Black Burlesque

by L. C. Castillo

  I need my independence; it’s all I’ve ever known. Things are moving so quickly, much too quickly. I shake my head, and fill myself with the delicious stew and lose myself in the movie.

  Chapter 19

  A couple of hours later, I sit on the sofa cross-legged, struggling to keep my tears at bay. Vincent walks through the door, takes one look at me, sets two cups of Starbucks coffee onto the kitchen counter, takes one look at me, and rushes over to make sure I’m okay. Concern etched on his flawless face.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left you alone,” his voice is full of alarm.

  “Why did you make me watch that movie? It was so sad!” I say, trying to contain my emotion. I’m not normally so affected, but it must be that I’m more sensitive than normal, given how utterly fucked up my day has been. But the movie he put on for me was more than I could bear. A little girl whose friends and family all die in the Holocaust! Really? No...not a good movie for how I’m feeling right now.

  Vincent chuckles softly, and looks relieved. I shove his chest.

  “I’m sorry! I had no idea it would make you sad. I haven’t watched it yet.” He sits with me on the couch, and I rest my head on his shoulder.

  “How are you feeling otherwise?” he asks softly.

  I shrug in response. I feel awful. I feel lost at sea. But I say nothing. Vincent sits beside me for a few moments. I yawn noisily.

  “Come on, let me get you into bed.”

  “But the coffee,” I whine.

  “You need to rest. You can reheat it in the morning.” He scoops me up and carries me to his bed. I don’t bother fighting him.

  “Would you like me to get you something comfortable to wear?” he asks cautiously.

  “No. I’m fine,” I say curling up under the blanket. I just want this day to end already.

  He sighs and kisses my temple. He climbs into bed with me a minute later. I’m overcome by exhaustion.

  “I miss Bucky,” I mutter sleepily. My gorgeous boy, what will I do without him? I can’t believe he’s gone. Knowing he suffered, it hurts my heart. He was probably frantic. Images of what his final minutes must have been come to my mind. My heart twists inside of me.

  He pulls me close, “Sleep, Lenore, just sleep. Everything will be alright tomorrow.” I feel him press his lips to the top of my head. Will everything be okay tomorrow? I desperately want to believe him.

  Just like he did the first night I spent the night, he pulls out a book and reads me to sleep. My head rests on his chest, feeling the deep vibration of his voice, and I slip into unconsciousness.

  It’s very early when we arrive at the station. I’ve already spoken with Maggie; she plans on speaking with the insurance company and promises to deal with all of that mess. This is great news because I would have no idea where to start. I also gave her the arson investigators contact information. She plans on making him come see her later this afternoon.

  I’m shaking in the cold office as Vincent clutches my hand. His expression is grim. I shift uncomfortable and pull my cardigan over my breasts. I’m wearing my lavender dress again. It’s all I own now. This isn’t the right thing to wear to a police station, it’s too bright and cheery, I think numbly as I fiddle with the hem.

  “Hello, Mrs. O’Howell, is it? The detective breezes in through the open door. He shuts it quietly behind him.

  “Ms. O’Howell,” I correct.

  He looks at Vincent quizzically.

  “I asked him to come,” I state quickly.

  He grunts, but continues. “I’m detective Stuart Bennet. I’m the one who will be investigating your case. I have a few questions for you.” He glances at Vincent again and shifts uncomfortably in his seat, “Are you sure you’d like him in here, Ms. O’Howell?”

  I furrow my brows, “Yes. I’m sure.” Why wouldn’t I? I feel a moment of panic at what he might ask, but put the thought to rest. We’re here because of the fire, not because of my past.

  “Well, first off, do you have any enemies? Have you had any threats recently, any altercations?”

  “No. I don’t have any enemies. I keep to myself, and my customers...they’re all fine. I haven’t had any issues.” I hesitate, could it have been James? My stepfather? No. There’s no way. He doesn’t even know I’m alive.

  “What is it?” Detective Bennet asks when he sees my expression.

  “I was just thinking… Someone broke into my apartment the other night. The night before the fire; I’m sure of it.”

