by Karen Pullen
The officers looked at him without expression.
“Yes, it was consensual. She actually initiated it. Or, at least made herself very available.”
“She’d just broken up with her boyfriend. She’d found out he’d been fooling around on her?” Matheson said.
“That’s right.”
“So she had a little revenge sex with you.”
“Could be,” Anthony said, although he harbored the notion that there had been some mutual attraction.
The detectives asked about Anthony’s defunct marriage, his work, what he did with his free time, until Thomas said, “OK. Just to be sure we have this right. You bumped into each other. You go back to her place. You have a couple of drinks. You have sex. That it?”
He knew how bad it sounded. “She obviously wanted to have sex. She was cute. I’m a red-blooded guy. Why not?”
“Okay, Mr. Sturgess. I think we get it. You took advantage of the situation.”
“I went with the situation.”
“Yes,” Matheson said. “The situation.”
“What time did you leave?” Thomas asked.
“Eight, eight-thirty, as best I recall.”
“As best you recall,” Matheson repeated like a Myna bird.
He thought that she really should have gotten that spot out of her skirt before she’d come to work.
“You said you were going to go back to her house on Sunday to rub out the scratch. Did you do that?”
Anthony wondered how this would be received. “No. I was afraid, you know, I didn’t want to give her ideas.”
“Ideas,” Matheson said.
“You know, that there was anything other than…”
The officers let that hang in the air, until Matheson said, “Other than a one-night stand.”
Anthony’s face hardened. “Yes.”
“Back to the boyfriend,” Matheson said. “Did she say anything about him getting physical with her?”
“No. She said she didn’t think he’d hurt her.”
“Some women like that, though, especially during sex, men getting rough with them.”
“I didn’t get rough with her, if that’s what you’re getting at.” His hardened face turned into a glare.
The detectives looked at each other. Thomas said, “I guess that’s about it. You’re not planning to leave town anytime soon, are you?”
“No.”
“Good. While Lucy Bennett’s death is still under investigation, let us know if you do. Plan to leave town, that is.”
“So, I am a suspect.”
“As we said, you may have been one of the last people to see her alive. We may want to talk with you later.”
After the officers had gone, Anthony threw out the used slippers, ran the vacuum, tossed his dinner in the garbage. Although he believed food tasted better when cooked in the oven, he put a new meal in the microwave to save time. He’d already missed Wheel and most of Jeopardy.
* * * *
The next few weekends were cold and rainy. He got antsy sitting around. Two Scotches in the evening became three, sometimes four. He missed some of his regular TV shows, stayed on the computer longer. There were days he didn’t arrive at the office until after eight—before most of his co-workers but out of character for him—and mistakes began appearing in his work. Finally, one Friday the forecaster said the next day would be clear and warm, a perfect fall day. He felt blood pulse in his veins in anticipation.
The next morning was sunny and breezy. With a bottle of water and an apple, he drove to a park outside Hendersonville. He backed into a space near the entrance at 9:51.
He checked his watch at 11:23. Nothing of interest had caught his eye. It was close to lunchtime and he was getting hungry. As he put the car in gear, a pretty blond woman in a little Chevy drove into the parking lot. She found a space about ten cars down the row, got out and walked past him. Early twenties, he guessed. Like Lucy. Hard to tell about her figure in the sweats she was wearing. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail.
When she was out of sight, he started the Honda and moved so he was one car width away from the Chevy, on the opposite side of the lot. He pulled straight in. When he looked in the rear view mirror, he could not see her car but when he turned his head, there it was. The angle was just right.
He rolled down the windows and adjusted the seat back. It could be a long wait.
ICE CREAM ALLURE, by E. B. Davis
The August night I broke into Conner’s Creamery, I had worked a full shift, said goodnight to my staff and closed the restaurant. At least some of my hours were alibied. I changed my black polyester shirt for the white uniform shirt I’d stolen in case passersby spotted me in the Creamery’s large front windows. I wanted to look as if I belonged there, one of the store’s chosen few, working long hours to ensure tasty pleasure for public consumption.
