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

by Paisley Ray

  I opened the protective velvet cover and turned a page. The vellum wasn’t aged, and the smell wasn’t musty. I whispered, “You and your son disowned each one another over a fake.”

  The chair Geneva rested in swallowed her. Her gaze went blank as she searched someplace in her mind. She murmured, “We’ve only really begun speaking since Cassandra was stolen.”

  “Do you think my Mom stole your painting?”

  “It looks that way, and I may have to thank her. I lost Cassandra, but was given something far more valuable. My son and my granddaughter.”

  Geneva’s past blew my mind. “Is that what you thought you were doing? Protecting Dad from Mom?” Did Geneva know my mother better than Dad and I? “What if they come to your home and rob you?”

  “Rachael dear, don’t worry about me. I know how protect my treasures.” A sad smile crept across her face. “Fool me once,” she said, “shame on you.”

  “Twice,” I said.

  In unison, Geneva and I whispered, “Shame on me.”

  “What you did to my Mom and Dad was diabolical.”

  “I took a foolish risk. If your mother had stolen the Nostradamus it would’ve proven my gnawing hunch, but she didn’t have a chance. Your father returned the book and disowned me. He cut me off from ever seeing my granddaughter. Your childhood was taken from me.”

  I should’ve felt more relief, knowing the story of the fallout between Dad and my grandmother, but I had an imagination the size of Texas. I hoped the scenario inside my head was a foolish exaggeration. But I couldn’t shake the thought that my mother didn’t know the book Geneva had delivered was a fake. What if she’d told Betts about its existence? Betts held an infatuation for spiritualism artifacts. A part of me wondered was she using my mother as her golden ticket to get at that book?

  NOTE TO SELF

  The more I know the deeper a sinking feeling rumbles about Betts’s involvement with my mother.

  CHAPTER 15

  Precautionary Measures

  The air smelled medicinal, and I wondered why doctor’s offices didn’t use a citrus or floral cleanser. The biting scent reminded me of the waiting rooms of dentists and optometrists. I actually wished I was in one of them rather than here, at the gynecologist, naked and in a breezy paper gown without a closed front. I had to face it, I was a big girl, nineteen, and I was going to have sex. In case things heated up spur of the moment, I wanted to be prepared. I considered buying a box of condoms, but a sexpert, New Yorker-friend from freshman year once told me that doing it with a condom was like licking a lollypop with the wrapper on.

  Sky made the appointment and drove me over. She’d had already had the womanly exam. Being naked in front of a stranger wearing rubber gloves in an air-conditioned room was awkward, but I’d survive. I looked at the stirrups and wasn’t so sure. No one had ever poked around down there, and I wasn’t looking forward to the cold metal tongs Sky had told me about.

  Doctor Rivers came in and smiled. Fresh out of medical school, she held a clipboard. She reached her hand forward and introduced herself. “Hi Rachael, I’m Dr. Rivers. What can I do for you today?”

  “I want to get the pill?”

  “Are you sexually active?”

  “Not yet,” I said, and she checked something off on her clipboard.

  “Have you had intercourse?” she asked.

  That was personal information. “Unfortunately, no,” I mumbled.

  She put the clipboard down and looked me in the face. “Alright then, I’ll write a prescription. You must take it every day for it to be effective. Start it on the first day of your cycle. Is there anything else?”

  “Don’t I have to do the stirrup thing?”

  “Since you aren’t yet sexually active,” she said, her tongue emphasizing the active, “I don’t need to give you an internal exam—unless there’s a problem. Like discomfort—burning, itching, or discoloration in your discharge.”

  Jeez. “Nope.”

  Dr. River ripped a piece of paper off a pad, and that was that. Outside the waiting room, I waved the prescription at Sky. “How did it go?” she asked.

  “She didn’t perform an exam. Just asked two questions. This was easier than getting a driver’s license.”

  Sky warned, “Just be careful who you drive with.”

  While we waited for my prescription to be filled, Sky and I busied ourselves testing neon shades of nail polish at the drug store. I settled on don’t-tell-your-mama pink and she chose orange-attitude. After I paid for my purchases, Sky cracked her gum. “Looks like you’re good to go.”

