Murder, Mayhem & a Fine Man

by Claudia Mair Burney

  “A girl’s gotta have some leverage.”

  “Can I tell you a story?” he asked.

  “What’s it about?”

  “It’s about a monk.”

  I laughed. “So, you do want to be a monk?”

  “You gonna let me tell it or not?”

  I sat on the trunk of the Crown Vic. “Okay, I’m listening.”

  He sighed. “There was this monk walking with some of his brothers one day in a busy marketplace when he saw this theater troupe. They were laughing and making a bunch of noise, when he looked up and saw one of the actresses. She was beautiful, you know?”

  “Lots of actresses are,” I said, thinking of Halle Berry, wishing her a terrible fate like premature aging.

  “His brothers wouldn’t so much as glance in her direction. But there was something about this actress and this monk. Her beauty did something to him.”

  “Is this a bad story?” I asked. “I don’t know if I like the direction this thing is taking.”

  “You’re supposed to be listening.”

  I shut up.

  “Anyway, he saw her, and he said to his brothers, ‘How can anyone see a woman so beautiful and not worship God?’”

  “That sounds like a pickup line.” I frowned. “Even monks have pickup lines? What kind of world is this?”

  “But it wasn’t a pickup line. He didn’t even say it to her. She inspired him. She awakened him.”

  “All that to say…”

  “Let’s say there’s some modern version of that story.”

  “I see, like The Message version?”

  He took my hands. “Fine. The Message version, but with a few different details.”

  “Like?”

  He came close to me again. “Say the monk is a cop. Maybe disillusioned about love. Maybe unwilling to try.”

  “And the actress?”

  “Maybe she’s a praying forensic psychologist slash theologian slash private investigator in an unforgettable red silk dress.”

  “And he sees her.”

  “And everything looks different after that. Even God.”

  I sat there for a while, pondering what he’d said. His face looked open, vulnerable, and afraid. I didn’t have any wisecracks. No one had ever said anything that beautiful to me before.

  He spoke softly, shoving his hands in his pants pockets. “I’m afraid to be in love, Bell. I can’t—I can’t…” Before I could talk myself out of it, I bounded off the trunk of that car and went into his arms, kissing him as if I could heal whatever ailed him. I’d become the actress, all right; acting like my love would be enough to change whatever kept us apart.

  We stood there with the inky night applauding us, lost in our roles. The way he kissed me felt sacred; his touch all grace and tenderness. He treated me as if I were a gift from God, each exploration of my mouth delicate, tentative, reverent, until finally, breathlessly, he pulled away.

  “We have to stop this, Bell.”

  “I’m sorry about that.” I trembled at the loss of his warmth around me. I tried to lighten the mood. “How did you make me kiss you again, anyway?”

  He chuckled, “You are a dangerously passionate woman. I’m just a victim here.”

  I stroked his cheek. “Who broke your heart?”

  “That’s not a conversation I’m willing to have right now. Maybe not ever.”

  I released him. Oh, Lord, I don’t know how I did it. “Good night, Lieutenant. Call me during business hours, and we’ll work. Okay?” I turned to go upstairs to my apartment.

  “Bell, wait.”

  I turned again and looked back at him. The seasoned detective had gotten through my interrogation without telling me any real details, but his eyes said he wanted to tell all. In time. At least, I hoped so.

  “I should see you to your door.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to disappoint your mama tonight, Lieutenant Brown. That might be dangerous for you; might put another dent in that armor of yours.”

  “Then I’ll be watching you from here.”

  “You’d better be.”

  I turned away and went upstairs alone.

  Chapter

  Eleven

  HOURS LATER I thrashed in bed, beating up my pillows. I tried not to think about Jazz or Susan Hines.

  I turned on the television. Apparently, I had programmed my television to tune in to every crime show known to man. And woman.

  When did I become so morbid?

