Summer Flambè - Comic Suspense (The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles, No. 2)

by Paisley Ray

Sky put a hand on my shoulder. “Is there anything I can do?”

  I shook my head. “Naw. I’ll be okay. I just need time to digest.”

  Sky dangled a set of keys. “I was going to check Trudy’s apartment. We’re expecting a shipment of Energy Boost. Wanna come up?”

  I nodded. I needed to pull myself together before I drove home.

  BROWN CARDBOARD CASES WERE stacked to the hallway ceiling, enclosing either side of Trudy’s open door. A low, deep hum vibrated out of the apartment. Someone chanted nonsense words, “Ocha kiniba nita ochun–cheke cheke cheke.” The hallway went quiet until a ting ting chime pricked my ears. It sounded like pie plates that banged in the wind to scare crows.

  Sky held a finger to her lips.

  “Who’s in there?” I whispered.

  She shrugged.

  We crept around the stacked boxes and moved closer to the open door. The air smelled sweet and charred. Arm in arm, we tiptoed under crystals that dangled from a ceiling fixture into Trudy’s apartment. Throws were folded, pillows had been fluffed, and furniture rearranged since my last visit. The apartment I stood in could have been a model home. Except model homes don’t feature close-eyed, senior-citizen-healers, who wave a wad of burning weeds while drumming bare feet to a tribal rhythm they create in their head.

  Normally I would have giggled, but Mrs. Curtis leashed such focus, aligning the steps she took with the garble she spoke. Besides thumbing the eye of Horus around my neck, I was mesmerized.

  The chanting quickened, the stomping hastened, and Mrs. Curtis waved the weeds in larger circles, covering the outer corners of Trudy’s combo kitchen, dining, and living room.

  Sky cleared her throat. “Ah. Mrs. Curtis.”

  She stopped what she was doing and smiled. “I’ve been expecting company.”

  Her sandy creek bed eyes were glassy and the braids she wore twisted into the beehive on top of her head were tinted purple. I’d met her twice before and still didn’t know if her “hairdo” was real.

  As she plucked a carved cane from the corner, her taffeta wrap dress rustled while her bare feet floated across the room. Silently circling Sky and me, twice, she created a ring of smoke.

  “Please, call me Saker.”

  “As in Falcon?” I asked

  Mrs. Curtis, a.k.a. Saker, nodded. “Your memory of ancient symbolism is sharp. A gift of your lineage.”

  “Falcon?” Sky asked.

  “In ancient Egypt, it symbolized spirit, light, and the rising sun.”

  “Whoa,” Sky mused.

  I swallowed my emotional turmoil about Dad and Geneva. Sakar captivated my curiosity.

  “Why are you in Trudy’s apartment?” Sky asked.

  “Bad juju lurked within. I could feel it down the hall. It was making me edgy.”

  Sky wore a look of utter duh, which Saker interpreted as concern. “Don’t worry, I’ve cleansed it.”

  “By burning weeds and moving the furniture around?” Sky asked.

  Pointing to a fish bowl with a blooming water lily, she said, “I’ve cleared the flow of energy, added more water and earth for balance. Will you girls tell Trudy that she’s got boxes exploding into the hallway?”

  “Rachael and I were just going to take them to my car.”

  Mrs. Curtis raised and lowered her head, squinting through thick wire rimmed glasses. “I haven’t seen Trudy all summer. Is she well?”

  Sky slid a hand on Sakar’s back, guiding her to the doorway. “She’s fine. She’s just been busy with work.”

  “Do you have a key to Trudy’s apartment?” I asked.

  She spun around. “Of course. And she has one to mine. For emergencies.”

  Sky and I walked Saker down the hallway. With a hand on her apartment doorknob, she said, “Thank you girls.” We watched her enter. Before she closed the door she gazed into my eyes. “When you stop running you will find deeper meaning, providing clarity and focus in your pursuits. Protective keepsakes such as yours time-travel through gifted hands.”