  “Hopefully, I’ll find a willing participant.”

  “You and Clay are speaking again. You shouldn’t have any trouble.”

  “I hope you’re right. For some reason a magnetic field keeps us apart. There’s psycho-ex drama, injuries, or scheduling conflicts. I almost wonder if he and I aren’t meant to be.”

  Sky shrugged. “You can always move on. What about the FBI guy? You said he was hot.”

  “When did I say that?”

  “The night we spent at Trudy’s. You said anyone who can handle a gun should be skilled at handling—”

  “I did not say that.”

  Sky laughed. “What does this Clay have anyway? Why does he have to be the one?”

  “I’m drawn to him. The brown flecks in his hazel eyes, and the way his crooked smile creases the corners of them, his southern drawl—the whole package. When I’m around him, everything inside of me pops and sizzles.”

  “That doesn’t sound healthy.”

  “Trust me. He’s the one.”

  “Obsessions are disruptive,” she warned. “They jostle electrons, unbalance planetary alignments, and turn ordinary situations wonky.”

  “That sounds like a lecture from my mom and Betts’s camp.”

  “Has anyone found those two?” She asked.

  “Not yet. The police think they may show up at another psychic convention, but there are six across the country in September. Crimes of art don’t take priority at police stations. The insurance company has more motivation to find the Cassandra painting than the police do.”

  I didn’t tell Sky about my hunch. It was wicked, and I weighed the chances of Mom and Betts returning for the Book of Nostradamus. Had Mom mentioned the book to Betts? Did Mom know that it was a fake? Did she know Dad had disowned his mother for her? The betrayal Dad felt when she left him? I hadn’t asked Geneva where she kept the original book of prophecies. There were a lot of nuts in the world that would kill for something like that. I hoped she’d loaned it to some museum where it sat behind thick glass, but I doubted it.

  NOTE TO SELF

  Locked and loaded.

  CHAPTER 16

  Juju

  It was my last day of summer before Dad and I drove to North Carolina. Once Dad changed her locks, Trudy had moved back into her apartment. I respected her for that, and liked her a lot more now that she lived in her own space. That whole Mrs. Curtis, alias Saker, cleansing thing was wiggie. It would’ve freaked me out, if my stuff had gone through a sage-smoke, Feng Shui reorganization.

  Sky drove us past the manmade, toilet-bowl lake en route to building nineteen. Trudy and Dad were throwing me a luncheon celebration.

  I hadn’t eaten before we left and was nervous that Trudy had blended or whisked something inedible. I asked Sky, “So what’s for lunch?”

  “Chinese take-out.”

  Whew.

  She cruised into a parking spot next to a covered car. Dad and Trudy stood around smiling and my heart pumped.

  “Holy shit.”

  “Surprise,” Sky grinned.

  Launching out of the car, I hugged Dad.

  “Now Rachael, what’s all the affection about?”

  “John, don’t be a tease,” Trudy said. “Pull off the cover.”

  “Ta Daa,” Dad said, pulling the sheet off the car with a dramatic sweep.

  I was speechless. “What is it?” I asked.

/>   “It’s a car,” Trudy said.

  Dad rocked onto his toes. “A vintage 1967 Ford Galaxie.”

  My voice cracked, “It’s pea green.”

  “Original paint color. Do you like it?”

  There are some moments in life when it is appropriate to lie. “I love it. Thanks, Dad,” I said, and hugged him.

  Dad opened the door and handed me the keys. I slid into the driver seat.

  “Where did you get this?”

  He glowed. “A friend of Geneva’s.” Great, it had my grandma’s stamp of approval.

  After everyone had sat inside and sufficiently pawed the lentil bomb, Trudy announced, “Come on everyone, let’s go inside and eat.”

  I lingered in the front seat and asked, “Where are you going to keep it while I’m at college?”

  “It’s yours. I thought you may like to break it in and drive it yourself.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” he said.

  “Okay, who are you and what have you done with my father?”

