Deadly Charm

by Claudia Mair Burney

  Jazz rolled his eyes. “Let me finish my story, people. Anyway, after all these complaints, and there were several, Thunder had to act. His board talked her into going to the loony bin for a few weeks. They thought that would cover their behinds in case somebody wanted to sue them. They could just point to her hospitalization and say, ‘She’s a nutjob. It’s not her fault. Plus, we got her help.’”

  “Could you go easy on the negative terms for hospitals and mentally ill people? I’m beginning to think you don’t respect my work.”

  Jack quipped, “I ain’t touching that one with a ten-foot pole.”

  Nor did Jazz.

  I considered that Thunder actually had an interesting strategy in regard to his Sister Lou problem. It didn’t ultimately work. Poor Lou got the short end, along with the girl she tried to help, but I tried to think like Ezekiel Thunder would. He couldn’t sever all ties with his sister—well, he could have, but he didn’t. Odd person to place his loyalty with. Why couldn’t he be that loyal to his wives?

  I asked my husband, “Did you find out Lou’s diagnosis?”

  “Paranoid schizophrenia. And they might have a point with that.”

  “Sounds about right, but I’ve seen far worse cases,” I said. “Jazz, when I got to the house Friday, Lou was with the kids, and earlier this morning at the church, she parroted what Nikki Thunder said to you—‘The Lord giveth’ bit.”

  “I think that kind of faith is admirable,” Addie said.

  “When it comes from the faithful,” Sasha said. Shrewd woman.

  “That’s what I mean, Ma. Neither one of them are the salt of the earth, if you ask me. Sister Lou has some serious issues, and Nikki Thunder is just…”

  “Cold,” Jazz interjected.

  “So what does all this mean?” Addie asked.

  Sasha answered. “It means somebody is going to try to kill my daughter and grandbabies—like every other time she’s gotten involved with crazy people. Why, oh, why,” she wailed, “couldn’t you choose a safe job? You could have gone into retail with me. At least you’d have better clothes. I need my nitro.” My mother fanned herself.

  “She’s not getting hurt this time, Sasha,” Jazz said. “I’ll see to that if it kills me!”

  “Calm down, everybody,” I interjected. “Nobody is going to get hurt. Least of all me.”

  I thought for a moment, still not completely surrendering my sleuthing. “Sister Lou used the exact same words Nikki did, in the same scripted way the kids told their story. She also gave us the brush-off, not really answering any of our questions.”

  “Yes?” my mother said.

  Jazz added, “I know what she’s going to say. She’s going to say Nikki and the children are covering for Lou. Maybe she’s the one who drowned Zeekie.”

  “I can’t really see Nikki covering for anybody, but we need to take a much deeper look at Lou. Ezekiel told me Nikki couldn’t handle Zeekie and wanted him to be medicated. Maybe she thought he was possessed.”

  Jazz’s face scrunched up. “Possessed with what?”

  “A little boy demon, knowing those two. Maybe she looked to Sister Lou to help her.”

  Jack quipped, “Heaven help that kid if she did.”

  Jazz sighed. “There’s one more thing.”

  “What’s that, Columbo?” I teased.

  He gave me a crooked smile. “The ME’s office finished the autopsy. His death was ruled accidental.”

  My heart sank. “No way!”

  “Bell, that kid had no signs of abuse. No bruises. No fractures. Except for the drowning, he seemed perfectly healthy and well cared for.”

  I thought about Zeekie. He did appear to be healthy and well adjusted. Not once during the crusade did I think he was abused, not even when Nikki snatched him out of my arms. She didn’t win any good-mama points with me for that, but I didn’t see her battering her son.

  “But that story…the daughter suddenly wanting to give Zeekie a bath with no precedent for it. Him drowning because Zeke walked out of the bathroom. He wasn’t eight months old. He was almost three.”

  “Bell,” Jazz said, “you already know from Kate’s murder that sometimes even cops don’t want to work hard. Even more so if the case is ruled accidental. Think about it. If anyone presses this family after the ME ruled the baby’s death accidental, the Thunders can cry religious discrimination.”