  A TACKY SWEAT PASTED my shirt to my skin. Moving the boxes of protein powder from the apartment hallway to Sky’s car had stopped the nervous jitter that pulsed inside me and replaced it with fatigue. The encounter with Sakar, the healer, had the curious effect of freaking me out. I’d determined it was her eyes that had unsettled me. When I last looked at them they’d turned muddy. Physically she was a senior citizen, but her eyes were like a mood ring and defied her age.

  I’d helped Sky load her boxes of protein powder, and on the last trip to her car, asked, “When you were at the expo, did you see a guy who looked like Zorro with a southern accent? His booth was an aisle away from Betts’s called Herbal-U.”

  “Jackson Kimball?”

  My heart skipped some beats. I nodded. “That’s him.”

  “He bought three cases from me. That’s a six-month supply. My biggest sale of the day.”

  “Why’d he buy that much?”

  Sky slammed the trunk. “The place was raging, and I thought he was going to resell them once I left, so I asked.”

  Rays of sunshine broke out of the clouds and beat on my head. I shielded my brow with my hand. “Does the protein powder have other uses?”

  Sky grimaced.

  “Don’t tell me. It cleans stubborn toilet rings?”

  “At twelve dollars a can, I don’t think anyone would consider flushing it. Jackson told me he’d be going away for a while. Said the Energy Boost will give the vitamins and minerals that he may be missing.”

  He knows I made the connection.

  Sky nudged me. “Wait ‘til Trudy finds out the neat thief is her neighbor who lives down the hall.” She winked. “Her apartment is safe. She can move back in.”

  Digging in my pocket, I pulled out the van keys.

  “Yeah, right.”

  For as many things that had gone off the rails since Mom had come home to Canton, one thing was back on track. Funny, I expected to feel more glee at the prospect of Trudy moving out of the house.

  NOTE TO SELF

  I have a grandma and am seriously miffed. All these years I wondered what she’d be like. Now I don’t want to know.

  A falcon in human form, a.k.a Sakar,a.k.a. Mrs. Curtis, was the dust-bunny-collecting tidy thief. Must remember not to loan my key out. Do you ever know your neighbor?

  AUGUST 1987

  CHAPTER 13

  Planned Coincidence

  Nineteen years old and I’ve mastered two defense mechanisms: moping and the silent treatment. Two weeks after the Grandma-is-alive bomb, I’d stealthily employed them, imposing the brunt of my discontent on Dad and Edmond. I still worked at Dad’s shop. I’d repaired and upholstered the Louis IV chairs, which Dad delivered. Work orders slowed, but I took care of the few that came in, answered the phones, organized the invoicing, and made calls to old clients for potential work. Reluctantly I continued to work with Edmond on the Tiffany. Its material brilliance prickled reminders of the lies I’d been told. Edmond didn’t push for discussions regarding my mood. He had the patience of a hen on an egg and waited. I kept my sanity by counting down the days until I returned to college for my Sophomore year. Not including today, fourteen were left.

  My mom and Betts were still missing. The police had gone to their last known address in Sedona, but the home was deserted. The Cassandra was still missing. A representative from the insurance company had come to the shop to interview Dad, Edmond, and me before visiting Geneva. The painting had been valued in the high six figures twenty years ago, and now her insurance company haggled against ours over the current value before any payments would be issued.

  Edmond plugged in the Tiffany, and we both gasped at the green glass against the intricate golden frame. “I told Geneva we would deliver it today,” he said.

  I raised my eyebrows, “We?”

  “It’s delicate; I could use a hand. And since you put as much work into it as I did, I thought you might like to see it once it’s installed.”

&nb
sp; “I don’t feel right. Going there.”

  Edmond unplugged the chandelier and coiled the electrical cord. “Rachael, I can’t pretend to know what you’re feeling, but I do know that time moves quickly, especially when you get to be my and Geneva’s age. Maybe you should consider giving her a chance to explain.”

  I bit my cheek. I liked Geneva before I knew she was my grandma. I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I was curious about her life and the blowout that shattered a mother and son’s relationship.

  “I’ll go.”

