“I like them strong,” he said.
“I can see that.” I took another sip. “Strong but good.”
“You can get away with a lot when you sell real estate if you know how to stretch the boundaries, how to take a company’s good name and milk it for all it’s worth, turn it into dirt,” he said.
I waited until he finished his drink and made himself another. I sipped at mine. “Did Charlie turn it into dirt by himself?” I said.
He looked at me for a moment, then grinned. “You’re not as naïve as you look, Miss Dimples, are you?”
“I found some photographs in Harley’s apartment that . . . puzzled me.”
“Harley’s apartment? What kind? Who was in them?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“I’d rather not say,” I replied, then added, “he wanted me to get some stuff while he was in jail.”
“Another one who has a deceptive look,” he said, half smiling. “Let me just say this: Charlie Risko was a corruptor of innocents. But he wasn’t the only one.”
I nodded as if I knew what he was talking about, but actually I had no idea.
“Okay. Let me tell you who was in them. Harley, Dennis, Louella, bless her soul. The widow, Avon . . .”
“Who was Avon Bailey?”
“One of the innocents. Him and Juda,” he said, finishing off his drink.
“Juda?”
“Actually not so innocent. She knew all Charlie’s schemes. That was what she had on him and why she stayed connected. It meant something to her. Not much to him, though. He was that kind of man.”
“What were his schemes?”
“They were cons, baby. He ran con games. The kind you need fresh faces for. Fresh young faces and firm young bodies that can fool you. Deceive you.”
“Like Louella and Tanya. And Harley . . . ,” I added.
He smiled a sly smile. “Harley knew the young faces because he was young himself. I’ll leave it at that. The scams? Stu explained them to me on his better days. How Charlie dragged his daddy’s business into the mud. Risko Realty had been around for three decades. People in town knew the old man and how honest he was. You saw that in the church, remember? When you said that name, Risko Realty, folks believed your words, knew you were honest.
“I’ll tell you this: Having a pretty face doing your bidding makes it easier to get away with things. Especially when that pretty face doesn’t know the half of what she’s doing.”
“And Juda knew all about that?”
“Charlie shared secrets with her. One little bit of him she held on to. Sad, isn’t it?”
I nodded that it was. My sense of her, thanks to the gift, was right. She held secrets but they didn’t belong to her. “Why did everybody stay with him so long?” I asked the question that had been on my mind since my first day. “Why didn’t they leave? Why didn’t you leave?”
“Charlie Risko had something on everybody,” he said after a pause. “Every line you crossed, every mistake you made. Everybody had a secret, and Charlie knew them all. But the thing about lying, it drags you down with it. You may not have meant any harm, but when you do harm you pay with a bit of your soul, and that’s what Charlie made people do, like my Stu. He paid with a bit of his soul. Those pictures you found? Charlie had copies, I’ll bet. Of those and more.”
“And what about you? After Stu died, why did you stay?”
He took in a breath and let it out slowly. “I wanted to find a way to get even. To make him pay for Stu’s death.”
“Did you find it?”
“Too late now,” he said with a shrug and a cackle.
“And Dennis Lane?”
“You got to ask Dennis Lane about Dennis Lane. I try not to mess with him.”
I left it there, watching Vinton sip his drink, nibble his cookie, his mind gone to other things. I wondered if he was thinking of the schemes or of Avon . . . the kid he wouldn’t mention, or maybe about Stuart and how sad life was without him.
“You ever get so sad you wish you could stop living?” he said, breaking the silence. “You know what I’m talking about, because you’ve been through it. You ever get that sad?”
His anguish touched me more deeply than I wanted it to, and I answered him quickly because I knew that nothing would do but the truth.
“I loved Darryl so much that there are times I keep on living, trying to be happy, because I know he would want me to. Sometimes it’s just making it through the day. Get home. Play with our cat. Have a glass of wine. But it gets better.”