  “But what about Thunder talking about God raising his son from the dead?” I asked Jazz. “Can’t you see they’re trying to get attention for their ministry? I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole thing, including Zeekie’s murder, was planned.”

  “It ain’t a crime to believe that or even to say you believe that. The funeral is Tuesday morning at the Rock House, and it’s going to be televised. I guess we’ll all see what God is going to do.”

  Lord, have mercy. It will be a dog and pony show! I felt an almost unbearable heaviness at the thought of it. I didn’t know if I could stomach their antics, but I had to say good-bye to my little Thunder boy. I had to.

  Sasha got up from my bed. “That’s enough about this awful situation. My baby needs her rest and to keep her head clear of all this horror.” She touched my hand. “I’ll call your job for you, Amanda Bell, and Maggie will take care of rearranging your schedule for your private practice.” She kissed my cheek and turned her attention to her fellow grandmother. “Addie, let’s go to the gift shop and pick up some more presents for the babies.”

  Addie looked so eager to go baby shopping, she jumped up like she’d been sitting in an ejector seat.

  “What about presents for me?” I said. “I’m the one laid up, in pain, hanging on to the babies by my fingernails. Like a cat! A weak, tired, slipping-off-the-edge cat.”

  Sasha rebuked me. “Stop being so self-absorbed, Ms. Kitty. You’re going to be a mother. Nothing is about you now or for the rest of your life.”

  I didn’t mention that nothing was about me anyway when it came to my mother, unless it was negative. Negativity was about me, but the damage my negative attitude, lifestyle, or fill in the blank caused was always about Ma and Carly.

  At least her “heart” condition had improved with the news of the twins.

  Jazz leaned into me. “I’ll buy you some presents, Catwoman. Let them do their grandmother thing.” He kissed me on my cheek, and for a moment I thought nothing could interfere with my happiness.

  Nothing.

  For a moment.

  I should have known by the pensive look on Jazz’s face that trouble was brewing. I’d stayed in the hospital overnight and most of Sunday until Dr. McLogan finally cleared me to go home late in the evening. I still had residual pain, and I didn’t feel like participating in the battle of the sexes with Jazz. I just wanted to get out of the Love Bug, go into my apartment, and crawl into bed with my Bible and the Sunday edition of the Ann Arbor News. Instead we sat in the parking lot, Jazz neither making a move to open the door nor even looking at me.

  I sighed. I didn’t want to ask for fear that he’d answer in the affirmative, but I had to. “Is there something wrong, Jazz?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Which suggests that perhaps I will?”

  “It’s nothing. I mean, we’re trying to do the right thing, right?”

  “What exactly do you mean by ‘do the right thing’?”

  He drummed his fingers on the dashboard. “Yo, we do what we gotta do to stay on point and make sure the babies are straight. That’s how we roll. Right?”

  “That was an awful lot of slang there. What exactly are you compensating for, soul brotha?”

  “Who said I’m compensating for anything?”

  “That’s not how you usually communicate with me. What have you done? What are you trying not to tell me?”

  He unbuckled his seat belt. “Let’s go inside. I’ll come back for all the toys and flowers once we get you settled.”

  I didn’t argue with him. I knew whatever he had to tell me I’d hear soon eno
ugh.

  Ever the gentleman, Jazz carried me up the stairs once again, God bless him. I nestled my head into his neck. God, I love this man. He smelled of something woodsy and manly. He never needed to wear cologne. His own scent intoxicated me—when he didn’t smell like a distillery.

  “Ummmmm,” I said into his neck.

  “Don’t start.”

  “I like the way you smell.”

  “I like the way you smell, too. But let’s not smell each other until Dr. McLogan says its okay.”

  “Is that sexual demon trying to rear its ugly head?”

  “Not funny.”

  “I was teasing.”

  “No, you were teasing when you were talking all up in my neck about how good I smell. Mention that I’m the spawn of Satan and you kill that loving feeling in me.”

  By now he’d climbed two flights of stairs. He needed to save his breath and concentrate, or I’d be walking up the last flight—which I was perfectly capable of, even if it meant I’d suffer a wee bit.