  THE BLOOMS ON THE day lilies and turtleheads had wilted and turned brown against green stalks. Darkness flushed out daylight earlier in evenings, and lightning bug sightings had become rare, signaling a close to summer. Edmond and I stood at Geneva’s front door. Even though I hadn’t done anything wrong, an acidic irritation loomed inside my chest and I suddenly questioned the sanity of coming here. Excuses to bolt drizzled inside my head. I could faint—too risky, they might make me rest on a sofa. A schedule conflict? I’d have to say hi and bye in the same sentence. The front door opened and a waft of cold air blew out through the screen that separated my grandmother from me.

  Geneva looked from Edmond to me. Her face lit up, matching her peony cigarette pants and coordinating silk blouse. She was barefoot and her toenail polish, I noticed, coordinated with her outfit.

  A large box rested between Edmond and me. “Geneva,” Edmond said. “We’ve brought you something.”

  She stared into my eyes. “Indeed you have. Rachael, what a pleasant surprise.”

  Edmond and I lifted the large box while Geneva held the door open. “Careful, don’t trip. I’ve cleared a path into the library.”

  Outside the library, an arrangement of sweet peas and hydrangeas floated in an oversized leaded glass bowl, giving the air a delicate floral scent. Inside, other than the boxes that were stacked in front of the shelves, and the missing Cassandra painting, the library hadn’t changed since my last visit. We put the chandelier box down, and Edmond asked where she wanted it. Geneva pointed to a corner table anchored by two chairs.

  “I’ll need my tool box and a ladder before I turn the power off,” he said.

  “Come with me, Rachael. Let’s put the kettle on while Edmond gets started.”

  We walked down the hall toward the kitchen, and I trailed behind Geneva. She poured water into the teapot. “When do you go back to school?”

  Leaning against the Formica counter, I said, “Fourteen days.”

  After placing cups on saucers, she motioned for me to follow her into a back bedroom. “There’s something I wanted to show you.” Geneva rattled around in a drawer, and pulled out a photo. She handed it to me. It was black and white of a girl my age, with short hair, in a flapper dress. I fixed on her smile. It was one I recognized. My own. The same lips, same opening, and same crooked eye tooth. Questioningly, I looked at her. “That’s me in New York when I was your age.”

  “But the tooth,” I said, looking at her.

  She rubbed her tongue along her front teeth. “These are capped.” She settled on the edge of the bed. “I worked at the New York Morning Journal.”

  “The one owned by the newspaper magnate?”

  Geneva rolled her eyes and nodded.

  “The antiques, paintings.” I eyed the necklace she wore. “Your jewelry?”

  “I traveled to Europe and India for him. While I took care of arrangements for his collections, I made a few inquiries of my own.”

  The kettle whistled, and I asked, “Why did you and Dad stop talking?”

  She struggled to choose words. “It was different back then. We are Catholic. Maeve was Protestant.” Her tongue stopped. “It wasn’t accepted. And honestly, I never liked her. John changed when he met her. I’m one to voice my opinion. Our words escalated, and eventually we stopped talking.” She placed a hand on my leg. “Rachael, I’m sorry. I never meant for it to become such a big thing. Our argument grew larger than the both of us, and neither of us knew how to stop it. Will you forgive me?”

  Tears welled in Geneva’s eyes. A frog stuck in my throat. I threw my arms around her and squeezed. “You’re forgiven.”

  NOTE TO SELF

  Family drama and then some. Stocked up for another 19 years.

  CHAPTER 14

  Cleansed and Feng Shui’d

  Doughy cinnamon buns rose in the oven. I mixed butter, pecans, and brown sugar in a saucepan, and stirred the gloppy topping as it melted. When the rolls came out, I’d baste them then bake them for another five minutes. Two things in particular had swung my mood from flushed down the toilet to rising euphoric.

  Finding Sakar in Trudy’s apartment had solved the clean and tidy apartment mystery. Sky had told Trudy and Dad about the encounter while I was with Edmond delivering the chandelier to Geneva’s. Trudy shrugged the incident off, apparently not overly bothered now that she knew it was Mrs. Curtis who cleansed the spirits and Feng Shui’d her apartment. Dad wasn’t amused and changed Trudy’s locks. Medicine balls, Lycra bodysuits, and funky herbs had been transported from our house back into hers. Instantly, I liked Trudy a whole lot more and decided to bake gooey, pound-of-butter rolls for her and Dad. I knew it would push her nutrition conscience over the edge, and figured they’d slow her down in step class. It was sneaky of me, but I needed an edge. I’d kept my promise by joining her and Dad three times a week in class. They kicked my butt, and now it was a matter of saving face. I couldn’t have these two more fit than me.

