A Bodkin for the Bride

by Patrice Greenwood

  “It’s September! I don’t even have Halloween done!”

  “Christmas is more important.”

  “Not in this house,” I muttered.

  “I know you always loved Halloween, but—”

  “I love all holidays!”

  “Dressing up for Halloween was always your favorite.” She picked up her wineglass and gestured with it. “Remember the mermaid costume? And in mid-school, when you decided to go as La Llarona? Scared half the little kids to death.”

  “I like Christmas too!” I said defensively.

  “Good, because you should get your ads done and in by the end of the month, or all the best slots will be taken.”

  I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and hiccuped. “I’d rather not talk about work, if you don’t mind,” I said with dignity.

  “OK. Let’s talk about something else. Other than being on a nasty case, how’s your boyfriend?”

  “He’s not my—hic—boyfriend.” I picked up a piece of garlic bread.

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “This afternoon, as a matter of fact.”

  “Is he going to the wedding?”

  “I haven’t asked him.”

  “Why not?”

  I took a large bite of garlic bread, preventing my answering immediately. Tony might be off weddings right at the moment, considering the case he was working on. I really wanted to wait until after our tea with his family before deciding.

  “Ask him,” Gina crooned, reaching for the wine bottle. “You know you want to.”

  “He might think I’m being too pushy. We haven’t even been on a real date.”

  She poured the last of the wine into our glasses. “I thought you went to the opera.”

  “That was a group party. Doesn’t count, and besides he ended up working.”

  “And the movies.”

  “Not yet. We still haven’t found the right time.”

  “Tsk. If you’re not careful, you’re going to be an old maid.”

  “Gina! Nobody says ‘old maid’ anymore.”

  “Nonna Fiorello does. Says it to me every chance she gets.”

  I took a swallow of wine. “I love Nonna Fiorello, but I’m glad she’s not—hic—my grandmother. She would drive me nuts.”

  “Eh. It’s how we know she loves us. Here’s to Nonna Fiorello.”

  Gina drained her glass. I had too much wine left to do the same, but I took a big swig. I was beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol. I cupped the bowl of my glass in my palms and swirled the wine around.

  “Have you brought her to the tearoom?” I asked.

  “Nonna? No. Should I?”

  “Would she like it?”

  Gina took a bite of garlic bread and chewed, looking thoughtful. “Yeah, she probably would. You’re right, I should bring her.”

  “Maybe I’ll do a ‘bring your grandmother to tea’ special,” I mused.

  “It’s called Mother’s Day.”

  “Don’t they have a Grandmother’s Day, too? When is that?”

  “How should I know?”

  “You’re the ad person. Don’t you guys kee—hic—keep track of all that stuff?”

  “Heck, we make up a lot of it.” She tipped up her wineglass and collected a last ruby-colored drop. “Grandmother’s Day. Sheesh.”

  “You sound like you don’t like your job.”

  “I love my job. I just sometimes don’t like my profession.”

  I nodded. That sounded profound, but maybe it was the influence of the wine.

  “OK,” Gina said, standing and flipping the pizza box closed. “Time for gelato.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait a bit? I’m—hic—kind of full.”

  “Full is good. We want your diaphragm to be stretched out. Then we hit it with the gelato, and presto!”

  Sighing, I helped collect our plates and the leftovers. The pizza box was twice the width of my mini-fridge, so I stacked the slices of pizza on a plate with paper towels between them. The salad went into my fridge as well; the garlic bread and the lasagna went downstairs. By the time I came back, Gina was dishing up gelato in my kitchenette. She handed me a heaping bowl.

  “That’s too much!”

  “Eat it fast.”

  I took a bite. “Mmm. Pretty good.” I looked at the container.

  “New brand. Eat, eat.”

  I ate, taking time to let the bits of dark chocolate dissolve on my tongue. Gina carried her bowl to the two chairs I had by the chimney, and I joined her.

  “So, my day was full of Christmas fol-de-rol,” she said. “We’re working on an ad for my favorite used car dealership.”

  “Oh, no—Zyler?”

