by Cade Brogan
Rylee nodded. “I did,” she answered, her shoulders tipping back with direct eye contact, “but I have another question or two.”
“Ask away,” Kenzie responded, struggling to focus.
“Cameras?” Rylee asked, pointing to three locations above the balcony. “Just three?”
“No,” Kenzie answered, pointing near the front. “See, over there and over there too.”
“Oh yeah,” Rylee said, “I see ‘em.”
“We use ‘em for live Sunday morning broadcasts,” Kenzie added.
“I figured,” Rylee said, continuing with strong eye contact, “So, second question… I need to view the last several videos. Here?” She cocked her head, lifting an eyebrow. “Or would you prefer that I took them with me and brought them back later?”
“Here’s good,” Kenzie said, lifting her chin to expose her neck. “I’ll get you all set up.”
***
Rylee aimed the remote, pressing pause as her second Sprite appeared before her. “You don’t have to keep bringing me drinks,” she said.
Kenzie twitched her nose the way she did. “I don’t mind,” she responded, turning back toward her desk with a smile that may have at one time been considered flirtatious. She’d always taken care of Rylee—until she didn’t.
“Sit,” Rylee invited softly, patting the cushion next to her. “After watching four hours of church, I could use a break.”
“I’ll bet you could,” Kenzie said with wiggling eyebrows. “It never was your thing.” She winked and added, “I’ll be right back.” Within seconds, she returned with a partial can of fizzy water. “You find anything that’s gonna help you?” she asked, sipping, and setting it down on the table.
Rylee leaned back, stretching her arms. “If only it were that easy,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s too early. At this point in an investigation, I’m just happy if I can tease out something that’ll end up being important later.”
“I think it’d be a hard job, catching killers,” Kenzie said.
“Can be,” Rylee responded, nodding, “especially poisoners. At least for me anyway,” she added. “I think that’s because the evidence is almost always circumstantial.” She stretched again, making it a point to meet and hold Kenzie’s gaze. “Have dinner with me,” she invited, wetting her lips. “Sometime, I mean.”
Kenzie took a breath, looking away.
A horn beeped.
A call rolled to the answering machine.
“Just as old friends, I mean,” Rylee added, almost wishing she hadn’t said anything. “Nothing else.” She cleared her throat, shifting her position. “You don’t have to worry.”
Another call went to the answering machine.
“I’m not worried,” Kenzie said, her gaze returning with unexpected intensity. She bit her lower lip. “Kung Pau chicken or spaghetti?”
“God,” Rylee moaned, shaking her head, “I love your spaghetti.” With that, her thoughts whipped back to the last time they’d shared that dish—on paper plates—with plastic forks—in bed.
“Spaghetti it is then,” Kenzie said, her voice lifting with her smile. “How about tomorrow at six-thirty?” she asked. “Abby’s on a church trip so we’ll have the house to ourselves.”
“That’d be great,” Rylee responded, smiling back. “You still drink Chablis?”
Kenzie’s eyes took on a sparkle. “Or Moscato,” she answered. “I’m not as set in my ways as I used to be.”
“Duly noted,” Rylee said with the raise of an eyebrow.
Chapter Eleven
“Charming,” that’s what the tourists would say as they moseyed from one side to another—the old Methodist Church, the roadside stands, and the one-room school house. “What a quaint little village,” they’d comment. “How picturesque,” they’d chirp as they strolled into the soda shop. “What a delightful find, and so far off the beaten path.” This place, on the banks of the Saint Lawrence River in the Adirondack Seaway Region of upstate New York—Joanna’s hometown—made her sick to her stomach. Rural, poor, and uneducated—that’s how she’d describe it. There was an Amish settlement on the outskirts. At least they saw the world as she saw it—as a battle between good and evil; obedience and sin; self-denial and indulgence. She traveled home with a dual purpose each month, flying in on the second Friday and out the next morning. Her parents routinely voiced their preference that she stay a little longer, but she didn’t because it wasn’t tolerable. She turned into the gravel drive, making her way the quarter mile, and parking under the honey locust.