“Not for me. I wish I had the courage that Stuart had, to do what he did.” The glimmer grew even darker than before, and I thought about alcohol and sorrow and what it could drive you to.
“I go to places that I know he loved, where we were happy together. Sometimes that helps,” I said. I reached out, took his hand, held it until he pulled it away.
“Thanks for trying, Miss Sunshine,” he said after a minute.
“Miss Sunshine!”
His smile was quick and sly. “Just felt right saying it.”
The glimmer had faded back to its usual gray, still there but not gone. He seemed better, calmer. I hoped my visit had done him some good.
“Let me pack these cookies up and give back this beautiful tin.”
“It comes with the cookies.”
“It’s too pretty just to give away.”
“Not to those who deserve it,” I said, which was the truth, because he did.
He nodded as if he understood, then added with a slit of a smile, “You don’t know me quite as well as you think you do, Mrs. Dessa Jones.” I caught a whiff of nutmeg as he closed the door, and that, along with his parting words, haunted me all the way home.
Chapter 11
I tucked Vinton Laverne’s final words where all disturbing thoughts go when I bake—midway between the measuring and mixing. I had cakes to make before tomorrow morning, and it was late. I took eggs out of the refrigerator, softened butter in the microwave (praying it wouldn’t liquefy), and combined all the tasks I could—greasing the cake pans, measuring the flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and cocoa (for the chocolate cake), putting all the ingredients into separate bowls. Luckily, both cakes could bake at 350 degrees (although I had to keep an eye on the 7-UP cake). By midnight, everything was done. I set the cakes out to cool. I’d make time to frost and glaze them in the morning. When I dropped into bed, I was dead to the world. Nearly dead to the world.
Thoughts of Vinton, along with that whiff of nutmeg, and of Tanya, obviously hiding something, wouldn’t let me go. Vinton’s tone had been mocking, mean-spirited, verging on angry, when I left him. As for Tanya, she was clearly waiting for somebody with whom to share the rest of that cake—and something else. Dennis Lane. I should try not to mess with him, Vinton had said. What did he mean by that? Except for Juda, Lane was the one member of the staff I’d had few dealings with. I’d need to talk to him sooner or later, but the more I learned about the man, the more I dreaded being alone with him. More problematic, I’d need to convince him to talk to me. He wasn’t the kind of man to be tempted by chocolate cookies or a cake. It might be wise to ask Aunt Phoenix for an herb or spell for protection; I needed a powerful one, although I knew she’d be suspicious since I’d never asked before. Then there was Miss Juda Baker, one of Vinton’s innocents. Innocent of what? And Avon Bailey, whose name kept popping up.
I drifted off to sleep with his name on my mind, except “Avon” didn’t take the form of a person but of a beauty product, the kind my mother used to sell. When I was a kid, she was the Avon lady, and I was proud of her. She’d let me try her sample lipsticks—pale pink and crimson red—nail polish and colognes that smelled like roses, always special to me because of her name.
In my dream, glass bottles of Avon products were stacked in front of me in a sparkling, crystal tower. Suddenly, it crashed to the floor. The shattering glass woke me with a start. From somewhere in the distance, a creature began squawking like a bir
d, then mewling like a cat. Half awake, I realized what had happened. I bolted into the guest room, expecting the worst . . . and nearly got it. I should have known the gift would have its way with me one way or another, that dreaming about my mother would foretell some future event. As Aunt Phoenix might say, I didn’t listen.
The crash was Parker’s cage hitting the floor. Juniper, the source of the meowing, paced guiltily in front of it; the cage door swung open ominously.
“Juniper! Where is Parker? What did you do with him? Where is he?” I yelled as if he could actually answer me. He gazed up at me, his huge green eyes staring innocently.
“What am I going to tell Harley?”
Juniper blinked once, then again, as if to say, “Your problem, not mine!”
“Bad cat! Bad, bad cat!” I screamed, as though that would actually make a difference. Aunt Phoenix’s warning came back: Cats will be cats and birds will be birds. I should have listened. Yet again.
