by Mike Nappa
“You don’t have to do this,” I say. Why is this woman being so generous to me?
“I know I don’t have to do it. I’m doing it anyway. You going to argue with me about it, or are you just going to do what Mama Bliss tells you to do?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I also want you to have this.” She reaches into the drawer and pulls out an antique magazine. It’s encased in a sturdy, sealed plastic case that I assume is used for both protection and display. “This is a first-edition copy of the New York Evening Mirror magazine from January 1845. This is the magazine that first published your namesake, ‘The Raven’ by Edgar Allan Poe.”
“Wow. I don’t know what to say.”
“Just say thank you. I was going to let it be auctioned off tonight, but I changed my mind about that. I want you to have it. I want you to keep it, and sometimes when you look at it remember that old Mama Bliss Monroe wasn’t all bad.”
“I don’t think you’re bad, Mama.”
“That’s because you don’t know me yet.” She smiled, and I almost wanted to give her a hug. “Anyway, you take it and you remember me when you look at it, okay?”
“I will. And thank you. It’s amazing.”
“Fourth,” she says, and now she’s holding up a folded slip of paper torn from the pad of hotel stationery. “This last thing is for you.”
“What is it?”
“It’s for you.”
I nod and move toward her, but she pulls the paper away before I can take it from her hand. “You may not like this,” she says, “but that’s not my fault.”
“Okay.”
She’s still holding the paper out of my reach.
“After I give this to you, I’m going to leave. You can borrow my laptop here for a little while, but I need you to be out of this hotel by seven o’clock tonight. Gone-long-gone, okay? I’m coming back up here around then to take a quick rest while everybody else is eating dinner, and I don’t want you hanging around here when I get back. Got it?”
“Okay, Mama. I’ll be gone when you come back.”
“Good.” She hands me the paper, but before I can unfold it, she grasps both my hands in both of hers. “Tyson,” she says softly. “He’s gone now. But he left you something.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your father, sugar. He passed away seven months ago.”
“What?”
The air behind my word feels frail, like it might shatter if I speak my question above a whisper. My stomach feels like I’ve swallowed a stone, and the earth shifts suddenly to the left and then back again. I sit on the corner of one of the queen beds in the hotel room to avoid that dizzy feeling again.
“I tried to call him for you. I wanted to talk to him, find out what he was like. The people at his church said cancer claimed his body back in September. But he left you that.” She nods toward the paper in my hand.
I’m speechless. My father, gone? But I never had a chance to . . . I never got to . . .
“You take a little time now. You use my computer. And then you get out of this hotel, out of this town. You use that money I gave you, and you go back to Oklahoma City, just for a few days. You pay respects to your father’s grave, and you settle his affairs. Then you can get on with your life, knowing at least you done what you could.”
“Why are you doing this for me, Mama Bliss?”
“Because I got me a child that flew away too,” she says. “And when I’m gone, I hope someone will help her come back here and pay her last respects for me.”
She releases my hand and then wheels herself toward the door. She leaves without saying goodbye and, in the silence that’s left behind, I feel hot tears begin to press out of my eyes. I don’t bother trying to stop them.
My daddy used to say . . . I tell myself, but for the life of me I can’t remember a single one of his long-winded sermons right now. I just remember his voice, and how I broke his heart over and over again. And only now that he’s fully gone from me do I realize how much I needed him, how much of me is a part of him and how much of him became a part of me.
I open the slip of paper Mama Bliss gave me, and I read the careful lettering she left behind there. There’s not much on it, just the URL of a website.
TysonComeHome.com
40
Trudi
Atlanta, GA
Downtown
Friday, April 14, 6:55 p.m.
One hour and thirty-two minutes to Nevermore
Trudi found two things waiting for her when she reached the placard that announced her seat at the banquet table. One was a flute glass made of fine crystal, filled with a deep-cherry-colored wine. The other was her ex-husband, dressed in a sharp, if slightly wrinkled, charcoal-gray, four-button suit, sipping contentedly on his own glass of the same.