“Jo’s here,” Martha bellowed as Joanna exited her rental, a small hatchback with no frills. She was a slender woman with long locks of silver hair, particularly attractive in the sunlight.
“It’s Joanna, Mom,” Joanna said, kissing her cheek, and glancing toward the house, her childhood home. It needed paint, new windows, and the yard mowed.
“I know, baby,” Martha responded, giving her an extra-long hug. “It’s just that old habits die hard.”
“I’m sure,” Joanna mumbled as she lifted her small travel bag from the trunk.
“Hi, honey,” Wilber greeted, smiling as he pulled her in for a hug. At sixty-eight, he was stronger and a foot taller than both she and her mother.
Joanna tensed, trying to hide her grimace as she kissed his cheek, and freed herself. “Hi, Dad,” she responded. That’s what she called him, but that’s not what he was. What he was, was her stepfather. Her biological dad had been, or possibly still was, a military man, a doctor her mom had thought. She’d have searched for him had she known where to start.
“Your mom’s got poutine on the stove,” Wilber reported, smiling. “We figured you’d get in before lunch.” Pronounced ‘poo-teen,’ the Canadian inspired dish of cheese curds, fries, and gravy, had been her favorite since she was a child. It was the only indulgence that she knowingly allowed. She’d have happily surrendered it, had it not been for the fact her mom enjoyed preparing it for her so much.
“Sounds good,” Joanna said, forcing a smile. “I want to look in on grandma first.” She’d been seeing to the medical care of her mother’s mother for the last few years, ever since she’d almost died after being misdiagnosed. Had Joanna not visited that weekend, her beloved Grandma Marge would’ve fallen into a diabetic coma, never to wake up. She’d taken the time to dispatch the stupid doctor on her way out of town—an indulgence that was more than worth the punishment.
“We figured you would,” Wilber responded. “She’s back in her room watching her soap opera.” He smiled, adding. “She’s been asking for you since we told her you’d be coming.”
Joanna nodded. “Your screen’s torn,” she commented, stepping onto the back porch.
“I know, baby,” Martha said. “Your daddy was gonna get that fixed before you got here, but then he didn’t get around to it.” That’s one thing Joanna had to say for him; he was a hard worker, always had a project going. “I’ll dish up your lunch while you go back to visit your granny,” Martha added, tying her apron string as she approached the black pot.
“I’m working in the garden this afternoon,” Joanna called out.
“We figured you would,” Wilber responded, following her down the hall. That’s another thing she had to say for him, he took good care of her grandma.
***
Brambles, blackberries, and raspberries grew wild along the fencerow. Joanna walked to the edge of the property, pausing to snip and bag choice cuttings from the last one in the row. It was an albino raspberry. She’d started it from a cutting during her first summer home from college, marking the beginning of her interest in growing her own poisons. Before that, she’d used toxins that were readily available, ones that required little to no creative thought. Antifreeze and arsenic were among the most common. That next spring, she’d transplanted her little bush, now a giant, to its permanent spot. She’d allowed plenty of space between it and its neighbors, but of course, th
e blackberry insisted on creeping over to touch it. She switched on her hedge clippers, whacking the invader to the ground. A hardy perennial, she knew her action wouldn’t kill it, just hold it at bay for a while. “See you next month,” she promised with one last buzz. From there she went to the garden, pleased that it was thriving with a nice mix of beautiful spring flowers and poisonous plants. She pulled a few weeds, dug a few tubers, and clipped a few stems before heading back. “Going for a walk,” she called out as she stepped through the yard.
“Have a good time,” her mom called back, smiling to Wilber as he slipped his arm around her waist.
“Watch the steps,” he warned. Built on the slope when she was a child, they were beginning to rot.