My wait-service shoes squished disappointment with every step I took on the hot concrete sidewalk. Designed for ambulatory work, the shoes epitomized my life situation. Managing a restaurant demanded long, late hours, ones I thought I’d left behind. Days of wearing suits and high heels, crafted by designers for sitting, were gone. I remembered the distinctive clicking sound of success my heels used to make as I strode. Now, I trudged on the sizzling sidewalk in clodhoppers.
In the changing and downsized newspaper industry, I’d been laid off from The Charlotte Dispatch, bringing me full circle to my humble beginnings. I had waitressed most of my life. During the day, I’d taken my journalism degree and then written for years as a member of the food section staff before attaining my dream job—restaurant critic. I’d worked so hard.
My family attended my college graduation, a momentous occasion since I was the sole college graduate. The name on my degree: Carlotta Giovanni. Dad and Uncle Warren spent time in the joint for their numerous B & E escapades, robbing from the rich to fund the family. Fortunately, they were free on graduation day.
Because of our sordid reputation, I’d written my column under the name Carlotta Jones. More fool me, I’d worked hard—too hard to have a ten-year setback. Anger flashed through my nerves like lightning. Powerless to change my circumstances, I’d planned tonight’s B & E to satiate my pent-up frustration.
Conner’s Creamery created the best ice cream in Charlotte. This past spring, I’d reported on the top three local ice cream stores. After devising a rating system and sampling ice cream from all the local vendors, I’d published the results in my column. Conner’s bested the best with its silky texture, rich denseness, and flavor depth. Had it been available to buy at another store, I might have restrained my criminal proclivities.
Columbian Calypso induced images of my mother’s kitchen where coffee perked on cold mornings, seducing me with reminiscences of security and home welcoming. The flavor held no bitterness of the liquid brew. One taste of Roasted Almond Fudge had sent shivers to my nether regions. A hint of cinnamon perhaps to tickle the erogenous zones? Deep Throat Chocolate’s richness made me groan with pleasure, licking and swirling the flavor over my tongue while I closed my eyes to concentrate on its smoothness. Going to Conner’s Creamery seemed like entering an orgasmatron from Woody Allen’s Sleeper.
Ryan Conner. I’d never forget him. He’d called me for dates after my review, saying he’d spotted me when I was in his shop sampling flavors. Knowing how I reacted to his frozen concoctions, I wondered what he’d seen, wondered if I’d embarrassed myself. Because he wanted my review to be impartial, he had waited until my contest results were published before asking me out.
I appreciated his concern and ethics, but I had turned down the dates because I feared a future conflict of interest. What a fool! Had I known The Charlotte Dispatch planned on kicking me onto the tarmac, I would have gladly gone out with the dreamy Mr. Creamy, who I suspected knew all about teasing erogenous zones. Ice cream was his art, and his art was culinary seduction. If only I had accepted his dates.
Conner’s Creamery had called to me
all summer, drawing me to its front windows lit by cool LEDs highlighting luscious tubs of cold perfection, but I couldn’t step inside the store. If dishy Ryan were there, he’d see me in my polyester uniform and squishy shoes. It was too much of a comedown. Would he feel like taking out an insignificant restaurant manager instead of a sophisticated and industry-powerful restaurant critic? I doubted it.
The memories of ice cream temptations and Mr. Creamy remained, living inside and plaguing me. The heat of the Charlotte summer had continued for weeks. Every day I longed for the cold, lusted for the taste, and wondered if Ryan would remember me. Would he scoff at my decline in the food industry? The ice cream and its creator filled my senses, intensifying and overriding all rational thought. Reduced to basic impulses, I was losing control.
Unrequited passion fueled me to find a solution. With my diminished status, Ryan would no longer desire me, and if I couldn’t have Ryan, I’d abandon myself to his creation. It took a few days, but I formed a plan, watched the store on my days off, noting when his white-clad personnel came and went. One day I noticed a staff member roll a container full of soiled-white uniforms to a commercial laundry’s truck parked behind the store. I stole a shirt from the container two days later. At home, I washed it to unblemished brightness.
