A Glimmer of Death

by Valerie Wilson Wesley

  What if Harley got a lousy lawyer? How do you go against the law to prove somebody’s innocent? There was no way to explain the glimmer. An image of Aunt Phoenix showing up in court to testify for its veracity, in one of her wilder wigs and alligator slippers, popped into my mind. We’d probably all end up in jail. This was new territory for me.

  I needed to talk to somebody who knew something about the law. Who better than an ex-cop like Lennox Royal? I couldn’t just drop by Royal’s Barbecue for no reason, particularly if Georgia was at the counter. But I did need his help. And, come to think about it, he needed mine with his lousy desserts. Besides that, I needed to cook. I hadn’t cooked anything since brunch with Aunt Phoenix. I’d forgotten how calming it was. Baking, grilling, whipping, stirring—put things in perspective.

  It was time to bake a cake.

  I stopped on the way home to get ingredients for something quick, cheap, and impressive: classic pound cake punched up with 7UP, baked in a fancy Bundt pan and sprinkled lavishly with confectioner’s sugar. Always my D&D’s fancy cake to go to in a crunch. When the cake was done, I set it on a pretty doily and placed it in one of D&D Delights’ silver boxes, along with business cards and a price list for cakes and pies, then dropped it off at Royal’s right before the dinner crowd.

  * * *

  “So this is from that bakery you mentioned?” Lennox said when I set it on the counter.

  “Actually, it’s my catering business. My late husband and I started it together, and I’ve decided to expand it, take in small orders from local restaurants. I’ve brought you a sample. If you like it, I can take an order now. I’m keeping it small for the time being, but I hope to expand at some point,” I said, pouring everything out in one nervous breath.

  “Okay, let me see what you got.” He cut a slice, took a nibble. The cake, as always, had the expected response. “Wow! I’ll order three,” he said.

  He cut a slice for Lena, sitting in her booth, and then reread the business card when he returned. “So what does the D&D stand for?”

  “Dessa and Darryl.”

  He must have noticed the shadow that came into my eyes. “I’m sorry. I should have known,” he said, embarrassed, and then took another bite. A big one. “Are you sure you’re up to this, Odessa? Running a small business is harder than it looks.”

  “I just need to keep it small, for the time being,” I said, wondering if I really was up to it.

  He nodded as if he understood. “If the rest of your desserts are as fine as this, you’re going to grow very quickly. And you need to charge more money. Add in how much it really costs and don’t forget your labor. Don’t sell yourself short,” he added, sounding serious.

  He wrote me a check for the cake, adding thirty dollars as a down payment on two more of the same.

  “This was a sample!”

  “Dessa, a slice is a sample, a cake is a cake,” he said.

  “Not this time,” I said, shaking my head in protest. “Consider this payment for professional information.”

  “Professional information? You don’t need to pay me for that.”

  “I need to know how the criminal justice system works.”

  “There’s a lot to know. Books and college courses are filled with stuff about that.”

  “I don’t have time to read or attend classes. I need something now.”

  “Okay, but I’m not a lawyer!”

  “You know more than I do.” I paused a beat, then got to the point. “A friend of mine has been arrested for Charlie Risko’s murder, and he needs my help.”

  He shifted his eyes slightly, as if not completely ready to share all he knew. “Yeah, I heard they picked somebody up for that murder. Real quick. Too quick. Word spreads fast, even if you’re not on the force anymore. Guy worked there. I was right about that. How come you’re so sure he’s innocent?”

  “I just know.... I feel it in my heart.” Now was not the time to mention the glimmer.

  He looked doubtful. “If you trust your heart, I’ll take your word for it. But think about this: You strike me as a kind-hearted woman. Is your heart overruling your head? Is this person somebody you’re, well, romantically involved with?”

  “No!” I said firmly. “He’s like a kid brother. Young enough to be my son!”

  “If you were a teenage mother.”