  She glared at me. “Your mouth should be full.”

  I hastily took another bite. I made it a small one, because my stomach was starting to feel the pressure.

  “Yes, Zyler. He comes in and wants an ad with a car in a Santa hat and white beard and mustache. Not a drawing, mind—but a photo. Eat.”

  I took another tiny bite. Gina frowned, so I took bigger one.

  “I tell him it’s a stupid idea,” she went on. “Actually, that’s what I’m thinking, but what I tell him is that unless it’s a goatee, the beard will drag on the ground and give the wrong impression.”

  She pointed her spoon at me. I ate another bite of gelato. My throat was getting cold.

  “Turns out he’s got a buddy who’s already built the Santa hat. Zyler shows me a picture of it on his phone. It looks like a giant red traffic cone.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. Then I hiccuped.

  “More gelato,” Gina ordered. “So he’s got his heart set on this traffic cone. I can’t talk him out of it. We have a photo shoot on Friday. It’s going to be a disaster.”

  “Oh, Gina. I’m so sorry.”

  “Eat! It’s his money, if he wants to spend it that way, I can’t stop him.”

  I didn’t dare answer for fear of being ordered to consume more gelato. I’d reached my limit. The cold was spreading down my chest.

  “You’ve still got half a bowl,” Gina said.

  I shook my head, drew a breath, and went into a fit of coughing, punctuated with hiccups. Cough-hic. Cough-hic. It was painful.

  I put my bowl down and stood, trying to get control of my breathing. Pressed both hands against my chest, still cough-hiccing.

  “Dang,” Gina commented.

  It took me another minute to be able to draw breath without coughing. I bent down, picked up my bowl, and hiccuped. I felt unwell.

  “Wow, I’ve never had that happen,” Gina said.

  “Let’s go for a—hic—walk.”

  She ate the last bite of her (much smaller) serving of gelato, stood, and took my bowl, putting it with hers in the sink. I fetched my keys and my phone, and we went downstairs. I wanted to keep moving, to appease my overtaxed digestive system.

  We went out the back door and I locked it behind us. The evening was mild, with just enough breeze to stimulate the circulation and stir up the aroma of dry leaves on fading grass. I turned north at the end of the drive, because there were more bushes that way, though I hoped I would not need to be sick behind one of them.

  “I’m sorry,” Gina said, keeping pace with me. “It really does work.”

  “It’s all right. These aren’t your av—hic—average hiccups.”

  “I guess not.”

  We reached Federal place, an oval street that I always thought of as a race track that surrounded the main post office and the old Federal Building. I decided a lap would do me good, and lengthened my stride a bit.

  “Now there’s an old building for you,” Gina said, looking at the Federal Building. “I wonder if it has any ghosts.”

  “Ask Willow.”

  “Is it older than the tearoom?”

  “I don’t think so. I know that it was par—hic—partially built when the Civil War began, so it sat unfinished for a few years. My house is antebellum.”

  “T
hat word always makes me think of Scarlett O’Hara.”

  The Federal Building was kind of pretty, in a blocky stone way. Much nicer than the neighboring post office, which was circa 1960s. We paused to admire the statue of Kit Carson at the south side, then headed back toward my house.

  “You want to walk around the Plaza?” Gina asked.

  “Not tonight. Think I’m going to turn in early. I didn’t sl—hic—sleep very well last night.”

  “What you need is a good lay.”

  I laughed. “Gina!”

  “I’m serious. Take your mind off it, relieve your tension. Call Tony. Or that cute counselor. Somebody.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  To be honest, I hadn’t had a good lay in quite a while. I’d been too busy in the last couple of years, and too grief-stricken, and too lacking in prospects.

  She might very well be right, but for me it wasn’t as simple as making a phone call. Not right now. I was still busy; still—or again—grieving.

  We reached my driveway and walked up it. Gina’s red Camaro sat next to my much more sedate Camry. I opened the door, and Gina hung back.

  “If you’re going to bed, I’ll head home. Sleep better tonight.”