  Detective Bennet leans forward in his seat. I’m aware that Vincent is deathly still.

  “Okay, let’s start with that. Did you file a report?” He starts flicking through papers in his file.

  “It was Saturday night. I went out to dinner, and when I came back, someone had put my dog outside. My apartment door at the top of the stairs was unlocked, and my window was wide open. I’m assuming he or she fled though the window. There was nothing missing, so, noI didn’t file a report.”

  I look at Vincent; I didn’t want to call the police becausewell, they make me nervous. And also, nothing was taken, so what could they have done? I do wonder why Vincent didn’t suggest it, though. His expression is stoic. He stares straight ahead at Det. Bennet. His blue eyes cool and assessing, I’m sure he’s weighing how well Det. Bennet can do his job.

  “You should have filed a report, to have it on record at the very least, whether or not something was taken,” he admonishes me.

  I nod and swallow nervously. It’s too late now.

  “What have you concluded from your investigation Detective Bennet?” Vincent pipes up. I can already tell that Vincent doesn’t like him.

  The detective is dressed in an oversized, sloppy brown suit. Vincent looks far more professional than he, in his sharp navy blazer and slacks. Detective Bennet has bags under his eyes, and he’s a little on the heavy side. His appearance a bit disheveled over all. I suppose it’s from the stress of his occupation. I hope Vincent isn’t judging him based solely on his appearance.

  Bennet sits up and scowls at Vincent.

  “It’s definitely arson, Ms. O’Howell,” he says pointedly, looking away from Vincent and back toward me. “It appears the assailant used kerosene, our fire dog alerted to that, we also noted that the fire was burning hotter than normal, which also points us in the same direction. Based on the char patterns it would appear the fire began at the lower level of your home, and traveled upstairs very quickly. It followed the trail of kerosene that was poured from top to bottom. The assailant really doused the place, not to mention when the flames reached your stove... As old as it was, it’s a miracle it didn’t cause the fire itself.”

  I’m in shock. My home, my business...it was doused with kerosene? Someone must have really wanted to hurt me. Why? And my stove, it worked perfectly fine! For some reason I feel strangely defensive about it.

  “Now, Ms. O’Howell, do you have any angry ex-boyfriends? Did you have anything valuable in your home? Something perhaps someone would have wanted?”

  I am mystified. “No, nothing any would have wanted. All I had was second hand clothing! Old records, books! I’mI have no idea who would have done this.”

  “And where were you, and who were you with when the fire occurred?”

  “I was with Vincent, and Maggie, my guardian, and her sister Gladys. We were at the Uptown Market Cafe.”

  “Ah, they have great biscuits there.”

  I nod in agreement.

  Vincent scowls, “So what are you planning on doing? Are there any clues? Surveillance footage? Is there anything that points you in the direction of who may have done this or why? Was there a clue intentionally or unintentionally left behind?Aa note?”

  Bennet and Vincent glare at one another. Vincent seems to be on edge, as if he knows something, I’m not sure what. How would anyone have left a clue? It would have caught fire along with the rest of the building. Why ask about a note specifically? Why would there by a clue or note intentional
ly left behind?

  “Why don’t you leave that to us. Let us do our job,” Bennet says with barely contained animosity

  Vincent scoffs.

  “The building is historic. It used to be owned by the City of Uptown. I justI don’t get it. It wasn’t worth anything.” I mutter to myself. “It’s not exactly a valuable piece of real estate…” I trail off.

  “We don’t have any clues as to who did this or why this occurred, Ms. O’Howell, but rest assured we will investigate more thoroughly. There is the possibility of someone wanting that retail space and torching yours to make room for something new. Uptown is booming. But…it’s still early in the investigation. We’ll be down at your place again later today. Sift around a bit more. May have been a pyromaniac, your place just picked at random. We’ll figure it out.”

  I sigh, and nod my head sagely. It could be that my home was just chosen at random, but for some reason it just doesn’t feel likely.

  “Oh,Detective Bennet, I had a safein my kitchen. Perhaps, you could see if it’s still there?”