“I will,” Joanna responded, shaking her head as she worked to keep irritation from her tone. More intelligent than either of them, she didn’t appreciate reminders. With that, she began her hike down the steep hill toward the narrow strip of woods that snaked along the north edge of the property. It was a spectacular place to hunt fungi. An insect hummed in her ear, and she swatted. A rabbit skittered across her path and into the brush. She’d eviscerated several as a child. She started doing them after doing Wilber’s terrier, Joey. She crossed the rolling stream and climbed over a mossy rock. Squirrels chattered in the distance as she hunted the main ingredient for her next poison cocktail. It was a little brown mushroom known as Galerina Marginata, deadly and common. She dropped to one knee, pausing to take in a breath of earthy mildew before slicing through the fruit body with her pocketknife. She sliced another, closer to the ground, smiling. This, and the moment her target dropped to the floor was the fun in her life.
“I made a cheesecake,” Martha chirped at the top of her lungs. She’d been watching for Joanna to come over the hill and head for the house. “Your favorite kind,” she added. Funny, she’d never been that interested in Joanna when she was young. All she’d cared about back then was cleaning motel rooms and cooking what Wilber liked. She curled her lip. Wilber. It was always about Wilber. Wilber this and Wilber that. She swallowed uncomfortably. It wasn’t until she came in that morning and found her biracial newborn dead that she took some interest in her daughter. Too little, too late—at eight-years-old. That was the only time that Joanna had used a method other than poisoning—fitting since it was her first dispatch and her half-brother. She’d smothered him during the night with her own pillow. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, they’d said.
“It’s too rich,” Joanna responded, adding, “you know I don’t partake of desserts.”
“I know,” Martha answered, “but your birthday’s on Sunday…and you’re leaving early in the morning.” She held her daughter’s eye with an extra measure of kindness. “Just a thin slice?” she begged.
Joanna exhaled, smiling thinly. “Very well then,” she acquiesced, slipping her arm around her, “but just a thin one.” It was okay to celebrate, she guessed, as long as you were doing it for another and not yourself. When she stepped inside, Wilber was inserting candles in the shape of a three and an eight, his dark skin a noticeable contrast to the white macadamia cheesecake. “I need to run an errand first,” Joanna announced, moving toward the closet in the dining room. “We can have it when I get back.” She opened the door, staring. “Do we still have one of my small Priority Mail Express boxes left?”
“Right here,” Wilber said, coming up behind her, and lifting it off the shelf. “I picked a couple more up for you when I was in town.
“Good, thanks,” Joanna responded, snatching it from his hand, and heading for her bedroom. She cushioned the day’s harvest with peanuts and sealed it tightly. “I’ll be right back,” she announced, kissing her mom on her way to the back door. She addressed the parcel to herself, started her engine, and made her way to the Post Office.
Chapter Twelve
Rylee sighed, returning shirt number three to the hanger and removing the next. “Just two old friends having dinner,” she mumbled, “that’s all this is.” She moved to stand sideways before the mirror. “Nope,” she declared on exhale, “definitely not those.” She slipped one leg and then the other out of dress blue trousers that were usually reserved for weddings, funerals, and promotions. “You’ve been with her. It didn’t work out,” she rambled on. “Remember? It’s not happening, so don’t worry about it. You’re just two old friends having dinner.”
Buckshot sat up, studying her.
“What do you think, buddy,” Rylee asked, meeting his eye. “Light blue plaid or leaf green solid?”
The canine tilted his head from side to side.
“Come on,” Rylee urged, “your choice.” As she waited for him to respond, she shook her head slowly. “You think I’m nuts, don’t you? Don’t lie to me now. I can see it in your eyes.” She took another look in the mirror. It’s not like you’re going on a first date or something, she told herself. You slept together for almost two years for God’s sake; she knows what you’ve got. “Just dress comfortably,” she said out loud, pulling on her navy CPD t-shirt and stepping into a new pair of straight-legged jeans. “See?” she asked. “Better, huh.” She feathered back her hair with a product guaranteed to hold and yet leave it soft. Dinner, it’s a simple dinner, that’s all, she told herself. She popped the tab on a beer, scooped the remote off the coffee table, leaned back in her chair, and switched on The Fishing Channel. She shouldn’t have taken the afternoon off. It’d been better to come in under the wire than to have three whole hours to stew before heading out. She swallowed as the phone rang, pressed ‘speaker,’ and answered, “Hello.”
