by Nene Adams
“I’m pretty sure our wait-about is Japanese, not Chinese,” Veronica corrected primly.
Mackenzie growled under her breath. “Don’t start that shit with me, Ronnie.”
“What do you mean?”
“Where you pretend to be all ate up with dumb ass. I’ve seen you do it to other people just to drive them crazy and I’m not having it today, hear me?”
Veronica stiffened and spoke while taking infinite care to enunciate each word with a maddening clarity that meant she was hiding her feelings behind a mask of formality, “Mac, I’m afraid I really don’t understand what—”
“Oh, yes, you do.” Frustration boiling into rage, Mackenzie rounded on her. “You know exactly what you’re doing—”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t have to ask what’s got you so hysterical—”
“Hysterical?”
“Yes, Mac, you’re behaving irrationally, which isn’t really that much of a surprise—”
A bitter laugh welled up from Mackenzie’s chest. “I never thought I’d see the day when you treated me like I was an annoying stranger you wanted to rile up for fun.”
“Mac, I—” Veronica swallowed and stopped speaking. After a moment spent staring at the floor, she squared her shoulders and continued, “Look, we’re both a little overwrought. Maybe it’s better if I go. We’ll talk later if you want.” Her mouth had an unhappy slant.
“Fine by me.”
“You can stay at my house tonight. I’ll bunk over at Bloodworth’s place.”
Mackenzie felt like she stood on the edge of a precipice, struggling to maintain balance as the edge crumbled under her feet. Beneath her yawned the dizzying depths, as dark as her mood and twice as ugly as her need to strike first and give the enemy no advantage. That she could think of Veronica as an adversary, even for a moment, took her breath away. Fairy tales were crap, she decided. There was no happily ever after.
She turned her back, certain her features were distorted with pain. “Don’t put yourself out on my account,” she said roughly. “I’ll spend the night at Mama’s house.”
“Are you sure?” Veronica sounded stricken.
“I’m sure.” Mackenzie wrapped her arms around herself, which did little to dispel the cold inside. “Now if you don’t mind…”
Veronica didn’t speak. She let herself out of the apartment. The door clicked closed behind her. Mackenzie had never, in her entire life, felt so alone.
Chapter Sixteen
Mackenzie didn’t go to her mother’s house. The thought of enduring Sarah Grace’s sidelong looks and thinly veiled questions about Veronica didn’t sit well with her. To avoid the headache if not the heartache, the next day she changed into a pair of well-worn jeans with holes in the knees, grabbed her wallet and keys, and went downstairs to the street.
She felt a need for distraction from the empty ache in her chest. She wanted to do some research into the unintelligible words the ghost monk and Abbot Imamura had told her, but the library was closed. Since she only had phonetic spelling to work with, better to seek answers in a book, she decided, turning her steps toward Straightaway Shopping Center.
The mall stood close to the downtown parking garage, a nice walk from her apartment. She passed Mighty Jo Young’s and considered dropping in for coffee. Oh, who was she kidding? she admonished herself, lengthening her stride. She didn’t want caffeine. She wanted to fall on the ample bosom of her friend and proprietor Jo-Jo and cry out her troubles in the pity party to end all pity parties.
However, blubbering over her argument with Veronica wouldn’t solve a thing. She needed to cool off and regroup, which an evening prowling through the Miles of Aisles bookstore in search of information ought to do. And a visit to the food court, of course. She couldn’t ignore her complaining stomach or the need to drown her sorrows in gelato.
Tomorrow, she’d apologize to Veronica. An abject, humble, groveling apology. Possibly with flowers, or at least a gift certificate to Newberry’s Machine Gun Range. The possibility she might not be forgiven tightened her throat. She swallowed, pushed such gloomy thoughts to the back of her mind and went through the door into Straightaway.
As always, the music hit her first—an instrumental of a Lady Gaga song arranged for harps and hand drums—followed by the scent peculiar to shopping malls. Mackenzie sniffed the dry, cool air. Sarah Grace called the odor “the smell of money.”