  “What was in it?”

  “A little money,” I shift uncomfortably and look at Vincent, he shakes his head at me, “and some photos...things like that.”

  “How much money?”

  “Um...somewhere near ten grand?”

  Vincent and Bennet both scoff at me in disapproval.

  “Nobody knew it was there! In fact after the break in, I checked...everything was still in tact. Anyway, it’s fire safe, so perhaps it’s still undamaged.”

  “Well, I can’t guarantee that, Ms. O’Howell. Sometimes, those fire safe boxes aren’t all that fire safe. But I’ll look into it. Do you have a cell number where I can reach you?”

  I guess Vincent gave them his number and not mine.

  “Um, Vincent...what’s my cell phone number?”

  He sits up and scribbles it on a piece a paper, handing it over to the detective.

  “You might want to turn your phone on, Lenore.” He seems angry, at Bennet, or me, I don’t know. But I don’t like it. The air in the room feels hostile.

  “Well, I think that concludes all of my questions, Ms. O’Howell.” Bennet stands, excusing us.

  “It’s Lenore, please.”

  He nods and shakes my hand. “I’ll be in touch,” he adds. I notice the detective’s palm is clammy, there are droplets of sweat forming along his hairline. His eyes are a little shifty, too. I suddenly want to get the hell out of here.

  I get up to walk out, but Vincent stays planted.

  “Detective, I need to speak with you, alone, for a few minutes.”

  Detective Bennet looks from me to Vincent. I glare at Vincent, shocked. Why can’t I be here? It’s my shop that burned! The detective gives me a strange look and shrugs. He closes the door behind me. I’m too stunned at Vincent’s audacity to respond quickly enough.

  I wait out in the hallway, straining my ears in vane, for 15 long minutes. I am beyond annoyed. I’d really like to storm in there. What is Vincent doing? I pace the floor, and just before I’m about to pound on the door, they step out. The detective doesn’t meet my eyes. He simply shakes Vincent’s hand and shuffles away, sheepishly.

  What was that about? I cross my arms and glare at Vincent.

  “Why did I have to leave the room? You do know it was my home that burned right?”

  The corner of his mouth quirks up, he takes my hand in his, and I pull it back. I cross my arms again.

  “I was just shaking him down a bit, I told him I had a few friends looking in on the investigation as well...nothing to worry about, Lenore.”

  “What friends?”

  “Just some people I’ve worked with before, I thought it would help move things along. Lenore, sometimes detectivesthey do the bear minimum because they’re swamped with cases. I’m just trying to ensure we get to the bottom of things. Quickly.”

  For some reason, I have a sneaking suspicion that Detective Bennet won’t be getting in contact with me, at least not before Vincent is contacted first. I shrug it off. Maybe he is just trying to help.

  “Well, don’t step on any toes, Vincent. I appreciate that you’re trying to help, but I think we should just leave them to it.”

  He shrugs and smiles his charismatic smile. I try to appear unaffected, but that smile... My mood lifts instantly. I roll my eyes and stifle an unwelcome grin.

  Before long, we are driving up the winding streets of Rider Drive. We already saw two craftsman style homes in the historic district, both gorgeous with more than enough room for Vincent. They were very impressive, but I didn’t feel a connection, and I don’t think Vincent did either. We are dutifully following the realtor, Mrs. Bricks, a tubby and kind woman, who seems to genuinely love her job. She loves the city and is very knowledgeable about the history of the homes she’s shown us, something that seems to be important to Vincent.

  We are driving further away from the historic district than I’ve ever been, so I’m curious to see what she plans to show Vincent way up here. The hills surround us, and when we reach the top of Rider Drive I can see what will make this home special. The view is spectacular! You can see the downtown skyline to the northwest and clear to Catalina Island when you look south. We go down a private unpaved road, guarded by low trees. Their branches and leaves create an archway as we make our way down the private driveway. It already feels magical.