“You thought I wouldn’t be here, I know you did,” he said happily. She noticed half his glass of wine was already gone. She figured he’d be on a second glass pretty soon, as well. “Yet here I am, dressed and happy, and I beat you to the table by a good twenty minutes. Maybe half an hour.”
“I got stopped by security. They were searching bags, and I had my Beretta in my purse.”
He flipped open his suit coat to reveal an empty shoulder holster. “They don’t like you to bring guns into the Ritz-Carlton hotel,” he said, grinning, “unless you give prior notice and get authorization.”
“You’re a police detective. You couldn’t get authorization?”
“Well”—he shrugged—“actually I did this time. But I saw Mama Bliss on the way in, and she asked me nicely if I would check my gun at the front desk. Apparently I spooked her a bit with my questions last week, so she hired extra security for this event, and she’s being especially vigilant about anything and anyone who comes into the Grand Ballroom tonight.”
“So you checked your Glock?”
Trudi noticed a few eyes widening on the other side of their table. There were settings for ten people at each table and, counting Samuel and her, eight had already arrived. “Don’t worry,” she said quickly to the stuffed shirts and expensive gowns tinkling priceless jewelry around them. “He’s a cop. A detective with the Atlanta PD.”
They nodded at that but weren’t fully at ease until Samuel pulled his badge out of an inside coat pocket and verified it for them. Then they went back to their conversations and determinedly ignored Samuel and Trudi.
“As a favor for Mama, yes, I checked my gun.” He leaned in close and winked. “One of my guns.”
“Well, Mama didn’t give me the option of checking my gun,” she continued. “I brought my concealed-carry license with me, thought that would be enough, but apparently it wasn’t. So I had to go back to my car and stash my Tomcat in there.”
She started to pull out the chair to sit down, but Samuel stopped her, rising to his feet. He swiftly slid the chair out for her. “Ms. Coffey,” he said formally, “it’s truly a pleasure to be your date tonight.”
He does like being a gentleman, she thought. Even if it makes him a little overbearing at times.
“Thank you, Mr. Hill.” She played along. “Why did you order wine for me?”
“I didn’t.” He shrugged. “It was here when I sat down.” He took another sip from his glass.
Trudi scanned the room and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Lots of black-clad waitstaff were bustling around the room, serving and clearing. A four-piece jazz ensemble had set up on the right side of the platform, just in front of a black curtain that decorated the edges of the stage. And hundreds of rich, sophisticated people were filling up the tables all around the room. She did a quick head count and figured there must be about 450 people attending this event. At one thousand dollars a plate, that meant Max Roman was going to gross nearly half a million dollars from this fundraiser alone.
I wonder how much money it takes to run for mayor of the ATL? she thought absently.
Still, she had to admit that her previous worries seemed out of p
lace now that she was here at the fundraiser. I’m the most suspicious-looking thing in this room, she thought. One of these things is not like the others . . . and it’s me.
“Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary?” she said.
“Nope,” Samuel replied. “I took time to scout the room when I came in. Even ‘accidentally’ wound up in the kitchen. Nothing unusual, at least nothing I can see.”
Trudi had to agree with her ex-husband. Everything seemed like just the workings of another high-society party in downtown Atlanta. She frowned. Sometimes normal just didn’t feel right. This was one of those times, but she couldn’t put her finger on what made her feel that way.
Samuel, on the other hand, seemed to take it all in stride. He was starting to look downright relaxed next to her, patting his thigh in almost-rhythm to the smooth sounds coming from the jazz band.
“So what do you think?” she said. “Should we be worried?”
He looked around the room again, then came back to her, smiling. “I think Mama Bliss has things well in control. Maybe we can take tonight off for once.”
She leaned in close. “What about Nevermore?”