She made her way through the milling shoppers to the food court, where she stood in line at Puffo Italian Ices for a double scoop of cioccolato fondente extra noir. The extremely dark chocolate gelato had a bitter bite to it, suiting her mood. As an afterthought, she asked for a scoop of raspberry sorbetto as well. The teenage server eyed her scrawny frame in open disbelief and pursed his mouth, but filled the order as requested. She ignored him. Sure, she was skinny, but judging from his creeping hairline, he’d be bald before he graduated college. Nobody’s perfect, boy.
Mackenzie took her cup and settled at a table. While she licked chocolate and raspberry from her spoon, she moodily contemplated her cell phone. Once or twice, her hand strayed toward speed dial, but stopped short. No point calling Veronica. Words had been exchanged. Better give her some space. Give them some space.
Oh, hell. She pushed away the rest of the gelato, unable to appreciate the treat. As if on cue, the Muzak on the PA system began playing an orchestral, curiously upbeat, strings heavy version of Three Dog Night’s “One is the Loneliest Number.” She wanted to weep. Instead, she abandoned her gelato cup in the trash and made a beeline for Miles of Aisles.
The bookstore was huge, at least as expansive as some of the chain stores she’d seen in malls in bigger cities. No in-house coffee store selling frou-frou drinks, no poetry readings or live music, nothing but books and bookshelves as far as the eye could see. The clerks were famously snotty, mostly English lit majors from Welcome College who thought “bestseller” was a dirty word and kept popular authors like Stephen King and James Patterson on the shelves farthest from the front counter. She found the attitude amusing.
“Got anything on Japan?” Mackenzie asked the girl at the counter, a thin, tall, somewhat Gothic specimen with a stainless steel plug in her lower lip.
“Nonfiction?” The girl blinked her kohl-lined eyes slowly.
“Got it in one.”
The girl pointed a finger heavy with silver rings. “Third, second, middle, third.”
Mackenzie nodded. She’d been to Miles of Aisles often enough to decipher the clerk’s cryptic code. The section she wanted was in the third column of bookshelves, second row, in the center on the third shelf. She began at the left side of the store and made her way down the aisles of tall bookcases until she came to a collection of books on Japan. Most were tourist guides to Kyoto or Tokyo, plus a quirky coffee table volume of anime art. She grimaced.
One of the other clerks came by. His purple polo shirt and black slacks uniform fit him loosely. “Looking for something?” he asked in a bored tone.
“A Japanese-English dictionary.” Mackenzie tried not to be distracted by his weedy, pitiful attempt at a mustache. Or had he scraped out a shower drain and glued stray pubic hairs to his upper lip? Either way, she fought not to stare.
A flicker of interest showed. “Well, what do you need to know? I can translate if it’s not too elaborate,” he offered. Her open skepticism made him scowl. “I can, you know. Probably. I mean, I’ve watched Naruto since forever.”
Nah-what-o? “Okay, uh…”
“Chad,” he prompted.
“Okay, Chad, how about…” She paused to recall the syllables she’d written on the magazine page. A breath of cold air puffed against the side of her face. She flinched. “Gee-go-coo,” she said, mimicking the old monk’s whisper in her left ear.
She glanced sidelong at an angle extreme enough to strain her eyes. On the very edge of vision, she glimpsed a stirring shadow, a faint smear of color that could be a face. Fearing she might look ridiculous, she refocused on Chad.
&n
bsp; He whipped a notepad and pen from his pocket. “Jigoku,” he pronounced, showing her the correct spelling. “It means ‘Hell.’ You know, like the afterlife.”
Another icy breath, another whisper. She rubbed her increasingly tender ear, hoping she wouldn’t get frostbite. “Fury-so-day-no-tie-ee-kah.”
“Furisode no taika.” Chad wrote the words for her. “The fire of the long sleeved robe. Oh, hey, that sounds familiar. I had this Japanese girlfriend—well, okay, she was from California, but her mom was the real deal. She wanted me to read the history stuff, but I wasn’t so into her. Just, you know, she was hot and I was kind of immature. But she told me a story about a big fire in Tokyo, only it wasn’t Tokyo then. I think…yeah.” He checked the bookshelf. “Gotcha. Here you go. I think this is what you want.” He handed Mackenzie a hefty volume of Japanese folklore.
“Seventy-five dollars?” Mackenzie goggled at the price, but opened the lavishly illustrated book to the Table of Contents. The Furisode Fire was listed on page fifty-six. Her ear throbbed, feeling like an icicle might be growing on it.