  Again I curled into him, enjoying the ride. We finally made it to my apartment, and he gently set me down.

  He huffed and gasped. Finally, “You okay, baby?”

  “I am, but you sound like you may need to be resuscitated.”

  “I’m all right.”

  Honestly! Men cannot admit weakness. They have to have rigor mortis setting in before they’ll think they’re sick enough to go to the doctor.

  He thrust the key in the door, unlocked it, and repeated the action two more times. Finally, he put his hand on the door, looked at me sheepishly. “Welcome home, Bell.”

  “Thanks, Jazz. Open the door.”

  He did. Reluctantly. And to my shock and horror.

  A fifty-two-inch television overwhelmed my living room. Paintings were all over my walls—Addie Lee paintings—and a treadmill stood as stoic as a soldier next to my rose-colored velvet sofa. I had new throw pillows made of indigo-wax-dyed cloth that looked vaguely familiar. I scratched my head and turned my attention back to Jazz.

  “You got me some new stuff?”

  “Go inside, Bell.”

  “But what is all this stuff?”

  “Maybe you should sit down.”

  I walked over to my sofa and slowly lowered myself down. My heart began to palpitate. The Addie Lee paintings were originals. And was that a Gilbert Young painting over there on the floor by my bedroom door? I’d kill several people to get some of Gilbert’s work. The art fairy had also propped a huge Synthia Saint James painting next to the big-screen television. Elisa idolized her. She’ll be thrilled to see…But why are these things…

  Jazz eased himself onto the couch beside me. “Bell, baby.”

  “Yes?”

  “I moved in with you.”

  “What?”

  If I thought seeing the beautiful art quickened my pulse, hearing Jazz say he’d moved in nearly took me to meet Jesus. “Whaddya mean you moved in?”

  “I mean while you were in the hospital, I brought all my stuff over here.”

  “Jazz, I was only in the hospital overnight. I’m gone all night and you felt like you had to drag all your stuff over here? Now you’re going to have to take it all back.”

  “I sold my loft, and I had my stuff at my parents’ house.”

  “So, why did you bring it here? What? Do you think I’m Bell’s Storage now?”

  He shifted in his seat. “I’ve been living with my parents since Kate died, but Jack and Addie put me out when I told them you were having twins. I mean, they actually put my stuff in a U-Haul they rented.”

  “What?” My voice went up about twelve octaves. I could have launched my career as a soprano opera singer after this conversation.

  He didn’t say anything about my spectacular voice. “I prayed about it, and the Lord spoke to me.”

  “What?” Another twelve octaves. I could sing with the cherubim now.

  “What? Do you think God only speaks to Pentecostals?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think that at all, Jazz. I just don’t usually hear you say things like that.”

  “All the more reason for you to hear me out. Where is your copy of The Message?”

  “It’s on top of my armoire, wherever that is now.”

  “Bell, you can see I made a big effort to keep your things as close to how you had them as possible.” He got up and went over to my armoire, which was now in a corner, having been displaced by Jazz’s gigantic movie screen!

  He grabbed The Message and came and sat beside me again. He turned to the third chapter of Hosea.

  This was going to be bad. As soon as I saw he’d gone to the Old Testament, I knew there’d be trouble, but Hosea?

  “It’s the third verse,” he said. “Like I said, I prayed and asked God for some kind of guidance. And he answered my prayer perfectly.”

  Usually, I’d enjoy thinking of my husband as a praying man. That God answered his prayer should have pleased me to no end. So why were goose bumps creeping up my arms? My throat went dry. He began to read.

  “Then I told her, ‘From now on you’re living with me. No more whoring, no more sleeping around. You’re living with me and I’m living with you.’”

  My mouth flew open. It felt like the air had been squeezed out of my lungs. My eyes twitched wildly. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out.

  He smiled in obvious triumph. “It’s perfect! When I read that, I knew God had spoken. He wants us to live together.”

  “Ooooh,” I moaned.

  Jazz grabbed my elbow. “Are you in pain again?”

  “Eugene!”

  “What?”

  “Eugene!”

  He looked puzzled. “Who is Eugene?”