  I turned to a religious network. An elderly Southern woman with an enormous, old-lady blue beehive hair don’t—a far cry from a do—smiled at the camera with dentures as tall as skyscrapers. This woman frightened me more than all the forensic shows I had watched, combined. She wore a tomato-juice red, floor-length gown with ruby-colored rhinestones at the cuffs—singularly the most appalling formal I’d ever seen.

  Actually, the dress—accessorized with a feather boa—that Carly made for my junior prom holds that honor. I had wanted a classic little black dress. Carly complained that I had more black in my wardrobe than Darth Vader. She said, “Lighten up, cup-cake,” and proceeded to coerce me into agreeing to wear a yellow prom dress, one she herself would design.

  The resulting yellow nightmare secured my place as an out-cast during my last year of high school and was the reason the senior class nicknamed me “Big Bird.” But the Kathryn Kuhlman look-alike’s dress on TV gave my prom hookup a run for the money.

  The woman spoke with a strong Southern drawl. For a moment I wondered if a special seminary somewhere way down South manufactured televangelists. With few exceptions, they all seemed to be Southern.

  Sistah Reverend must have gotten a sudden surge of divine energy. She started blinking madly and waving her gnarled hands wildly in the air, spitting out a chant like she had some kind of Christian Tourette’s syndrome: “Cheeses. Cheeses. Cheeses.”

  Make that dairy Tourette’s syndrome.

  Then she started coughing.

  No, wait. My mind clicked. She’d said “Jesus,” only it sounded like “cheeses” the way she kind of wheezed it. She pointed to the camera so that to viewers it looked as if she were pointing at them. “You need cheeses in your life.”

  I had missed dinner. A grilled cheese sandwich sounded good, but it required too much effort for my current level of exhaustion.

  Surely this isn’t what Jesus had in mind when he talked about hungering for righteousness.

  Still, she’d convinced me that I needed cheeses. If I added crackers, I’d have myself a nice little snack.

  “Put your hand on the television.” The contemporary Reverend Kate Kuhlman said, “You need a touch from cheeses.”

  I wholeheartedly agreed, and since I’d never made it to the kitchen and the hands of God didn’t seem to be coming out of the ceiling, I headed to the television. I love these spiritual/technological advances pioneered by televangelists. Touching a TV screen equals touches from God.

  I placed my hand on the top of the boob tube. Warmth radiated through my hands. I didn’t think it was from the Lord but rather heat from the electronics busily working inside—but it felt nice just the same. And what the heck, who would it hurt? I kept my hand there a little longer, until Kate Kuhlman had another coughing fit, and I actually prayed that God would heal the lung condition that was making her television appearance problematic. I also prayed for her to get a head-to-toe makeover as well as new fashion and hair stylists. I didn’t even feel hungry anymore.

  Momentarily revived, I flopped back down on my bed to resume battering my bedding.

  To keep from thinking about falling in love with ’fraidy cat, I thought a little more about Susan, avoiding that teensy detail about how I should have told Jazz about meeting her but didn’t. I mean, what was there to tell? She hadn’t said a word. Right?

  The image of her wetting herself without flinching started to torment me, drawing darkness from my own inner depths. I twisted the pillows over my head as if I could block the mem
ories with them.

  He told me I couldn’t call myself Amanda. He didn’t want me to have the name of a slave, and I hadn’t revealed to him enough character to be given a Hebrew name. So he called me “wife”—the same as he called the other three. Miriam was the only one who’d earned her name.

  He said all black people were descendants of the Israelites, and we were to reclaim our rightful place as God’s chosen people. This is what he believed, and when I was with him, I believed it, too.

  That day I’d told Miriam that my great-grandmother was a strong influence on me. I said I was named after her. Miriam told him I said my name was Amanda. He almost broke my jaw for it.

  “What is your name?” he bellowed at me again and again, his rant fueled by cocaine.

  “I don’t have a name,” I said with downcast eyes. I was not allowed to look at him directly.

  “What is your name?”

  “I don’t have one. I don’t deserve a name.”