  “A young teenage mother,” I said, returning his smile. “But he’s a nice kid, Lennox. And he’s had some bad breaks. There are other people in the office who hated Charlie, who, I might add, used to beat up his wife. Besides, this kid is a vet. He served in Afghanistan. I trust him.”

  “A vet? Okay. I’ll share what I know from a cop’s perspective.” And over the next half hour, Lennox Royal earned that cake.

  “If he’s accused of murder, that’s serious as a heart attack and he needs a good defense lawyer fast,” he began. “He has to get somebody smart who knows the system. If he doesn’t have a record, he’ll be released with conditions, electronic monitoring, and house arrest. A shyster will tell him to plead guilty to save him the trouble of mounting a defense. If the police have it in for a person and the evidence is there, it’s hard to fight it.”

  “So he can get out?”

  “He’ll have his first appearance within twenty-four to forty-eight hours, and the judge will set his conditions.”

  “Can he clear his name before he sees the judge?”

  “If he has a good lawyer, he’ll hire a good PI. One who knows how to question people and how to get answers, somebody to squeeze the truth from the person who is actually guilty.”

  I nodded like I agreed, though neither me nor Harley had the money to hire a lawyer or any kind of PI, to say nothing of a good one. “So how would a private investigator know who to question and which questions to ask?”

  “Instinct. Intuition. Solving crimes can be as much art as science. Intuition and a hunch more often than not will lead to the truth.”

  Like the gift and a glimmer, I said to myself.

  Lennox cut another slice of cake and chuckled. “Grandma Odessa used to tell me that a good cake goes right to a person’s soul. You can’t say nothing bad when you’re eating, and this cake is good. Cake like this would squeeze the truth out of any lying soul,” he said with a chuckle. He cut me a piece and put it on a saucer with a fork, and I took a bite. I had to agree; it was that good.

  Strangely enough, as I was drifting off to sleep that night I recalled Grandma Odessa’s words to her grandson, then remembered Aunt Phoenix’s to me about “listening” to the gift. A thought came to me: Could the words of two wise women be the answer I was looking for?

  Chapter 8

  The brilliant schemes you come up with at two in the morning usually dull in the light of the day. Yet the more I considered combining D&D Delights with the gift, the more I thought it might work. At the very least, I could hone those “listening” skills Aunt Phoenix claimed I lacked. And I could start cooking again. I’d gotten so used to gobbling down takeout (ridiculous, considering my tight budget), I’d gained five pounds and (shamefully) ended up at Burger King more than once. I missed cooking for others—be it Darryl, the kids he taught, or the teachers we routinely surprised with cupcakes or gingerbread men. I especially loved making desserts, which offered me the guilty pleasure of licking batter from the bowl and beaters, even though Darryl warned that it contained raw eggs and salmonella.

  But what to bake? I knew little about my coworkers, so I’d need to play it by ear. Vinton’s cubicle was filled with beach shots from Atlantic City, Bertie’s with school pictures of Erika, Harley’s with biker magazines. Most were empty of anything that offered clues to their lives. Who were they when they left Risko Realty? I honestly didn’t know. That included Harley Wilde, who I thought I knew better than the others. Tanya struck me as a chocolate chip kind of girl. Vinton, always in gray, probably liked a no-nonsense pound cake. Everybody else? I had no idea.

  The next morning I drove up to Harley’s apartme
nt building to pick up the bird and Bible. He lived in a squat three-story building from the 1970s, well kept, with a touch of charm. Someone, probably a tenant, had taken the initiative to plant flowers, now fading, in the stone planters and around the hedges, and the walkway leading to the building looked newly paved. I was immediately buzzed in when I rang the bell, hoping for someone to let me in. Either this was a trusting building or a guest was expected. Harley’s apartment was on the ground floor, so there was a good chance of running into a nosy neighbor. Sure enough, as I struggled with the key, the woman next door opened her door, obviously expecting somebody else.

  “Miss, who are you and why are you going into Mr. Wilde’s apartment?” she said, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. She was a plump, gray-haired lady, a decade shy of Aunt Phoenix, with caramel-colored skin and piercing eyes that looked me up and down, expecting an answer.