“We’re not supposed to let customers take notes, take pictures, or study the books too long.” Chad shrugged. “But you were really nice to my sister when y’all were dating back when, so as long as you don’t let Dakota see you cracking the spine, you’ll be okay.”
Mackenzie wondered if by “Dakota” he meant the Goth punk princess at the register. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your last name.”
“Oh, yeah, it’s Dean. Chad Dean. My sister’s Mary.”
“Thanks, Chad. Tell Mary I said hi.”
“I will.”
Rather than take Chad’s offer and possibly get him into trouble, Mackenzie went to the counter and used her credit card to pay for the book. Thankfully the monk didn’t follow her to the register, so her frozen ear had a chance to thaw out.
She left with a Miles of Aisles eco-friendly paper bag in hand, intending to swing by the shoe shop to check out a sale. She navigated the crowd of shoppers and stopped halfway to Star Spangled Shoes, drawn to a small store next to her mother’s favorite perfume outlet.
This must be the place Veronica told her about, Mackenzie realized. Myrtle Johnson’s shop. Or the Crone’s Abode, according to the lighted sign. Considering Myrtle was around her own age, she wondered who the crone was supposed to be.
She started to move on—in fact, she’d already taken a couple of steps away—when a woman trilled, “Yoo-hoo, Kenzie!”
Trapped like a rat, damn it. Mackenzie turned to meet her fate.
Chapter Seventeen
“Hey, Myrtle.” Mackenzie masked her dismay.
Myrtle Johnson sashayed closer to Mackenzie on scarlet high heels, exuding an unmistakable sexiness thankfully not directed at her. The plump woman wore a red shirtwaist dress fitted to make the most of feminine curves. “Merry meet, Kenzie. How are you?” She touched the silk flower pinned to her blond hair.
“Not bad. And you?”
“Oh, I woke up with my aura energetic and materialistic today, as you can see.”
Mackenzie knew better than to ask. Questions would lead to an hour spent sitting in a chair with a cup of herbal tea that smelled like dirty gym socks while Myrtle burned sage, read tarot cards and spoke very earnestly about magic with a “k” and other airy-fairy nonsense. She tried to look wise and nodded as if she understood.
“Colors are spiritually significant,” Myrtle continued. “By the way, we’re having a special on readings today in case you want to learn more. Betty Watson’s bringing her aura camera later. It’ll be fun. And of course, if you need a Reiki healing, you can always make an appointment with me, or I can give you a good price on crystals.” Her smile faded to a frown. “Are you feeling okay? Your energy’s edging into grays and browns.”
The mention of Betsy Ross Watson, proud mother of three sets of twins, who never went anywhere without her mommy brag book, made Mackenzie impatient to leave. “I’m fine. Just running an errand and getting lunch. Busy, busy, busy. No rest for the…uh, no time for auras and stuff like that, I’m afraid, but thanks for mentioning the special. Maybe another time.” She began sidling away, hoping to melt into the crowd and escape.
A passerby plowed into her, almost knocking her off her feet. She stumbled. The paper bag she carried went flying out of her hand. When the bag landed, the book she’d purchased burst out and skidded across the floor. She cursed, scrambling after it.
The number of shopping center visitors seemed to have tripled in the short time she’d been enjoying gelato. Was there a sale at Penney’s? she wondered. A wall of moving bodies hemmed her in, threatening to flatten her if she went against the flow. She rubbed her bruised shoulder and cursed again, trying to see where her book had gone.
She turned her head at the barely there click of high heels tapping the tiled floor. One calm, deliberate step at a time, Myrtle approached.
Mackenzie wanted to call out a warning, but Myrtle walked straight into the bustling mob without pause. She squeezed her mouth and her eyes shut, fearing the worst. A few moments later, she peeked, expecting to find the woman crushed underfoot.
To her astonishment, the hurried stream of humanity flooding the concourse had shifted to flow around Myrtle standing undisturbed and unmolested in their midst. If that wasn’t strange enough, no one appeared to notice what they were doing. People simply avoided running into her like she was surrounded by invisible barriers.
Myrtle folded her knees in a graceful bend, picked up the book, straightened and walked back. “I hope it wasn’t damaged.” She offered the slightly battered volume with a bright smile. Behind her, pedestrian movement returned to its normal chaos.