“I’m sorry, Parker. I’m so sorry!” I bawled into the empty room. As I looked around the room, I realized there were no feathers, bones, or other telltale signs of a dead bird. Then I heard Parker, perched on the edge of a ceiling light fixture, squawking away. I shoved Juniper out of the room, placed Parker’s cage back where it belonged, and checked the parakeet books on how to get a runaway bird back into his cage.
I knew that Parker liked apple slices. One of the books suggested varying his diet, and I’d tried it the night before. I placed a slice in his cage, made sure the door was wide open, then sat at the desk, pretending to ignore him. He flew around a few times, perching on the window shade, on the edge of my desk, then landed in his cage and began nibbling the apple. I snapped the door closed.
There was no way, of course, to know exactly what had happened. I was just grateful the bird was safe. I knew I’d need to find another place for him until Harley could take him back—hopefully, he’d be able to. There was only one person I could count on. I called her early the next morning
“Didn’t I tell you about cats?” Aunt Phoenix said when I explained my situation. “I don’t like birds, but you’re in luck. Your aunt Celestine is here, and she’s always been partial to them. Bring him over, drop him off, and spend some time with us. And she has an important gift for you,” she added.
“A gift?”
“I told you before that she wanted to see you.”
“What kind of gift could she possibly have for me after all these years?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
I had to get Parker to safer territory. Going to visit Aunt Phoenix would also give me a chance to get more information about the glimmer—and the gift. Maybe even get some help with protective herbs or spells. Talking with two peculiar aunts was bound to be better than talking to one. I couldn’t remember ever meeting Celestine, although I must have at some point. I’d frost and glaze the cakes, then drop them off with Lennox Royal later this afternoon.
Aunt Phoenix opened the door before I rang the bell. As usual. “Where’s the bird?” She got right to the point.
“In the car.”
“You left him flying around the car?”
“He’s in a cage.”
“What do I know? Better bring him in so he can get used to his new temporary home,” she said, emphasizing the word temporary.
“Don’t worry, as soon as the owner is able to take him back he will,” I said, heading to the cage before she could ask more questions. Besides, she probably knew anyway.
I hauled Parker, squawking loudly and flapping his wings, into the living room, placing him along with his food, books, and toys on a desk in the corner of the room.
“Does he have a name?”
“Parker.”
“Noisy little something, isn’t he?”
“You kind of get used to it.”
“He won’t be here that long.”
“Parker will be here as long as he needs to be,” said a soothing, commanding voice from the kitchen. Aunt Celestine entered, carrying a tray laden with three cups and a pot of what smelled like rose hip tea. She placed the tray on the coffee table, then turned to Parker.
“Calm down and hush,” she said; Parker calmed down and hushed.
If I hadn’t known these two women were sisters, I wouldn’t have believed it. Where Aunt Phoenix’s eccentricities drew attention whenever she left the house, there was nothing odd about Aunt Celestine—at least in appearance. Her neat pink shirtwaist dress was a startling contrast to Aunt Phoenix’s blousy white kaftan, as was her dark brown hair permed into tight, old-fashioned curls. Her flawless makeup, probably applied early that morning, brought to mind a woman in an AARP ad for successful retirement.
“I’m your aunt Celestine,” she said in a prim, well-modulated voice. “I mostly remember you as a child, Odessa. It’s been years since we’ve seen each other.” She gazed at me for a moment, then grabbed me and delivered an awkward hug. “You have Rosemary’s sweet spirit.”
“And she’s got the gift,” said Phoenix. “Just doesn’t use it like she should.”
“She will, so hush!”
“That hush mess doesn’t work with me. I’m not one of your damned birds,” Phoenix said.
“Not yet, anyway,” said Celestine. Phoenix threw her a scalding glance, then both women broke out laughing.
I realized this must be kind of a long-standing joke between them that I wasn’t meant to understand. Was Celestine the mother of those distant cousins Aunt Phoenix often talked about? If that were the case, they wouldn’t be “distant.” There were still far-reaching branches of my unconventional family I had yet to meet. For better or worse.