  I started rocking to comfort myself. “Eugene Peterson. He’s the paraphraser of The Message. He’s failed me.”

  Jazz gave me another quizzical look. “I don’t know what you mean. How did he fail you?”

  “That paraphrase. It allowed you to use my beloved Message against me. Ooooh.” I flung my hand, palm facing out, against my forehead and let my head fall back. Then I jerked my head back up and pointed a finger at Jazz. “And I take issue with that whole whoring thing!”

  Jazz shrugged, the rat! “I’m just sayin’…that’s what God told me to tell you. I think what we need to focus on is the ‘you’re living with me and I’m living with you’ part. Your whoring demon got cast out.”

  He ducked, no doubt waiting for me to batter him. I jumped up to stand over him, trying to assert some nonexistent power.

  “It was an interracial-dating-and-adultery demon. And it didn’t even exist! I’m pregnant and that horrid cologne she wears made me ill. But that’s not the point. You can’t move in with me.”

  “Sure I can. God said so.”

  “That is a blatant example of twisting the scriptures to support your argument.”

  “What argument? As soon as I knew the babies were coming, I thought we should get our act together. I thought so before then, to tell you the truth. And why is it twisting scripture when God speaks to me? If God gave you some kind of answer to your prayer, you’d hang up a sign and declare yourself a prophetess.”

  “I would not! And don’t try to get off the topic.”

  Jazz stood, too. Since he was a head taller, he instantly had the advantage over me. “Like Eugene said, ‘You’re living with me, and I’m living with you.’”

  “You are impossible, Jazz!”

  “And you’re rebelling. That’s like the sin of witchcraft. Witch!”

  “Oh, I’m so going to hurt you. I’m going to jack you up, Jazz Brown.” I tried to calm myself. Impossible. “You don’t listen to anything I say. Charging in here like a bull in a china shop.”

  He ignored my insults and stood there glowering at me. I wondered if he’d say, “What else you got?” I didn’t have a thing.

  Weariness settled on me, and I felt crampy again. “I need my pain medicine now!” Oh Lord, now I sounded like Sasha. �
�You’ve stressed me out. I’m going to bed.”

  His hard expression softened. “May I get you anything?”

  Despite my anger, my heart softened when my alpha male went beta and so beautifully offered to serve me. “No, Jazz. You can get yourself some blankets, a sheet, and a pillow, unless you want Ma Brown’s quilt instead of blankets.”

  “I’d like to use the quilt, please.”

  Those eyes. He had naughty eyes. I’d have to keep an eye on him. “I’ll get it for you,” I said. I didn’t want him rooting through my stuff. I tried to keep my voice soft, to turn away any stubborn wrath between us. I wanted to make peace with him.

  He simply said, “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll get it myself.”

  “It’s no problem, Jazz. I’m happy to serve you.”

  Okay, God, you see I’m trying. I used the “s” word.

  “You’d like to serve me?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I made vows.”

  A sexy grin tugged at a corner of his mouth. “So you did.”

  I felt silly standing there, the focus of his heat-seeking eyes. “You’re sure I can’t get you anything?”

  “No need, baby. I’ll be sharing the bed with you anyway.”

  I gave him my most beatific, albeit fake, smile. “Um. No, you’ll be sleeping on the sofa.”

  “Baby, I’m sleeping with you now and until death, travel, or hospitalization do us part.”

  All kinds of alarms sounded inside of me. “We’re not sharing a bed, Jazz.”

  “In that case, you can feel free to sleep on the sofa, Bell. I’ll bring you a pillow and the quilt.”

  “I can’t sleep in the living room. I’m the one who just got out of the hospital and is pregnant with twins.”

  He stepped closer to me and massaged my shoulders. Honestly! His hands are magical. “But, baby,” he murmured. “I’m the one who married you. I will sleep with you. But don’t worry. Since you just got out of the hospital, we can postpone our lovemaking. We’ll see how you feel tomorrow.”

  I jerked away from him. “Jazz, the least you could have done was talk to me, you Neanderthal! You know I’m not comfortable with strong-arm tactics—not with my history.”

  “Bell, you’re afraid to be happy. You don’t know how to be happy, either.”