Whenever Ryan appeared in my view of the store’s windows, I’d quiver at his bulging arm muscles exposed by his white short-sleeved shirt. His arms worked the ice cream, digging with his scoop, tracking through its texture, and leaving waves of frozen cream as a wake. I licked my lips and imagined kissing him. Seeing him made me pant. It was time to stop watching.
* * * *
I tucked Dad’s tools into the pocket of my skirt. He wouldn’t miss them because the state of North Carolina once again provided his accommodations. My other equipment was folded neatly into a fanny pack wrapped around my waist.
The dim streetlight illuminated my walk through the steamy night, but as I neared the Creamery, I ducked into an alley and snuck to its backdoor. I picked the lock with ease using my hearing and tactile senses to release the mechanism. The mechanical and electronic skills my dad taught me helped, but sensory detail, my forte, contributed far more to successful lock picking.
In the backroom of the store, I opened my fanny pack and put on plastic gloves and a plastic cap, tucking my black curls inside its elastic border. Mr. Creamy would have no trouble with the Board of Health from this burglar. I would do no harm to this talented man’s business, nor leave forensic evidence.
From the darkness, I peered through the doorway to the front of the store where the delicious frozen treats awaited me. Surrounded by the LEDs, they glowed in colors like a kaleidoscope. Armed with a handful of wooden taster spoons, I took step after squishy step into the front room. I lifted the plastic lids that covered four of the ice cream barrels and read their names; Butterscotch Dumpling, Caramel Caress, Dark Dutch and Pecan Pie. I would try them all. With Butterscotch Dumpling on my spoon, I opened my mouth, put the dollop on my tongue, and pressed it on the roof of my mouth, letting it melt before swallowing it. I tasted the buttery freshness and swooned. My knee bent and my calf lifted behind me as if I had been kissed by Mr. Creamy. Would he taste as good?
I tucked the spent spoon into my fanny pack, took another from the pack, and sampled Pecan Pie. The rich flavor of brown sugar and toasted pecans took me to a Thanksgiving Day during my childhood when my life was ripe with possibility. I swirled my tongue into its creamy melt and savored both taste and memory with closed eyes.
“I hoped you couldn’t stay away—not in this heat,” a low, vibrating voice said to me.
My eyes opened at the sound of Ryan’s voice. I swallowed, closed my eyes again as my spirit sank—busted! Head lowered, I turned to face him. “I didn’t mean any harm, I couldn’t resist,” I said, feeling his gaze bore into me.
“Why didn’t you come—”
“I was ashamed,” I said, mortified and caught with a sample in my mouth.
“I heard you’d gotten laid—”
“Don’t say it. I lost my job in the cutbacks.” How could I explain how diminished I felt?
“Carlotta Giovanni.”
“You know?” A cold sweat broke on my brow. I thought my professional pseudonym had hidden my identity. I felt exposed.
“I made a point to find out everything about you. Are you going into your dad’s profession?”
“No, this was an exception.”
“You’re more embarrassed about losing your job than B & E.” It was a statement of truth but also a question.
“Yes.” My voice was defiant. “Will you have me arrested?”
“That depends on you,” Ryan said. He stepped closer and gazed into my eyes.
“I took precautions. You won’t have to take responsibility for my weakness. I won’t complicate your life. I haven’t contaminated any product,” I said to assure him, but my voice grew husky as he placed his hands on my shoulders, then traced my torso until his hands rested on my waist.
“I see you came prepared and succumbed to your desires. I’ve longed for you.” His chest brushed mine, and he lifted my chin, forcing me to look him in the eyes. “When you wouldn’t go out with me, I nearly lost my mind. I admit it. I’m damn glad you lost your job. Can we see each other now?” His lips were inches from mine. “You know the business,” he hesitated, “inside and out.”
And then he kissed me. My calf lifted again, and I swooned, melting into his arms. My body rumbled from my lips to my Creamy Crevice.
“The Pecan Pie tastes good on you. I want to taste more,” he said.
“Can we try…Deep Throat?”
“Yes, a thousand times, yes.”
