“What you need to know.”
“How will I know if I’m in danger?”
“You’ll know. You have more going for you than just seeing glimmers. As our gifts go, that’s a minor one. But you need to listen to it, let it in! Learn to listen to your gift. I’ll help you as much as I can.”
Although my aunt didn’t turn off her hearing aid, I knew that was all I would get, and maybe that was enough for today. She gave me some mint and sage cuttings to cultivate now and plant in the spring, and I promised I would.
“I’ll call you when Celestine gets in town. It’s time you two got to know each other,” she said. My mother had been dead for nearly twenty years, and I’d only spoken to Aunt Celestine twice since then. I didn’t know why. If the sisters had some healing to do, it wasn’t my responsibility. I had my own to do.
* * *
I put in another call to Harley and Bertie when I got home, but neither answered their phones. I wondered if they were avoiding me or simply had other things to do. Whatever it was, I’d see them both tomorrow.
But that night, with Juniper fed and happy and as I sipped my chamomile tea, I had to admit I dreaded going to work the next day. I was afraid to go back to the space where Charlie had been murdered because I didn’t know what I would feel or smell. I didn’t really believe in ghosts, but I knew that if Charlie Risko showed up tomorrow morning, I’d be the only person to see him.
Chapter 6
Except for late-as-usual Harley Wilde, everyone on staff sat impatiently in their cubicles waiting their turn. It was déjà vu, with cops instead of Charlie Risko holding court.
“Why the heck are they talking to us here instead of downtown?” muttered Vinton. “Do they actually think somebody is going to catch the spirit, fall down on his knees, and confess?”
“You never know,” I said, but thought that would probably be about as effective as waiting for the glimmer.
“What makes them think one of us knows anything?” Juda said, directing her question at Vinton.
“Somebody might know more than they think. Just tell the truth,” said Vinton.
“Trouble is, everybody’s truth is different,” said Dennis Lane, sitting by himself at a far cubicle.
“They have the gun, so they know who did it. That’s the truth,” said Bertie, who had just left Charlie’s office and joined us. She’d come in early and asked to be interviewed first because she needed to be home to babysit. We’d finally gotten a chance to talk late last night. Her granddaughter answered the phone, a good sign that maybe Bertie and Louella had worked something out, but when we spoke, she was distant and eager to end our conversation.
“If they know all that, then why the heck are we sitting here?” snapped Vinton.
“Ask them when it’s your turn,” Bertie snapped back.
“They told you they had the gun?” asked Dennis. “What else did they tell you?”
Bertie shrugged. “Ask them when you see them. They’re through with me. I’m going home.”
“Are you coming in tomorrow?” I hoped she was.
“I got a lot of things on my mind, Dessa. Bad stuff I’m dealing with,” she said without looking at me. A glimmer shadowed her face, then disappeared. Was it the same one I’d seen after that fight with Louella, or the flickering glow of Charlie’s cheap fluorescent lights?
“Is everything okay, Bertie? Is Louella doing all right?”
“Yeah, as far as I know,” she said, still avoiding my eyes. “They probably know who did it. That’s what I think. And if they do, good for them.” She slammed the door hard when she left, as if shutting out everything that had happened in the past few days. I couldn’t blame her.
“So where is the merry widow? Shouldn’t she be part of this sugar show?” said Vinton in a mock-cheerful tone.
“Shut up, old man! You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” said Dennis, his voice raised and threatening.
“Need I remind you there are officers of the law in the next room? Watch yourself!” Vinton shot back.
Our collective gaze shifted uncomfortably to Charlie Risko’s old office where the interviews were taking place, just like they had before he was murdered.
“Vinton, don’t say anything else. You’ll just make things worse,” pleaded Juda. And our collective gaze shifted to her.
“They can’t get any worse. Everyone knows what Charlie was and what he did. For all we know, one of us could be next,” said Vinton, looking around uncomfortably.
“My vote is you, old man,” said Dennis. “You should be next. But you had more reason to want him dead than anybody else, didn’t you?”