“Look around you, Tru-Bear,” he said. “Where’s the threat?” He sighed. “It looks like Mama’s intel was right. Maybe Nevermore is just a hoax dreamed up by Andrew Carr. I’ll still keep an eye on the Edgar Awards happening in Athens a few weeks from now, but tonight’s fundraiser seems safe enough. Honestly, I’m kind of relieved.”
She nodded. It did look that way, but Trudi couldn’t shake the feeling that not everything was as it seemed. She decided to keep her wits about her, just in case. She pushed her wineglass toward the center of the table and took a sip from her water glass instead.
“You look great, Trudi,” Samuel said. He was admiring her with glittering eyes, as if she was a precious jewel. “Stunning. Most beautiful woman in the room. As usual.”
He tipped his glass in her direction and took another drink. In spite of her defenses, her ex-husband’s compliment made her feel good. Made her feel pretty again. She liked that.
“You’re drunk,” she said, laughing lightly. Then she remembered why she hadn’t seen him for the past week and frowned. “How are things with, well, how was your trip?”
He nodded as he downed the last of his cabernet. “All taken care of. All fine. Well, will be fine.”
What does that mean? she wanted to ask.
“Moving,” he added, as if reading her mind. “We’re going into a communications blackout for six months so they can work through a set of ‘disappear’ stages. It takes a little time to do that kind of thing well, but I personally picked the Fader for this job. She’ll do it right. Meanwhile, everyone is safe for the moment, and they’ll be fully secure again soon. The Fader will contact me when everything is in place.”
Trudi suddenly felt like changing the subject. “Mama Bliss looked nice tonight,” she said. “Did you see her in the pre-function area just outside the ballroom?”
“Mm-hmm. Seems like she’s over being mad at me, so I was glad about that. Gave me a hug and a lecture, just like normal.”
“That’s good. She actually seemed kind of cheerful,” Trudi said. “I think she must be excited about the charity auction. There are some really cool antiques up for sale tonight.”
“Maybe I’ll bid on something for you. Anything special that you liked?”
“No, thank you, Samuel.” She found herself actually having a nice time. She caught movement in the corner of her eye, and it made her curious. “Who are those people wandering around?”
“Table entertainment,” he said. “You just missed the Trivia Guy. He gives out little prizes to anyone who knows facts about Atlanta history, or Max Roman, or classic literature. By the way, who wrote Homer’s Odyssey?”
She rolled her eyes. “Homer.”
“No, that’s part of the title. Who wrote it? I thought maybe Shakespeare, but that was wrong.”
“Samuel—” She started to argue with him, then gave up. “I don’t know. We didn’t study that in college.”
He shot her a look, and she could see he knew he’d made a mistake. He returned to his introductions. “That guy on the other side, over by the back exit, he recites funny poetry. Shel Silverstein and Rudyard Kipling, that kind of stuff. Some people here like him a lot, but I thought he was too melodramatic.” He pointed to a nearby table. “That woman over there, in the black dress, she’s a caricaturist. Draws her pictures on cocktail napkins, which I thought was clever. I hope she comes over here because I think it’d be fun to get a picture of the two of us.”
Did he just giggle?
“How much have you had to drink, Samuel?” she asked.
“One glass of wine. That’s it.” He snickered again. Then he slid back in his chair. “I’m really tired, though. Been up for about twenty hours straight. Guess I’m a little loopy from jet lag and lack of sleep.”
He muffled a chuckle and reached for her abandoned glass. “Since you’re not going to drink this . . .” he said by way of a toast, then he swallowed a third of her wine.
“Pay attention, Samuel,” she hissed. “We’re here for a reason.”
He shook his head. “It all checks out, Tru-Bear. The place is clean. I told you I went through it all before you got here. And judging from security out front, nobody who’s not a cop is getting a weapon into this room. Mama Bliss knows a thing or two about security. Maybe we should just trust her to do her job, relax, and let ourselves have a good time for once.”