  “Hope she’s here to get that crazy bird! I don’t know what kind of a meeting we can have with him squawking like that!” I heard someone call from inside her apartment. I peeped inside and saw a blonde woman of about the same age sitting on the couch.

  “I take it that’s not Alejandra,” said a high-pitched voice from another chair.

  “I’m Laura Grace, and I’m waiting for your answer,” said the first woman, her manner bringing to mind my terrifying third-grade teacher.

  “I’m Dessa Jones. I work with Harley, and I’m here to pick his bird up and care for him while he’s . . . away,” I said, stuttering like a nervous third grader.

  “A friend of Harley’s. How is he doing?” asked the tall blonde, coming to the door and towering above both of us. “We heard he’s in trouble, and we’re worried about him. By the way, I’m Margaret Sullivan, and you’ve stumbled into a meeting of the ARC.”

  “I’m Clara Berg, and ARC stands for the Aging Readers Club. We’re all retired teachers. What do we do? We drink and we read things!” Clara Berg called from across the room, and everyone chuckled.

  “She stole that from Tyrion Lannister in Game of Thrones!” said Laura Grace, with an exaggerated eye roll. “And nobody’s drinking now because it’s too early. Hazel Wilde joined ARC when she moved in with her son. He’s a good boy, took good care of her, read to her when she was too weak to read. It would break her heart to see what is happening to him.”

  “And we don’t believe he’s guilty, not for a minute,” said Margaret Sullivan.

  “Maybe you’d better get him now,” said Laura Grace. “The bird. He’s at it again!”

  She was right. As I opened Harley’s door, Parker began to squawk, even louder than before. I hoped it was for lack of company and not his usual behavior. “I’m here to take you home, Parker,” I said, closing the door, as if my words would do some good, which they didn’t. He was a noisy little creature, and I hoped Juniper’s better angels would beat out his natural instinct. If not, I’d have some explaining to do when Harley got out of jail. If he got out. I’d face that when I had to.

  Harley’s apartment was a tiny two-bedroom with the biggest big-screen TV in the living room I’d ever seen, close to a stereo and a video recorder. A coffee table piled high with books about motorcycles was in front of the couch. Parker sat in his cage in the middle of the room; it was not love at first sight. The bird was bigger than I thought he would be but not as large as a parrot. He was nearly seven inches long from his beak to his tail feathers, which were lime green and speckled with yellow and blue spots. His tiny, lidded eyes took everything in, and his lethal little beak looked ready to crack seeds—or somebody’s finger—if he set his mind to it. His cage was spacious, as wide as it was tall, and filled with various bird toys including a mirror, a swing, and a ladder as well as a watering bottle, half full of water. A bulky cover I assumed was used at night to keep him quiet lay on the floor near the cage next to four boxes of food—two of parakeet pellets, two of seeds.

  “Okay, we’ll be on our way shortly, Parker,” I said, with the uncomfortable realization that, except for my brief exchanges with the ladies next door, the only prolonged conversations I’d had today were with animals.

  I walked down the short hall and peeked into the smaller of the two bedrooms, which was remarkably neat. The corners of a well-made bed were tucked in and tight, probably learned from Harley’s time in the army. The other room was larger, with two windows, a chest of drawers, a full-size mirror, and an old-fashioned rocking chair. The Bible, which looked as if it had been in the family for generations, lay on the bureau. A photograph of Harley as a child was inside. He looked around six and sat on a two-wheel bike supported by a man sporting a proud paternal smile who bore a striking resemblance. I wondered why Harley had never mentioned him. But he’d never mentioned his mother either. Harley was a man who kept things to himself; that could be either good or bad.

  Parker’s raucous squawking reminded me that I had a job to do, and it was time to do it. I returned to the living room and tried to pick up the cage, which was heavier than it looked. The cover added three pounds, but it quieted Parker down, something to remember when I got him home. Slowly, after several stops and starts, I managed to haul the bird and the bulky cage to my car and slide it onto the backseat. I rested for a minute, grabbed one of the tote bags I kept in my car, and headed back inside for the birdseed and Bible. When I left the bedroom, a hint of lavender rushed past me like a whisper.