  The tirade went on and on. He would not allow me to sleep. He would not allow me to tend to the tooth he’d knocked loose or my bleeding mouth. Even though I was pregnant, I knew I had better not ask to go to the bathroom. For three hours I stood there—mute, hurt, bleeding—while he yelled and cursed at me, until hot urine burned down my legs, pooling on the floor.

  He laughed and pushed me to my knees. He thrust my face into my own urine. “Your name is Dog. I want all you other wives to call her Dog. That’s her name.” He turned to look at me. “What is your name?”

  I didn’t say a word, and his fists descended on my head in a flurry of blows. Tiny white lights exploded behind my eyes, and pain shot through my head with each strike.

  Oh, God. Yahweh, help me. I’m going to have his baby.

  “What is your name?”

  “I’m not a dog,” I whispered.

  He lifted me to my feet and beat me mercilessly—until my eyes were swollen shut. Until every part of my body ached. Until a river of blood flowed between my legs.

  “My name is Dog,” I finally screamed—for the sake of the baby. I didn’t want to die before I saw her.

  I stopped talking then. If I opened my mouth I feared everything I felt would pour out and I would kill him.

  They called me Dog after that, and for three months I didn’t utter a word.

  Even after that, I still loved him.

  It just doesn’t pay to remember some things. I sat on my bed, my chest heavy with shame. I had to remind myself to breathe. I couldn’t think of a coherent prayer to pray. It happened so long ago, but remembering took me right back there.

  I’m okay. Right?

  I didn’t feel okay.

  I grabbed the prayer beads that I now kept on the night table by my bed. I fingered the glowing wine-colored beads, wishing Jazz had taught me how to use them.

  Our Father which art in heaven,

  Hallowed be thy name.

  I fumbled with the beads until they dropped from my shaking hands. I picked up the telephone. It was late, but he’d take the call.

  He answered after the second ring, his voice thick with sleep. “Hullo.”

  “Hello, Rocky?”

  “Babe, is that you?”

  “It’s me.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m okay, right?”

  “Did that Susan Hines thing get to you?” His gentle voice soothed me.

  “Yeah, Rock, it did.”

  “You’re okay now. You really are.”

  I started bawling. “I’m not sure I’m okay.”

  He cleared his throat and waited for me to settle down. It took a long time. “You’re more than okay, Bell. You’re a psychologist. A doctor God-chick. Your bruises are gone; your broken bones healed. I’d still marry you in a heartbeat.”

  “You need to find someone your own age.”

  “Flower dude’s going to take you away from me.”

  “That’s unlikely.”

  “I don’t know about that. I can tell you like him. A lot.”

  “I like Mexican food, but—”

  He laughed. I could picture his horrified expression. “Babe, you don’t have to remind me what Mexican food does to your, uh, constitution.”

  “I love you, Rocky.”

  “Not enough to marry me.”

  “Why do we revisit this? You’re my best friend now.”

  “I could be your blond boy toy, only we’d be holy and stuff.”

  I smiled. “You’re so silly.”

  “At least you stopped crying,”

  “Aha. You diverted my attention away from my existential angst.”

  “What can I say? I’m good, babe, but not as good as you. You got everything you lost, and more. Don’t forget that.”

  I snuggled under the quilt my great-grandma had made. “Not everything, Rock. Not everybody.”

  “Not yet. But Jesus gives everything back, eventually. His kingdom come, His will be done, and all that. Some stuff you get on earth. Some stuff you get in heaven. She’s in heaven. You’ll get her back.” He paused. “Hang on, okay?”

  I heard Rocky stumble around his room, slam into something, say, “Whoa,” and come back to the phone. “You there, Babe?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Listen.”

  He played the Lord’s Prayer on his acoustic guitar.

  I love that guy. He serenaded me in musical supplication until my tears were forgotten. Peace settled on me while I nestled under Ma Brown’s Star of Bethlehem quilt. Rocky played until I’d almost fallen asleep.

  Thy kingdom come,

  Thy will be done,

  in earth as it is in heaven.