“Except her,” Vinton shot back. “You know that as well as me. Who is the one who gains from all this?”
I closed my eyes, put in my ear buds, and took myself to the park where I had escaped the last time these people plucked at my nerves. I made myself feel the sun on my face, hear kids laughing, feel the brush of fallen leaves around my feet. I made myself remember the wind hitting my face as I sped down the street on Harley’s bike on Saturday. I could hear Darryl’s laugh, and I smiled. Just like my mother would.
“Mrs. Odessa Jones.” A pat on my shoulder and a gruff voice brought me into the present. A stern pair of eyes loomed above me, waiting for a response. “Would you come with me, please?”
The officer was young, about the same age as Harley, with a dirty-blond crew cut and lips I couldn’t imagine smiling. I glanced once at my coworkers—no support from them. They were silently engrossed in whatever was on their laptop screens. Like a child gone wrong, I obediently followed the officer to the scene of the crime.
* * *
There was no blood, no nutmeg, no glimmer, no ghost. Nothing but two plain-speaking cops with no-nonsense expressions waiting for me to talk. I wondered how they’d found Charlie’s body. Had he been shot in the back, cowardly running? Sprawled across his desk like a butchered piece of beef? Sunk deep into the same chair where he threatened, teased, and scared us all? The huge desk was empty now. The officers sat in the plush chairs on either side. They nodded for me to sit in the straight-backed chair between them. A chill went down my back as I recalled my last interview with Risko.
“Mrs. Odessa Jones?” the cop asked again, as if his partner hadn’t gotten it right. His balding head and chestnut-brown skin reminded me of my father’s, which calmed and relaxed me. Momentarily. I’m always nervous around the police. I hoped they couldn’t tell.
“That’s me,” I said, a bit too relaxed, flirting with flippancy. Not smart, I realized, when he raised his eyebrow.
“I’m Detective Larkin; my partner is Officer Raye. Mrs. Risko, the deceased man’s widow, was kind enough to offer the use of her office so we can avoid doing interviews at the station. We need to verify several facts that have been reported. This won’t take long.”
I nodded, eager to cooperate.
They began with basic questions: my home address, how long I’d worked here, how well I knew Charlie Risko. Questions quickly asked and easily answered. Then they got down to the real stuff.
“You were here the night Mr. Risko was murdered?” Officer Raye, with the blond crew cut, asked.
“Yes,” I said, wondering how they knew.
“Tell me exactly how long you were here, if and when you left, exactly what you saw or heard when you returned.”
I told them about the park, leaving out the reason why I left, and explaining that it was dark when I returned. Officer Blond Crew-Cut leaned close, staring at me like a suspect. “Do you often take walks in the park?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” he asked, wanting to know more.
“I just, uh, just wanted to get some fresh air.” That seemed to satisfy him.
“Was there anything special about last Thursday, something that stuck in your mind?” asked Detective Larkin, the senior officer.
“Well, it was the day Mr. Risko gave us our reviews. Everyone was always nervous abo
ut that. You never knew what he was going to say, if you were going to be fired or not.”
“Was anyone fired?”
“I don’t know.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, it was the anniversary of the death of Mr. Risko’s older brother. He hung himself here in this office two years ago.”
The looks the men exchanged hinted that I should have kept that to myself.
“Was anyone here when you came back? Besides the ghost of Mr. Risko’s dead brother?” Officer Blond Crew-Cut asked sarcastically, not hiding his amusement, which earned him a rebuking glance from his elder.
“Yes. Charlie Risko.”
“What was he doing?”
“Talking to someone in his office.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Describe the other voice. Female, male, black, white, old, young?”
“I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the ghost of his dead brother,” I couldn’t resist saying, then wished I hadn’t.
“And you couldn’t tell?” Officer Blond Crew-Cut’s scowl said he didn’t appreciate my crack. I noticed a pimple on his chin and focused on it.