  Dad laughed and handed me an envelope.

  “What’s this?”

  “The commission from the Quesnel painting you refurbished last Christmas. I sold it.”

  Inside the envelope was a thick wad of green bills. I pulled them out and fanned myself. “Dad, I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. But I do expect you to spend wisely. And no more spring-breaking in New Orleans.”

  “I’m never going back there.”

  Dad slipped out of the car. “Are you coming?”

  Zipping the envelope in my jacket pocket, I said, “In a minute.”

  “See you upstairs.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Dad bought me a car. Not exactly my car of choice, but it was four wheels that I hoped would get me to North Carolina in one piece. I slid my hand across the steering wheel and adjusted the rear view mirror. A white van parked in a spot behind me and Doneski hopped out of the driver’s seat. Figures. My day had been going beyond expectations until now. Ducking down, I calculated my chances of running into Trudy’s apartment building without being seen. When I heard a knock on the trunk, I realized those odds were zero.

  Doneski leered into the open window. “What do we have here? A seasick granny-mobile?”

  Scowling at him, I wound the window up.

  He stepped back as I got out of the car. “Get a life.”

  “Ouch,” he hissed. Disgustingly resourceful, he produced a partially smoked cigarette from behind his ear. “If you were nicer to me, maybe I’d offer you something sparkly at a reduced rate.”

  “What are you babbling about?”

  Reaching into his plaid flannel shirt pocket, he wiggled his fingers beneath a handful of tangled gold necklaces and bracelets.

  “What are you? The Avon man for jewelry?”

  “Just thought you’d be interested in purchasing a little something for yourself.” He held a bracelet up in front of my face, like a worm specimen. “This one has sapphires. It’d look real nice on your wrist.”

  Rolling my eyes, my head followed. Avoiding Doneski’s face, I twisted away and stared into the back of the van he drove. Cable wires dangled over stacks of TVs, and VCRs. There wasn’t any crawl space inside the vehicle. Sweeping my hand over the pile of jewelry and then toward the van, I asked, “You’re fencing stolen goods?”

  “You make it sound illegal. I’m just turning unwanted consumer products into cash.”

  “Sorry Doneski, I’m a broke student,” I said, about to turn on my heel.

  “Wanna take a look. I can give you a student discount.”

  A pesky curiosity moved my feet to the back of the van. I didn’t need any electronics. “Doneski,” I said, ready to ditch him when I glimpsed the corner of a chunky gilded frame resting in the middle of the van. The shine triggered my brain. I knew that frame. Willing my voice not to crack, I looked him in the face. He sucked on the unlit cigarette. “I have a poster that needs a frame. Do you have anything?”

  “What poster?” he asked.

  This, I knew was a trick question. If I’d said, The Cure or U2, he’d scoff at me. I didn’t think he was into Jerry Garcia, he was too uptight to be a Deadhead. He made a hobby of hiding in bushes with his BB gun. Got his kicks scaring the crap out of innocent passersby. It clicked. The new band I’d heard, “Guns N’ Roses.”

  “You like Slash?”

  “Yeah.”

  Doneski watched me. I tapped the face of my Swatch. “Listen, if you don’t have anything no biggie.”

  “I may have something.” There wasn’t room to climb into the van from the back. He had to slid the driver’s seat forward.

  After a quick look at the license plate, E7C-964, I moved to the open side of the van. “Do you need help in there?”

  “Naw, I got it. But there’s a painting inside the frame.”

  I memorized the upside down, seventeen digit VIN number from the left hand corner of the dash into my head, and backed away from the van. Doneski knocked a corner of the frame on the van door, and I winced. He held the backside of a gold leaf frame. I saw the thick wire draped across the back, and my heart did jumping jacks in my throat. He flipped the frame around, and I willed myself to keep a straight face. Don’t panic.

  “You and your dad work on this kind of stuff, don’t you?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, we repair stuff.”

  “How much do you think this is worth?”

  Another tricky question. Did he know what he had? Was he testing me? If I low-balled would he use it for target practice?