I felt naked as I took two taster spoons from the packet, offering him one. Ryan lifted the tub of Deep Throat out of the freezer and descended to the floor taking me with him. Together we exposed ourselves to the rich succulent chocolate, savoring it on our comingled tongues and wallowing in our sensory pleasure. “Sometimes you have to surrender,” he said. We sat on the floor satiating our desires, our passion melting ice cream and whisking creamy puddles of love.
The next morning we awoke early still lying in each other’s arms on the floor. Stains of many varieties spotted our white uniforms. We faced each other unashamed of the evidence of our lust.
* * * *
The restaurant manager agreed to see me after I used my journalism pseudonym and reminded him of the rave review I’d written a few months ago. When I arrived at the restaurant toting an insulated Conner’s Creamery sample kit, his bushy white eyebrows rose. I removed two pint-sized tubs of ice cream and placed them on his kitchen’s counter. “What’s all this?” he asked.
“Buying Conner’s Creamery ice cream for your dessert menu and using them in your recipes will increase sales. Your dessert menu relies heavily on International flavors,” I said.
“But that’s what people want.” He gestured with his hands denying my pitch.
“That’s not all they want,” I said with a seductive smile. “A regional favorite creates intimacy and balance, allowing patrons to choose depending on how they feel. Conner’s ice cream, a hometown creation, provides sensuality.” His eyebrows narrowed with skepticism.
“Let’s try a sample because I can see you don’t believe me.”
The ice cream had softened enough during our discussion to be just the right consistency. I took out two sample spoons and gave one to him.
“First, notice how the ice cream resists the spoon,” I added, “like a woman trying to resist seduction.” I dug the wooden sample spoon into the tub, prompting him to do the same. The ice cream was hard enough to fight back. “But with just a gentle tug, it can be penetrated.” I tilted my head and smiled, lifting the corners of my mouth. “Spooning like lovers do, and every dip like caressing a lover’s back.” I drew the spoon across the frozen delight, making it crest into a creamy curl. “But even though it’s hard, its texture is smooth. So much like a man.�
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His eyes were trained on my face, and his mouth hung open. But then he closed his mouth around the spoon and tasted. “And the texture melts into a sensual soft cream.” I slid the sample into my mouth. “Just like lovers respond to a warm touch. The taste is rich and full. It satisfies and satiates as favorite lovers do.” I closed my eyes to the view of his surprised eyes and let the sample melt in my mouth before I swallowed.
“Ahhhh,” I said. “This flavor we call Deep Throat. It’s a jungle-rich chocolate flavor that singes with heat.” I opened my eyes and smiled at the restaurant manager.
“What flavors do you recommend?” He gulped and slowed his breathing.
I named a few of our bestselling flavors and then recommended some that best blended into sauces, a groundbreaking tactic few chefs had tried.
He bought fifteen gallons.
I placed the tubs back into my sample kit and gave him my business card. “Let me know when you’re running low or if you want to try our seasonal favorites.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that. Maybe we can sample more flavors.” A hopeful look crossed his face. He read my card. “Oh, you’re a family member. Carlotta Conner.”
“Yes, my husband and I own Conner’s Creamery. We take pride and pleasure in our work.”
He smiled. “Yes, I can see that you certainly do.”
“We know the effect of our ice cream, and I can assure you that when it’s on your menu, romance will follow.”
I headed for the door. My designer suit form-fitted my figure and my high heels clicked on the floor, their distinctive sound the ring of success. I’d call the order into Ryan from my air-conditioned car before driving to the next restaurant.
Our newest flavor, created on our honeymoon, would interest the manager. We called it Sexolicious.
About the author
E. B. Davis is a member of the Short Mystery Fiction Society, Sisters in Crime and its Guppy and Chesapeake subchapters. Her short stories have appeared in online magazines and in print, including the Shaker of Margarita anthologies. “Lucky In Death” appeared in Chesapeake Crimes: This Job is Murder, and “The Acidic Solution” was published in He Had It Coming. Fishnets, a Guppy anthology released by Wildside Press, included her short story, “The Runaway.” The next Chesapeake Chapter anthology, Chesapeake Crimes: Homicidal Holiday will include her historical short story, “Compromised Circumstances.”