  I made an extra batch to split between Edmond and Grandma Geneva. I’d lost my mom, for now, but had found a grandparent.

  My afternoons were spent at Geneva’s, cataloging the books in her library—taking photos, noting editions, and looking up estimated values, before organizing them on her shelves by century and continent. She had traveled the world on private planes and boats to acquire art, furniture, sculptures, jewelry, and books for her billionaire employer. When we were alone on the sun porch or in the library, she’d told me that she’d been paid well, invested smartly, and made enough contacts to negotiate personal business dealings that allowed her to acquire antiquities of her own. A conversation with Geneva was like sipping old Scotch. The different regions she’d traveled to produced unique, textured adventures. With attention to detail and a quick wit, she spoke of where she’d gone, and the items she searched for. She turned her stories into a game that kept me guessing. My conclusions mostly landed in the outfield, but when I was right her eyes sparked, coating me in satisfaction.

  Geneva rested behind her desk, penning a note. Her handwriting was full of loops, and the spacing between words immaculately consistent.

  “You know the book in the purple velvet case?”

  She looked at me curiously. I went to a box and pointed at Des Notes hieroglyphiques.

  She smiled. “It’s magnificent, isn’t it?”

  “It looks old, like an original work.”

  She grinned.

  “You brought it to our house for Dad, when I was a small child. How did it end up back here?”

  “Open it.”

  I peeked inside the middle. “It’s a brain fuzzler. A translation of a translation. The French handwriting doesn’t have punctuation. It’s hard to know where the thoughts start and end. The drawings are Egyptian.”

  Geneva twirled a ring with gray pearls around her middle finger. “Did you see anything else—notable?”

  “The signature. It’s Nostradamus.”

  Geneva clapped.

  “Is it authentic?”

  “No!”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Pour me a drink, dear.”

  A cart with crystal decanters rested in the corner of the room. “Which one?” I asked.

  “Far left. The sherry.”

  As I pulled off the top, Geneva rested her head back. “It was quite a ruse. My employer at the newspaper was obsessed with Nostradamus, and collecting anything related to prophecy. He kept sending me on t
rips to France, England, Germany. A rival of his, a steel mogul, was also interested in collecting religious pieces of significance. There hadn’t been any real problems until the two honed in on the original book of Nostradamus.

  Handing Geneva her drink, I sat next to her. “Things escalated. My hotel room was ransacked and my driver at that time disappeared.” She swirled the dark liquid in the crystal tumbler. Her voice trailed. “Both men wanted the book. My boss, to have something no one else did, and his rival, well, he had entirely different reasons. Something had to be done before anyone got hurt.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I did find the original, but kept it a secret. To end the dangerous pursuit, I had a copy made.”

  “Why did you need a copy?”

  She finished her drink with a deep swallow. “I wanted to end this scavenger hunt, and a copy put them off the scent. Too many people were at risk. I showed my boss and his rival the copy. I told them it was a counterfeit, but kept the original a secret. I worried that they’d find out what I’d done, but they never did.”

  Geneva stretched out a hand and laid it on my knee. “Rachael, what I’m going to tell you, I’m not proud of. It cost me something money could never replace. I am telling you this, so you don’t repeat my mistakes. I’m not going to make excuses. I never trusted your mother. I tried to break up their marriage.”

  Shit. I squirmed under her warm hand. Dad, Trudy, and me. Were we following in Geneva’s footsteps? Maybe it’s true, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

  What was I supposed to say to that kind of reveal? Confess that I was scheming the same type of maneuver between Dad and his girlfriend.

  “My feelings for Maeve have nothing to do with you. Do you understand that?”

  “Why did you mistrust her?”

  “It was an instinct. I decided to test her. I dropped the prized book at your house when you were very small. Knowing its potential value, I was sure your mother would try to sell it. She didn’t. Your father guessed my plan, and we had words.”