  “Paintings are subjective, depends on how deep a buyer’s pockets are. I like the frame. I think Slash would look pretty cool inside there. How much do you want for it?”

  “I don’t know, my next stop is to meet a guy who said he’s interested.”

  “I’ve got cash.”

  Doneski bit on the cigarette filter. “Fifty bucks.”

  “Fifty? I’m keeping the painting for fifty.”

  “You can have it. It’s some dumb redhead standing on rocks.”

  Sky shouted from Trudy’s balcony. “Rachael, lunch is ready.”

  I reached into the envelope Dad had just given me and handed Doneski a fifty. He passed Cassandra to me. “See you around, O’Brien.” I nodded. Not very likely.

  Mindful of how I handled the frame encasing a six figure stolen painting, I took the apartment stairs two at a time.

  Trudy’s apartment door was open and I leapt in. I handed Dad the painting. He swore, “What the hell?”

  “Pen, paper,” I hiccupped.

  Trudy thrust them into my hand. I scratched down the digits. Ohio plates E7C-964. White Ford van, dent on driver side, VIN Number 1falp62w4wh128703. “Dad, call the detective at the Canton police department. Tell him I bought the stolen Cassandra painting from Markus Doneski for fifty bucks.”

  I tugged at the curtain that covered the open glass sliders to Trudy’s balcony, and watched him pull away. He wouldn’t get far.

  Trudy brought me a glass of ice water. She’d just planted herbs in baskets that hung on her balcony rail. Bags of soil, fertilizer, an exercise ball, and laundry cluttered the small space. Removing bedding from a lawn chair she motioned for me to sit. “Rachael, are you okay?

  I waved her concern away. “It’s just the hiccups, they’ll go away.”

  I PICKED AT MY FRIED RICE, and moved my sweet and sour pork around my plate. I didn’t have an appetite. Mom and Betts hadn’t stolen the painting. They’d just left to a new venue, to find a better vortex to practice channeling without saying a proper, in-person goodbye. A feeling nudged at my insides. Something wasn’t right. Using the old, “‘I have to pack,’” I stood to leave and Dad looked worried. Palming the Galaxie key, I assured him I was okay. Just overwhelmed with getting ready to leave for school the next day and having found the painting in Doneski’s van. “I want to get back home, get organized, and relax.”

  “Do
you want me to come with you?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Lock the door when you get in the house. I’ll be back after I meet with the Canton detective.”

  Driving my newly refurbished Galaxie through Canton streets, I beeped at anything that moved and rolled by two stop signs. Before closing the front door, I put my keys on the Quaker bench in the entry and noticed a cellophane bag of yellow powder and a small pair of black binoculars with a ripped strap and a chip in the left lens. Bile rose in my throat, and my internal organs froze as I lifted the palm-sized bag. Written small on the label was a note. In black ink, blocked lettered print writing it said, I can’t believe you got the Cassandra before me. You should change your name from Raz to Lucky. See you around. JK

  The powder was African Ginger. The binoculars were mine. Three months ago in New Bern, North Carolina, Mitch McCoy had rescued me from the suffocating grip of Billy Ray’s fat fingers as he tried to strangle me in the master bathroom of the McGee’s house. I’d lost them when I plunged off a second story balcony into the swimming pool. They’d sunk to the bottom and I hadn’t bothered to retrieve them. I was too busy running.

  Holy Shit! Bubba Jackson was still in the art business—the business of stolen art—and had left a calling card. I rubbed my thumb over the cellophane bag, Bubba Jackson was hot. Great, I was attracted to a southern criminal, a wanted man. I pushed all the googlie-goop, lusty feeling that threatened the responsible side of me into a dark place and slammed the door.

  Running to the kitchen my fingers trembled. To steady them, I pulled the pink crystal Mrs. Curtis had given me out of my pocket. Phone tucked under my chin, I rolled it between my fingers and used my right pointer to dial a number I had memorized. FBI Agent Storm Cauldwell answered on the second ring.

  “Agent Cauldwell, it’s Rachael O’Brien.”

  “Rachael, good to hear your voice. What’s going on?”

  “Bubba Jackson kissed me.”