“How the hell did you—”
“I’m sorry?”
“Excuse me. I mean, thank you very much.” Mackenzie took the book, gazing at a stone-faced Myrtle with new appreciation. Her mama didn’t raise no fool. She’d learned not to give gift horses a dental exam. “I haven’t had a chance to read it yet.”
“You’re reading about Japan? That’s real interesting.” Myrtle glanced up, focusing on a point over Mackenzie’s shoulder. “Hello, Detective Maynard.”
“Good afternoon, Ms. Johnson.” James Maynard nodded a greeting. “Please pardon my rush, ma’am, I’m on official business today.” His gaze switched to Mackenzie. “Kenzie, I need to talk to you. Now,” he added in a voice like gravel in a cement mixer.
Mackenzie considered refusing. She always had difficulty reconciling the cousin who’d chased her around the backyard waving a dead garter snake on a stick with the dour, taciturn man behind the homicide detective’s badge. However, he hadn’t offended her too much lately, so she decided not to make a scene.
“Thanks again for the assist,” she said to Myrtle. “I’ll catch you later, okay?” To Maynard, she went on, “Well, Cousin Jimmy, what’s the hubbub?”
He drew her aside. “What do you know about Turner Erskine?”
“Turnip’s a Grade-A dickhead, as well you know.” Mackenzie pressed against the wall to avoid being run down by a harried woman juggling a cell phone and shopping bags while navigating a baby stroller, towing a crying toddler and drinking from a to-go coffee cup.
“Not the point.” Maynard sniffed dismissively. “I’m sure you know he’s been arrested for setting the fire at Rosalyn Parker’s warehouse. Don’t bother looking like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, Kenzie. I figure your girlfriend let that particular cat out of the bag.”
Mackenzie’s heart jumped. “Is Ronnie in trouble?”
“As long as I don’t see or hear any confidential details in the paper or on TV that could jeopardize a case, I don’t care about your pillow talk.”
“Fine, Jimmy. Speak your piece and quit farting around—”
“Erskine claims you burned the warehouse to hide the fact you’d given him a fraudulent estimate on a very valuable piece of antique furniture.”
The sheer audacity of the lie took Mackenzie’s br
eath away. Several moments passed while she gaped at Maynard, trying to control the instant fury that seized her. The muscles in her neck twanged as if she’d been shaken. “Turnip wouldn’t know the truth if it bit off his nose.” She forced herself to speak low and controlled, not shout an obscenity-laced rant. “He asked me to evaluate a modern reproduction desk, probably cost him a couple of hundred dollars. I gave him an honest appraisal. Now he’s saying the conveniently burned-to-a-cinder desk was a very old and very expensive antique. He’s lying.”
Maynard nodded, but his stony expression didn’t change. “Can you prove it?”
“Do I need to? Ask him how the hell his desk got into Rosalyn Parker’s warehouse in the first place.” Mackenzie took a deep breath. “I swear I’ll burn every last dollar I have in the bank before I give a plugged nickel to Turnip fuckin’ Erskine or his lawyer.”
“Don’t start a bonfire yet. We’ve got Erskine on the arson charge. He won’t be wriggling his way out of that one.” A hint of cold satisfaction appeared in Maynard’s dark eyes. “McCarty identified traces of a homemade accelerant used in the warehouse arson. A neighbor called nine-one-one when some trash cans on Erskine’s property caught fire and we found cans of the exact same accelerant in the idiot’s garbage.”
Suddenly exhausted, Mackenzie slumped against the wall. “Jimmy, what am I going to do about Turnip? He’s like a booger I can’t thump off.”
“Quit bitching and call this guy.” Maynard passed her a business card. “He’s a damned good lawyer, miles better than Purvis. Pricey, but you get what you pay for.”
She accepted the card. Plain, white, heavy stock printed with slightly raised black ink: Phillip Cuffman Darcy, Attorney at Law. The office address was in Trinity. “Thanks, cuz.”
“Don’t thank me. Just call Darcy,” Maynard ordered as he walked away.
Mackenzie stared at the business card. Much as she hated to admit it, her cousin was right. Only a lawyer had the necessary skills to deal with another lawyer.