  And, Jesus, give my little girl a big hug for me.

  Chapter

  Twelve

  THE NEXT MORNING , an incessant pounding awakened me.

  The door. I stumbled to it without bothering to put on a robe over my ratty, blue-flannel pajamas. They are shameless comfort clothes—soft, stained, with one of the top buttons missing. Why sew on another when there’s a perfectly good safety pin to hold the fabric together?

  “Police!” the pounder yelled.

  My breath caught in my throat. Somebody died. It’s my mother. My sister. Maggie. All of them.

  I fumbled with the lock and snatched the door open, my heart thudding.

  An unsmiling Jazz Brown stood there scowling at me. Man, he looks good in a suit. This one black and as fine as he was. He took a deep breath. So did I, but for a different reason.

  “I thought something happened to you. I’ve been trying to call you since six A.M.”

  Did I say my pj’s are shameless? Let me recant that. They are only shameless when a beautiful man is not looking at them. “Uh. Jazz, hi. I thought you said you didn’t have my phone number.”

  “I got creative.”

  “And why were you calling me at six A.M.?”

  A tiny smile played about his lips. I hoped I didn’t have any lint in my hair. “What’s up with the phone, Bell?”

  “You’re such a cop. And don’t call me Bell.”

  “I drove at about ninety miles an hour to get to you.” He ran his hand through his brown curls.

  “The police didn’t stop you?”

  “I am the police.”

  “Would you like to come in, Lieutenant?”

  He didn’t say anything, but walked inside. I closed the door.

  “I think my blood pressure spiked.” He locked my door and put on the chain.

  “Cocoa?” I asked, smiling at him with unbrushed teeth.

  He looked me up and down, “Only if you take off your pajamas.”

  For a moment I thought Jazz found me more attractive than I realized. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not flirting. The pajamas. They’re disgusting.”

  “And what did you sleep in last night?”

  “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”

  I put a hand on my flannel-clad hip. “What gives you the right to criticize
my sleepwear? Especially since you’re here un-announced.”

  “Again, Dr. Brown, I’ve been calling you all morning. I thought you’d been murdered.”

  “Are you always this paranoid?”

  “I’m a homicide detective. I happen to see murdered people on a regular basis, some of them as normal as you—at least, I thought you were normal until I saw those pajamas.”

  “These are my fuzzy pajamas. I need them like I need chocolate and a husband. So, back up off of me.”

  “Fine. I’ll take the cocoa, please.”

  “Have a seat,” I said, heading to the bedroom to put on my robe. Jazz sat on the sofa, but before I got to my room I heard someone—it had to be Carly or my mother—trying to open my door with a key. When the chain caught the door, pounding began.

  Pound. Pound. Pound.

  It only took a moment for Jazz to shoot over to the door, with me fast on his heels. He had his gun drawn. Instead of being concerned about my next houseguest, I let Jazz’s manly and protective actions capture my attention. “What kind of gun is that?”

  “It’s a Sig Sauer .38, and no, you can’t touch it,” he said in a stage whisper.

  Pound. Pound. Pound.

  “Who is it?” he yelled.

  I couldn’t remember when I’d had so much fun at my door—not including kissing Jazz on my birthday, of course.

  Pounder number two nearly knocked my door off its hinges, prompting Jazz to add a little more bass to his voice. “Who is it?”

  “Who are you?” my sister yelled back.

  “Carly?”

  “Open this door,” she demanded. “I’ve got a gun, Mace, the police with me, PMS, PMDD, and anything else that might make a woman vicious.”

  “You’ve got more than me. I ain’t opening it.”

  He laughed. “How did you know my name?” Carly said, pounding again.

  Jazz unchained the door, and my sister exploded inside, ready to come to blows. She softened when she saw Jazz, gun drawn and ready to protect my honor. “Aw, you’re protecting my baby sister. Isn’t that the sweetest thing? Now all you have to do is provide for her. When is the wedding?”

  “Don’t start no stuff, and it won’t be none,” Jazz said.