“Have some tea, darling,” Celestine said as she poured me a cup. It had been years since I’d been called “darling,” which made me feel like a six-year-old child.
“Some for you, too?” she asked Phoenix, who shook her head, took out her flask, and poured a shot of cherry brandy into her cup.
Aunt Celestine scowled. “A bit early in the day for that, isn’t it?”
“Mind your own business, sister of mine, and I’ll mind mine,” Phoenix replied in a singsong voice as she settled back in her chair and began to rock.
The three of us sat sipping our drinks, the silence growing heavy yet filled with emotion I didn’t understand. I wondered how long Aunt Celestine’s visit would be, and why it had taken her so long to visit. Or maybe she had come before, and Phoenix simply hadn’t mentioned it. It was hard to tell with my aunt, who always told less than she knew. The sisters seemed so focused on their thoughts, I wondered if there was a silent conversation going on between them that I couldn’t hear. Where had my mother, the baby of the family, fit within all this? I suspected she was closer to Celestine, who was nearer her age, but dependent on Phoenix, who was strong enough for both of them. What secrets did they share?
Aunt Phoenix broke the silence, reigniting my suspicion that she could read my mind. “One of the joys of having Odessa so near is that she reminds me so much of the baby,” she said to Celestine.
“The baby being Rosemary. You know she didn’t like being called that.”
“I know, but Odessa is her baby, even though she’s a grown woman now. And Rosemary was mine.”
“Ours,” said Celestine.
“And this one has her sweet spirit,” Aunt Celestine said again.
It was time to remind the two of them that I was here—and alive—and not a darling child waiting her turn to talk.
I took a sip of tea. “I need to ask you both some questions. About our family’s gift,” I said firmly. “I need to know more about the glimmer. And I need you to tell me the names of herbs that can protect me from evil.”
They glanced at each other, then back at me. “Odessa, we’ve talked about the glimmer before. There’s not much more I can tell you,” Phoenix said patiently, like an adult talking to a willful child.
“But there has to be more. Maybe Aunt Celestine . . .”
C
elestine held up her hand as if stopping my question. “Phoenix is the glimmer girl, darling. She has always been better at reading and seeing them than me. Smells are my thing. Sounds, sensations. I understand that you can smell. You may have gotten a little bit of everything. She must have gotten the gifts that were supposed to go to Rosemary before she left us,” she said, turning to Phoenix.
“Or maybe Rosemary was gone before she could fully learn how to use them. She was so young when she went. It came so quick, so sudden,” said Phoenix.
The two were lost in their thoughts again, this time of my mother. Sorrow filled the silence, and nobody was willing to break it. I studied them both, noticing their similarities, wondering again about my mother, beloved by both, whom I’d lost before I became a full-grown woman. Aunt Phoenix had been here for me then, and now there was Aunt Celestine. Was she here to stay or would she disappear? Would she be like the gift, coming and going as she pleased?
“Exactly what evil do you need protection from?” Phoenix said. “Who do you need protection from?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“There are many protective herbs, but they’re usually used in your home, to protect you from evil,” said Celestine. “Lavender, sage, even oregano. Eucalyptus will purify a room. Anything from angelica to vinegar can protect a room if you spread it properly. Even black pepper . . .”
“She’s not talking about protecting a room. That’s taken care of,” said Phoenix. She was right about that. When Darryl and I moved into our house, she’d burned so much white sage we couldn’t breathe for two days. “Who do you need protection from?” she asked again, her eyes fixing hard on me.
“I don’t know yet.”
“That’s not very helpful.” Celestine stated the obvious.
The uselessness of the gift, again.
“Is it the person who killed that man you worked for? His murderer is still on the loose, right?” said Phoenix.
When I didn’t answer, my aunts exchanged glances, then focused back on me.
A Glimmer of Death Page 11