  We continue down the road and thenthere it is. A gorgeous and grand Victorian looms before us. It must have been white once, but is now grey with age. It has a large wraparound porch, carved with intricate detail. It sits in the middle of an open field. I never knew this hidden gem was here!

  It looks to be about three stories high. A large round archway opens up to the porch of the home, like a mouth. It’s stunning! There is so much detail in the craftsmanship of this home. It’s almost too much to take in. A dramatic deeply pitched roof, sash windows... Wow!Justwow!

  I gasp in awe and Vincent parks the car in the gravel driveway. I step out of the Mercedes and a breeze sends my dress twirling around me. My hair is lifted off of my neck and I close my eyes to memorize the welcome this home is giving me. Open field surrounds us. Two gorgeous Brazilian Pepper trees flank the entrance; a tire swing hangs by a rope beneath the gnarled and twisted branches of one of them. I bet the trees are as old as the home.

  Mrs. Bricks smiles with pleasure, enjoying the expression on my face. Vincent reaches out and takes my hand. We walk up the impressive steps of the house. From my perspective, the home seems to be in really good shape considering it is probably over one hundred years old. Mrs. Bricks opens the front door, and it groans loudly in protest.

  I take a cautious step inside. It’s completely empty. Mrs. Bricks flips a few switches and I let my eyes wander and absorb the details. It is enormous and there is so much intricate detail that I fear my eyes will explode from their sockets. The first thing to capture my attention is the grand staircase. The maple colored wood still hasn’t lost all of its luster and shine. It sweeps the eye up to the second story, with a slight curve, shaped like a lazy C. I follow Vincent into a large living area to the right of the staircase.

  There is a large stone fireplace dominating the room. And what a room! There is an entire wall of wood encased windows, and as Mrs. Bricks slides the curtains back, sunlight streams in. I gasp yet again.

  I suppress the urge to run screaming through every room. I want to touch every wall and surface and memorize every curve and detail. I slip out of the room and make my way around the bottom floor as Mrs. Bricks walks Vincent through some of the attributes and characteristics of the ground floor.

  Intricate archways frame every room. Somehow the house manages to be extravagant and humble at the same time. It’s exquisite.

  I step back across the foyer; the floors creak beneath my feet. Two large pocket doors open up behind the stairway and I step into a formal dining room equipped with built in cabinetry, shelves, and an impressive buffet
. The wood in this room is almost overwhelming, but it is in lovely condition. The ceiling appears to have once been painted to depict heaven, though now it is so faded, I can barely make out the small tufts of clouds. The wallpaper is old and tattered, but I could see the beauty this room once held. I take a closer look at the chandelier that is hanging precariously in the center of the room. There are missing crystals, but I’m sure it could be repaired.

  I close my eyes and imagine a vast dining table stretching across the room. I can see a crisp white tablecloth and happy diners sipping wine from expensive crystal. The chandelier twinkles above them, resplendent and restored to its full potential. I smile at the images bubbling up in my imagination.

  There are two identical pocket doors on the other side of the dining room that open up into the kitchen.

  I fucking swoon. If I ever dreamed of the perfect kitchen, this would be it. There is an enormous wooden island in the center of the room. Everything looks original, and untouched. It’s like stepping back in time. A gigantic black antique stove sits front and center in the kitchen. I wonder if it still works. My mouth hangs open as I take it in. There is a small nook in the kitchen, the perfect size for a breakfast table, and just past that, two French doors that open up to a sunroom or green house, I’m not sure which. It looks to have been used for plants and herbs. Dirt and empty pots litter the floor.

  I walk about the house in a trance. There is so much ground to cover.

  A laundry room, or what was converted into a laundry room, guest room, and two bathrooms complete the bottom floor. I circle back to the stairway where Vincent is waiting.

  We take the steps slowly up to the second floor. I can barely contain my delight. This house has been carefully preserved. Absolutely nothing looks shabby. A few things could use a little varnish and repair, but otherwise, it is almost in pristine condition. Mrs. Bricks remains downstairs, giving us our space. She isn’t trailing behind Vincent giving him a rundown of all the features like she did with the other two homes.