disgust. We were on safe territory now.
“There’s a guy at work whose glimmer I can see clearly. It’s always gray. He seems very sad to me. And there’s a young woman, the daughter of a coworker, who has been deeply wounded, but I don’t know how or why. I can see a glimmer around her that breaks my heart, but it was nearly gone the last couple of times I saw her. What was strange was it seemed to have attached itself to her mother. There are others who don’t have any glimmer at all.”
“Or you don’t see them or don’t want to. You give the glimmer your own interpretation. A glimmer is not only what you get from somebody. It’s who you think that person truly is. We do have the gift, but we also have our own prejudices and biases. We can be wrong. See what we want to see. Or not.”
“Thanks, Aunt Phoenix,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. I was hoping for more.
“What you really want to know is if the person who killed that man will have a glimmer.”
“Yeah, that’s about it, since I see these people every day.”
“A glimmer won’t tell you that.”
“What will it tell me then?”
A Glimmer of Death Page 5