  “Thanks. And thanks for the pizza. And the gelato. I’ll—hic—try it again tomorrow.”

  “It always works the first time for me,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Oh, well. You never know.”

  I hugged her, then went inside and watched her get into her car and drive away. The walk had settled my too-large meal, but I wasn’t quite ready for bed. I tidied up the sitting area and my suite, then took a long, hot, shower.

  The blue package Nat had given me lay on my bed. Sleeping pills. I’d never needed them in my life, but this was an extraordinary circumstance. I pulled out the bottle and shook a blue pill into my palm. Remembering Nat’s parting words, I broke it in half and washed one piece down with half a glass of water.

  I crawled under the covers and snuggled into my pillows with my current novel, a fluffy tale about a cat in outer space. When the words started dancing on the page, I set the book aside and turned out the light.

  Pounding on my door woke me. I turned over, peering at my clock. Something must have been wrong with it, because it read 9:15.

  “Ellen?” Kris called through the door of my suite. “Are you all right?”

  Muttering a curse, I dragged myself out of bed and stumbled to my closet. Groggy. I pulled on my robe and shuffled to the door, unlocking it and opening it a crack. I saw a sliver of Kris: dark purple dress, dark hair, dark lips, and one eye outlined meticulously in kohl.

  “Oh, good,” she said. “I was getting worried!”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. “Took a slee—hic—py pill.”

  “OK. Well, Willow’s on the phone. I’ll tell her you’ll call her back.”

  “ ’Kay. Be right out.”

  It took me rather longer than I expected to pull myself together. I wondered if Nat had mistakenly bought pills intended for a horse. I distinctly remembered her saying half a pill, and that was what I had taken, and it was too much. I was still half asleep.

  I managed to dress myself in a skirt and a light sweater. No buttons. I needed to wake up more before attempting makeup.

  Walking carefully, I crossed the hall to my office. A tea tray sat on the credenza in Kris’s, and I silently blessed Kris or whoever had thought of it as I poured myself a cup. I drank it at my desk, gazing stupidly at a pile of message slips.

  Kris stepped in, looking warily at me. “Everything OK?”

  “Yeah, I just—hic—well...”

  I put my head in my hands. Took a deep breath, then looked at Kris and started again. “I’m all right. Sorry I overslept.”

  “No problem. Just worried about you.”

  “Too much sleep aid, that’s all.”

  She nodded, then stepped forward to hand me another lavender slip. “Here’s Willow’s message.”

  “Thanks.”

  The message was about the reenactor, of course. The first of Willow’s tea tours was less than two weeks away. I needed to nail that down.

  Phone. I needed my cell phone—that was where I had put the numbers Tony gave me. I fetched it from my suite, and noticed that I had a new text from Tony.

  Knife had meth residue

  Meth! Holy crap!

  I could not believe that Daniel Swazo had been a meth addict. He was so polite, so quiet, so nice...

  Actually, I didn’t know him at all. Those were my impressions, but impressions could be mistaken. I hadn’t even talked with him. I’d only seen him once...alive.

  I couldn’t deal with the murder right now. I sent Tony a quick text of thanks, looked up the reenactors’ numbers and wrote them on the message from Willow, then sat trying to organize my thoughts about what to say when I called them.

  A knock made me look up. Julio stood in the doorway, holding a steaming mug and a small plate.

  “Heard you might need a little help waking up,” he said.

  “Oh—uh—”

  “This is my Colombian blend.” He set the mug in front of me, along with a small pitcher of cream. Just the aroma was caffeinated enough to make me open my eyes wider.

  “And this is something I’d like you to try. It’s a possible new item for October.”

  The plate he set before me held three small, round, lumpy-looking, not-quite-cookie things.

  “What are they?”

  “Pumpkin fritters.”

  I put a dollop of cream in the coffee and took a swig. The warmth flowed down my chest and lit a gentle glow in my stomach. One more swallow, then I picked up one of the fritters.

  It was lighter than I expected, and crunchier, and almost immediately melted in my mouth. It was slightly sweet, but with the natural sweetness of the pumpkin itself. The flavor was wonderful, with just a hint of buttery saltiness.