“Mr. Risko was doing all the talking. I could hear Mr. Risko, but I couldn’t hear what the other person was saying.”
“There was somebody in the office when you left?”
“Yes.” Hadn’t I just told them that?
“When you came back from the park, did you see a motorcycle parked down the street?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who it belonged to?” They were eager for the answer. I thought about Harley and what Bertie had said at the bar and focused on Blond Crew-Cut’s pimple.
“I assumed it was Charlie Risko’s since he was the person who was here.”
“Why would you assume that?”
I shrugged my shoulders. Truth was, it could have belonged to anybody.
They exchanged glances again, then stared at me is if their stern gaze would shake out some stubborn truth I was trying to hide. “Do you know where your coworker Harley Wilde was and why he is not here today?”
“No.” I shook my head for emphasis, widened my eyes for innocence, and stared directly into the eyes of the younger officer.
Detective Larkin, the senior one, scribbled something on his pad. “Do you know a gentleman by the name of Avon Bailey?” he asked, staring hard at me.
“Never heard of him.”
“That’s all we’ll need today from you, Mrs. Jones,” he said without looking up.
I hurried out before they could think of anything else.
“Mr. Lane, would you step in now?” Officer Blond Crew-Cut said as I was leaving. Dennis headed into the office. For the first time since I’d known him, he looked scared.
But his interview was short and must have been sweet because he had no trace of discomfort when he sat back down in his cubicle. He immediately got back to business, his voice charming and seductive. Juda was next and Vinton after her. Their interviews were brief, too, which made me uneasy.
“I feel like a drink,” Vinton muttered when he sat back down.
“They don’t really think one of us did it, do they?” said Juda.
“I think they might.” Vinton’s voice was hushed.
“Did you tell them everything you know?” Juda whispered, but her voice was loud enough for everyone to hear. Vinton shook his head as if warning her not to say anything else.
“Anybody know a gentleman named Avon Bailey? ” I said. The question came out of nowhere, sounding like what the cop had asked me. Smells, sounds, glimmers. Other people’s words tumbling out of my mouth seemed like the gift’s latest manifestation making an unwelcome appearance.
“Why the hell would you ask us something like that?” Dennis bellowed, uttering the only words he’d said to any of us since he’d sat back down.
“I don’t know!” I said, sounding pathetic. “I guess it was because the police asked me.”
“He was one of your and Charlie’s clients, right, Dennis?” Vinton said with a smirk. “Wasn’t Harley involved with him, too? Him, along with you know who?”
“Leave it alone, old man. Leave it alone,” Dennis said, his voice tight.
The room was silent, as if nobody had heard the exchange between the two, and suddenly everybody was busy, doing whatever they could to avoid looking at each other. But one question lingered in my mind: Who was Avon Bailey?
When the memo flashed on my phone reminding me of an appointment to show some two-bedroom rentals, I said a prayer of gratitude. So much had happened in the past few days, I’d forgotten about it. Charlie had scoffed when I mentioned it. Our last conversation was too painful to remember. Scarcely aware of what I was doing, I tossed my belongings into my tote bag and headed outside, glad to be gone.
My clients were a young married couple expecting their first child, and so far we’d been batting zero. This was my last showing, and I didn’t have much hope. It was a third-floor walk-up in a 1930s building that had seen better times. It was in an older, shabbier section of town most had written off years ago, but artists, students, and writers had recently rediscovered its charms, mostly because it was close to trains heading to New York and rents were affordable.
As if on cue, the moment the couple walked into the place the sun lit up the rooms like klieg lights. They both loved the “bones” and “character” of the place, and raved about the spacious rooms, good lighting, and high ceilings, invisible to both me and the landlord. Their excitement was contagious, and they seemed to carry a lightness between them, somewhere between sunshine and moon glow. Aunt Phoenix would call it a glimmer, but I figured it was simply the joy of being in love with no expectation of sorrow.