“Gramps is here with me,” Gladys greeted. “Just thought we’d give you a call since tonight’s your big night.”
Rylee smiled, shaking her head. “It’s not my big night,” she responded, taking a swig of beer. “We’re just two old friends having dinner, that’s all.”
“Okay, dear,” Gladys soothed, “whatever you say.”
“So how are you liking your new condo?” Omar interjected, changing the subject because he thought Gladys was too much in her business.
“I love it,” Rylee said. “A few more boxes and I’ll be all unpacked. Then, I’m having you two over for dinner.” The place was exactly what she’d been looking for—a nice three-bedroom in Hyde Park that allowed pets. It was on the second floor, had ceramic tile in the kitchen, and a small deck.
“Bet you like being close to the precinct,” he said.
“Oh yeah, I do,” Rylee answered. “But not just to the precinct, to everything.” She’d always felt a special connection to the city and it’s round the clock hustle and bustle—the whoosh of airbrakes, the honk of impatient drivers, and the roar of motorcycles.
“You nervous?” Gladys asked. “Because if I were you, I think I would be.”
“A little,” Rylee admitted, glancing at her watch, “But it’s just dinner.”
Two hours, thirty-one minutes.
***
The presentation of food could be quite seductive, a sensual experience. Kenzie spread a freshly ironed tablecloth across the dining room table, the teal one, usually saved for special occasions. It looked nice with her Oriental rug and ornate napkin holders. Lucifer tempted Eve with an apple. She filled a crystal bowl with water, floated tea lights, and set it in the center. And that succulent scarlet apple appealed to all her senses. She sprinkled a handful of rose petals between the plates, scattered gemstones, and stood back to assure the look was complete. “It’s just dinner,” she reminded herself with a gentle bite to her lower lip. “Nothing more, and nothing less.” She returned to the kitchen, stirring the special sauce she’d had simmering all day, and chopped a variety of colorful vegetables. She wiped her hands on a dishtowel when the phone rang. It was good to hear Abby’s voice, but she didn’t tell her anything. It was just dinner with an old friend, so there was really no reason. An hour before Rylee was set to arrive, she made her way upstairs to change. She’d already decided what she’d wear, nar
rowing her selection down last night from a field of eight. Her chosen dress was formfitting, way too tight for church. She liked that it offered a sophisticated spin on denim. Her stomach fluttered when the doorbell rang.
“For you,” Rylee greeted, her dimples smiling, as a bouquet of pink tulips and blue irises appeared from behind her back. As her eyes darted from Kenzie’s eyes to her neck, her breathing ceased for a split second.
“Aww, you remembered,” Kenzie responded, her knees weakening beneath her. “You are so sweet.”
“Of course I remembered,” Rylee said, cocking her head as she held her gaze. “How could I forget? Tulips and irises were your favorites.” It was a simple thing, to know someone’s favorite color or flower, but you have to care enough to ask—something that her ex-husband hadn’t done in all the years they were married.
“They still are,” Kenzie said through a quiver in her voice.
“I brought this too,” Rylee added, smiling again, and lifting a chilled bottle of Chablis. “I picked it up on my way over. Got Moscato in the truck,” she added with a wink, “just in case that’s what you want.”
“You know I don’t,” Kenzie said, locking gazes. She took a breath and exhaled. “You want something to drink?” she asked, taking the bottle and the bouquet.
“Yeah, Sprite if you’ve got it?” Rylee answered. “If you don’t tea or water’s okay.”
“Of course I’ve got it,” Kenzie said with the raise of an eyebrow. “I just picked up a twenty-four pack today.” With Abby gone for the next two weeks, she wanted to be sure she had plenty. “Look around if you want,” she added. “I’ll go put these in water and this in the refrigerator.”
***
Kenzie opted to serve the meal family style, scooping buttered spaghetti into one bowl and her sauce into another.