  “I’ll do what I can, Hazel Wilde,” I said to whomever lingered here to protect her son. I felt a wave of well-being, as if my promise had been heard and appreciated.

  As I was leaving, I noticed a stack of booklets on parakeet care stuffed haphazardly on the top shelf of an overcrowded bookshelf. When I grabbed the closest, the others fell in a pile on the floor. I grabbed one and skimmed its back cover.

  Parakeets are small parrots. They are sweet, gentle creatures that enjoy socializing. They love to learn new tricks and words.

  A sociable talking bird! Just what I needed. I tossed the book in the tote bag with the birdseed and Bible. When I tried to push the other books back where they belonged, a stack of old photographs held together by a rubber band fell on the floor beside me. Out of curiosity (and simple nosiness), I sat down on the couch and shuffled through them, then wished I hadn’t.

  Louella, Tanya, Dennis, Harley—all of them were partying hearty in someone’s plush, elegant living room. All were in their early twenties, except for Louella, who looked barely out of her teens. I saw her as she must have been once—laughing eyes, clear pretty face, no trace of drug use. Half-filled or empty liquor bottles were strewn around the room as if there had been a wild, sordid party. Stacks of dollar bills were piled on the coffee table and sofa like props, so many they couldn’t be real. They were all drunk, arms tossed loose and easy around one another, dopey expressions, eyes sleepy and glazed, unaware or unconcerned that someone was taking pictures.

  Charlie Risko, in his aging glory, was in all of them, arms resting on the shoulders of each of the girls. Louella sat on Charlie’s lap in several of the pictures, kissing his cheek, her arm around his neck. A younger man, built like a heavyweight and wearing a large-brimmed hat, stood off in the distance. The brim was pulled down, but I could still see his eyes, and his gaze, wide and disgusted, was fixed on Louella. In another, Tanya sat on Harley’s lap, planting a kiss on his forehead. In another, she snuggled close to Dennis and was nuzzling Charlie in at least three of them. I studied Louella’s photo carefully before returning it to the stack, scrutinizing the face of the young man staring at her. He was younger than the rest, his expression more grimace than smile.

  I stacked the pictures together again, pushing them in the back of the bookshelf where I’d found them, knowing I’d wandered into a secret place I had no business going. I knew who the girls were now, the ones Charlie had dirtied. But where did the money come from?—if it was real. The girls were in most of the photographs. Who had taken them? Why had Harley kept them?

  The doorbell rang, startling me. Feeli
ng guilty, as if I’d been caught doing something naughty, I rushed to get it before it rang again. It was Laura Grace from next door.

  “When you see Harley again, I want you to tell him I said to keep the faith. I used to joke with Hazel all the time about that because her name was the same as one of Adam Clayton Powell’s wives. Tell Harley that the ladies of the ARC are looking out for him and we’ll do anything we can to help him, and that he has angels in high places, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll let him know,” I said obediently, thinking that angels were always in high places, but I kept it to myself.

  Parker was quiet when I got into my car, but it wasn’t for long. When my cell phone rang—the honking duck ringtone—he went into a frenzy, thinking perhaps that a fellow feathered traveler was on his way. The call was from Tanya Risko, and her message was as frantic as it was desperate. She begged me to come to see her the moment I got to work, ending her plea with a cringe-inducing crack about “us widows.”

  It took me nearly an hour to get Parker and his covered cage out of the backseat of my car and into the house. Juniper watched my ordeal with interest but made no obvious moves. I parked Parker in the office on the second floor, close to the window, then checked his food and water and took off the cover to let in some air, which set him chirping again. Juniper, still curious, stood nearby watching. Only the promise of Temptations lured him back downstairs. Hopefully, Parker would be our houseguest no more than a few days. Hopefully, Juniper would mind his manners.