Their mood even touched the gruff, mean-spirited landlord, who easily agreed to reduce the rent. I knew this place would be good for them, and that their child would be blessed. I didn’t need the gift to tell me that. Just in case, I made a mental note to ask Aunt Phoenix for a charm or a chant that could ensure that good things would come their way.
The bliss between the two of them was the very tonic I needed to finish out a demanding, unpleasant day. I hated to admit it, but I’d been shaken by my interview. I knew I wasn’t a suspect, but I had a sense of foreboding that something disagreeable was on its way. I hoped it didn’t smell like nutmeg.
* * *
It was going on six by the time my clients signed the agreement. Too late to go back to the office, but I didn’t feel like going home and it was nearly time for dinner. Royal’s wasn’t a large restaurant but there always seemed to be space, even when the place was crowded. There was a booth near the back reserved for Royal’s daughter, Lena, and three tables where couples could sit cozily. I settled down at the far end of the counter. I could hear Lennox in the kitchen supervising Tyler, who sometimes helped cook. I ordered a dinner special—barbecue chicken, a roll, coleslaw—from Georgia, the assistant cook who sometimes works behind the counter. She regarded me skeptically.
“You’re too late for lunch, and dinner is running slow,” she said impatiently.
“Sorry, I’ll take whatever is ready.” I was taken aback when she haphazardly tossed my meal on the plate. I smiled pleasantly, hoping to get in her good graces. And then the glimmer made its appearance.
I’d never noticed the slight shadow that appeared when Georgia was around. It was avocado green, which Aunt Phoenix would probably define as envy. It was hard to believe this young woman could be jealous of me. She was younger by more than a decade and far prettier. Did she think that I was interested in Lennox Royal? I didn’t know what kind of relationship she and Lennox had, but ours was no threat to her. Unless she had other designs. I knew I was smiling too much, which I tend to do when I’m uncomfortable, but I gave another warm one to reassure her. She didn’t smile back.
“Miss Odessa, always good to see you!” Lennox said, coming out from the kitchen. “How about a piece of pie fo
r dessert?”
One of the problems with being a chef, even a part-time one, is that I know a good pie, biscuit, or donut at first bite. My mouth puckered just thinking about those hard little donuts I’d had on Friday. Royal’s Regal Barbecue was obviously in need of a baker. Lennox did all right when it came to barbecue and chili, but baking was something not everybody can do. You either had a feel for it or you didn’t. I had a feel for it; he didn’t. Should D&D Delights expand its services to include baked goods for small establishments?
“So, Lennox, where do you buy your pies and cakes?” I asked innocently.
“Nowhere special. Varies from week to week. Sometimes Georgia will throw something together. If things get crazy, I’ll pick up a couple of pies from Acme down the street.”
Georgia, moving closer to where he stood, mopped invisible grime off the spotless counter.
“And Georgia’s pies and cakes are always delicious, as are her lemon cookies,” Lennox quickly added, sensing her interest. He turned to acknowledge her with a grin. Georgia nodded and moved away. When she went into the kitchen, Lennox leaned toward me.
“But sometimes things do get really busy in here. I hate to burden Georgia. Do you know a good baker?”
“I might. It’s a small catering company, but I can check and see if they’re ready to expand.” I took a sip of water, realizing with a pang of anxiety what I’d just said. It would be a big deal for me to expand D&D. I didn’t know if I was ready. Half of me was ready to venture out on my own; the rest of me still needed Darryl coaching from the sidelines.
“Let me know when you find out. I’ll pay a good price.”
“What’s a good price, so I can let them know?”
He bent toward me and lowered his voice. “Pretty much anything they want me to pay. Georgia’s a hell of a good cook when she wants to be and she’s great at the counter, but her pies aren’t what they should be.”
“And this was the slice of pie you were offering me?” I said, half joking.
“Actually, that one’s from Acme.” He looked embarrassed, rinsed and wrung out a dishcloth in the sink, and then went to check on Lena sitting in her booth. “Tell me what’s going on with your office murder,” he asked when he sat back down.
A Glimmer of Death Page 6