  “Mmmm. Oh, Julio.” I took another bite. “That’s fantastic!”

  “He smiled. “You like?”

  “Mm.” I finished the first fritter and picked up another. “Are they ha—hic—hard to make?”

  “Not really. They won’t be. I had to fiddle with the proportions a bit, but I think I’ve got it down now.”

  “It’s great. Much better than pumpkin pie.”

  “Well, I hope so. I wanted to do something different.”

  “They’re perfect. You’re brilliant.”

  “Only thing is, they don’t keep. I tried storing some overnight and they got soft.”

  “I eyed the other two fritters on my plate. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

  He smiled. “Glad you like them. I’ll talk to Kris about the price.”

  “Good work.” I drank some more coffee. “And thank you. This is breakfast. I’m—hic—sure you knew that.”

  He tossed a grin over his shoulder as he headed into Kris’s office. I raised the mug to him, then used its contents to wash down the fritters.

  I felt a lot better. Still a little groggy, but the food and coffee helped.

  Reenactors. I took out a notepad and organized my thoughts, then called the first number. Got voicemail, left a message, called the second and had better luck. Yes, he might be available; yes, he might be interested in portraying, if not Captain Dusenberry himself, then a soldier from his era. I made a tentative arrangement for him to come to the tearoom the next day to meet with me and Willow, then called Willow to confirm.

  “Ah, Ellen,” she answered. “It’s good to hear your voice. How are you feeling?”

  “A little sluggish today. I took—hic—too much sleep aid last night.”

  “Oh? Well, I hope you got a good night’s sleep, at least.”

  We finalized the meeting plans. I called the reenactor back to verify. All set.

  With that task off my mind, I was able to deal with most of the other messages. I set the one from Bennett Cole aside—that was more a personal project—and had just r
eturned the last of the business calls when Nat came in.

  She had on a wine-colored dress with a pretty, cashmere scarf in autumn colors. She wished me a good morning, to which I responded with a skeptical glance.

  “Half a pill?”

  “Manny always takes a half. I take less; usually only a quarter.”

  “I wish you had to—hic—told me that.”

  “Oh, dear—I’m sorry. Did you oversleep?”

  “Kris had to roust me.”

  I could tell she was smothering a laugh. Her eyes had the same smile lines they got when she was teasing Manny. “Well, I’m sure you must have needed the rest.”

  As punishment, I sent her downstairs with my breakfast plate and Julio’s coffee mug. Feeling closer to reasonably awake, I went across the hall to put on makeup, change my ponytail for a more elegant coiffure, and swap my sweater for a silk blouse.

  The day went fairly smoothly. I ate leftover salad for lunch, heard back from the first reenactor (October was a busy month for him, but he was willing to back up the other guy), and continued to hiccup. My staff offered no more cures, for which I was privately grateful.

  That night I stayed home, ate pizza, read a book, and gave the gelato another try. I didn’t overeat, but I did have a pretty generous bowl of mint chocolate chip, and I tried to eat it pretty fast. I did not freeze my chest again, or go into a coughing fit. Nor did I get rid of the hiccups, but at least there was chocolate.

  I surfed the web for hiccup information. Many of the home remedies that my dear friends and family had inflicted on me popped up, along with a few others that I hoped no one would suggest. Under medical treatment, I found a rather alarming list of sedatives and even anti-psychotics that were sometimes prescribed for hiccup sufferers. I did not want to go that route. By contrast, the sleeping pills didn’t look so bad.

  I eyed the bottle on my nightstand when I came to bed. Half a pill was definitely too much. Would a quarter still be too much? I could probably break a pill into eighths, but what if that wasn’t enough and I couldn’t get to sleep? I decided to try a quarter and set my alarm just in case.

  As I lay staring up at the brocade canopy of my bed, waiting for the pill to take effect, I thought through the day’s unfinished business. I should make a few notes for the meeting with Willow and the reenactor tomorrow. I still needed to talk to Bennett Cole about the Colt Navy revolvers.