Trudi looked around the room again and couldn’t find any reason to disagree with him.
“I feel good,” he said to nobody, stretching out that last word so it sounded like goo-ood.
“Well, we still should be vigilant,” Trudi reprimanded.
“You’re right.” He sat up and scanned the room. Then he definitely giggled. “Vigilant,” he said. “That’s a funny word. Ever notice that? Vih-juh-lent. Vigilantvigilantvigilant.”
She decided to ignore that little detour. Jet lag was really a bear, she knew. “Where’s Max Roman?” she asked.
“Not here yet,” he said. “But look who’s working tonight.”
She followed his gaze and saw Andrew Carr, wearing the black shirt and pants that were the uniform of the waitstaff here at the Ritz. He was clearing a table of empty glasses while a girl followed behind him with Caesar salads for diners. She watched him take his load past an empty bussing cart near an exit and deposit it on an already-full cart farther down the wall. She wondered vaguely why he didn’t just use the empty cart closest to him and then decided she didn’t need to know all the details of a busboy’s job. There was a reason she’d avoided restaurant work while earning her way through college.
“Watch this.” Samuel nudged her. “This’ll be fun.”
He waited until Carr was working his way back to the next table, then made eye contact with him. When Carr looked at him, Samuel pulled his police badge from his coat pocket and waved it toward the former gang member. Then he did the two-fingered I’m-watching-you signal, motioning from his eyes to Carr’s eyes for emphasis. Andrew Carr looked angry, but he just turned and strode off to the kitchen without collecting the next table’s glasses.
“Samuel, stop taunting that boy,” Trudi snapped. She snatched the badge from his hand and stuffed it into her purse, out of her ex-husband’s reach. Samuel was snickering again, laughing at what he apparently thought was a great practical joke.
“Grow up, Samuel,” she said.
“Hoo,” he said suddenly. “I don’t feel quite right.”
“Well, stop drinking this, then.” She put the wineglass out of his reach. “When was the last time you ate?”
“What time is it?” he said.
“Seven-thirty,” she said after checking the clock on her cell phone.
“I had a sandwich, maybe twelve hours ago,” he said.
“Alcohol on an empty stomach? Not really a good plan, you know.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I probably should eat something.”
“Well, they’re serving soup and salads now. Why don’t you go to the bathroom and splash some water on your face? By the time you get back, food will be here. You can start catching up to the wine.”
“Good idea.” He stood up, and Trudi was slightly embarrassed that he was already a little shaky on his feet. He paused to look at her again, and she saw his warm smile, the one that always made her heart flutter just a little bit. “You really are beautiful, Tru-Bear. Lovely.”
Says the drunk man, she thought. But she just smiled and waved him toward the bathroom.
Max Roman and his entourage finally arrived, fashionably late, at the gala event just as Samuel left the room. She watched as Max, his stately wife, and two mildly trashy assistants half his age were ushered into seats at the table up front, next to the stage. She wondered why the councilman didn’t have a bodyguard with him. That seemed unusual.
She studied the layout up front. If I were in charge of Max Roman’s security tonight but didn’t want to alienate potential campaign contributors, how would I handle it?
She scanned the room again and this time let her eyes target each of the exits. Five, she noted to herself. Two that go out front to the pre-function area. One on that left wall. And two exits into the service corridor back behind the stage. She followed the visual lines from the two exits behind the stage and stopped at the black curtains, which were opened and gathered at both edges of the stage.
There, she thought. If I’m Max Roman, I have my bodyguard slip into the room through one of those service-corridor exits and then station himself behind one of the side curtains. That way I can see him, he can see me, but no one else has to know he’s here.
She was curious now to know if she was right. She thought about waiting for Samuel to return, but then she caught one of the women across the table giving hints that she was going to be polite and start a conversation with her. Can’t have that, she thought wickedly. People might think I’m friendly or something.
