I Bring Sorrow_And Other Stories of Transgression

by Patricia Abbott

“Same difference. People pawn jewelry more than anything else.” He got up and started dressing. Not a ripple of flesh to be seen. Pity she couldn’t say the same. She pulled the sheet up tight and stayed put.

  “Maybe we can do this again?” He was combing his hair in her mirror and caught her eyes. “Dinner, movie, whatever.”

  “I already put my number in your phone. You really should keep it locked.”

  He flinched. “I don’t keep financial information on it.”

  “Cara with an C,” she said.

  Cara fell hard. It happened when he showed up with a necklace one night.

  “Did you make this one?” she asked, fingering the delicate gold chain.

  He shook his head. “Part of an estate my boss bought. He let me have it for overtime he owed me. Like it?”

  “Love it.”

  “I knew you would. It’s kind of old-fashioned—like you. Most women are wearing that chunky, clunky stuff now. I hate it.”

  She’d never thought of herself as old-fashioned. Men had a way of inventing her, she’d found. Was this true of other women, or was she enough of a blank slate to bring it out? Not long ago, a man had told her what he admired most about her was her ambition. Ha! Marry me and I will never work again, she almost said.

  “Always on the job, right?” Joey jolted her back to the present. “Looking through your—what do you call it—listings?” So, again, a reference to ambition. Maybe it was true.

  “Not all the time.” He knew this by now, didn’t he? They’d been out a dozen times. I like the Pixies, she thought. See that book on my night table? Remember our discussion about Tarantino?

  He sank into the chair. “I’ve been thinking about that little business—you know, a jewelry store. Just need a little shop.” He squinted. “Ever see another property like that one? About that size.”

  Mentally, she sifted through her listings and the ones cross-listed. “There’s always something available. Maybe a little bigger or on a less prominent street. But close enough.”

  She lifted her hair for him to fasten the necklace.

  “Sorry. I’m all thumbs tonight. There.”

  She got up and went to admire it in the mirror. It hung just below her clavicle. The stones twinkled. She’d never been given such a lovely gift. Nothing even close.

  “Looks great on you,” Joey said, crossing his legs and leaning back. “I knew it would.”

  “What are the yellow stones? Topaz?” It was an acorn pendant on the chain—one composed of yellow and white stones.

  “They’re yellow sapphires,” Joey said. “The white stones are diamond chips.”

  “I thought so—the diamonds, I mean. It must have cost a fortune. How much overtime did you have to put in?” The acorn felt warm on her chest.

  “More than enough—but hey, you’re worth it.” They exchanged a smile. “Anyway, Cara, I was thinking maybe you could show me a few properties. I’m sick to death of working for Bill Davenport. Maybe there’s a spot I could afford.”

  “How much do you have to spend?”

  He shrugged. “Probably not enough for anything fancy.”

  “Why do you have to buy a place when you could rent?” she said. “I have a lot of rentals on my books.”

  “So you’ll show me a few? I’d like a space that wasn’t stuck out in the burbs. Something classy. Maybe Victorian—to suit the type of jewelry I’ll carry.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I have plenty of those.”

  They made a date for the next Saturday, and she showed him five properties, three of them rentals. The current owners were still in two of them: a furrier and a religious bookstore. The other three sat empty. He went through each as carefully as a city inspector, checking the electricity, plumbing, exits, and windows.

  “Any fit the bill?” she asked him later over coffee.

  “I liked that rental on Ogontz, but I think the neighborhood’s too iffy. Wouldn’t want to worry about getting robbed all the time.”

  “Price is good though.”

  “Yeah, I could probably swing it. But let’s keep looking.”

  Sometimes she thought he was more interested in her ability as a realtor than her talents as a lover. She did what she could to step up her game with a new hairstyle, a diet, and some new clothes.

  Cara talked it over with a fellow realtor—the closest thing she had to a friend in the business—at lunch one day. “I don’t know why I let myself get so over the moon about this guy. He’s nothing special once you get past the looks. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to do that.”

  Pam looked surprised. “I never knew you to be so big on appearance. Remember that Paul you dated a few years ago—he was the homeliest guy in the world. But you were crazy about him.”

  “Well, we had a lot to talk about. That’s what I liked about him. Turned out he was a jerk though.” They both thought back on the cocaine habit that sent Paul off to rehab. She’d never seen that one coming. Breaking up with Cara turned out to be one of his twelve steps.

  “With Joey, there’s not so much to talk about. The sex is great, and he sure likes to look at my properties. And I mean actual properties when I say that.”

  Pam smirked. “So he’s using you to get a good deal?”

  Cara raised her eyebrows. “Maybe I’m using him to get a good deal too.”

  “Speaking of property, did you hear about the robbery in Jenkintown? A fur store? It was a new listing with Cambridge Properties. Looks like the burglar got in just before they closed on it.”

  “Think someone forgot to lock the door?” Cara had made that mistake once, but luckily the place was empty and another realtor turned up to show it an hour later.

  “They can’t figure out how the guy got in. Doors and windows locked, no sign of forced entry—is that what they call it? Maybe the realtor was in on it.”

  “Or one of the employees,” Cara thought aloud. “Guy didn’t haul out the furs, did he?”

  Pam shook her head. “Just interested in the money, I think. They were dumb enough to keep the dough in a cash box someone could carry out.”

  Cara’s phone rang then and it was Joey. Waving goodbye to Pam, she walked toward her car.

  “How about a movie?”

  “I have to show a few properties tonight to a newly minted dentist,” she said. “Can we make it tomorrow night?”

  “Sure. How ’bout I make you dinner?”

  Joey liked to cook, although the cleanliness of his kitchen—and hands, for that matter—concerned her. Would he get angry if she suggested her place? Better to let it go. She was well stocked on Imodium.

  The client fell in love with the first place she showed him. It was perfect for a dental office. In fact, it had been one before it turned into a spa. “I hope the smell of candles lingers for a while,” he said. “A nicer smell than the one in dental offices.” They made arrangements to sign the papers on an offer the next morning.

  She stopped at a bar on the way home. It was one she’d never been in before on the other side of the city. It was larger and more upscale than the Owl and she took a seat at a table, not wanting to make conversation with strangers after a long day. She ordered a Blue Moon and a cheeseburger, pulling out her iPad to check the news.

  She heard his voice before she saw him. Or rather, heard his laugh. She’d begun to turn—to peek around the large booth back—when she heard a feminine laugh respond to his. The bar was busy enough for her to risk a quick look. The twosome was seated at the bar, their backs to her. A woman, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary, sat there, dressed surprisingly like her.

  So he had a type. Or was it something else, because at the woman’s feet was a binder much like the one she was carrying in her attaché. The woman reached for it, opening it up on the bar. She couldn’t hear what
they were saying, but the woman was flipping the plasticized pages, stopping every so often to point something out. Was it just a business meeting? Was he having his place redecorated? Was he choosing carpeting, perhaps?

  But then the woman leaned in. Way in. The bartender brought their drinks and they took a sip simultaneously, laughing. It was early in their relationship, Cara thought. The period when you laughed at stupid things. Was she being replaced?

  After a few more minutes, Cara took the opportunity, during a particularly intense exchange, to sneak out. Clearly when she couldn’t go to the movies tonight, he called in the second string. Or, perhaps, she was the second string. How many strings were there?

  The next day, she expected him to cancel. But when no call came, she drove over to his place. The lobster was excellent and nothing seemed amiss. Twice, she almost said something, but figured he’d either deny the woman in the bar meant anything to him or it would lead to an unpleasant confrontation of some sort. And perhaps the woman was just a decorator. If this were a TV sitcom, she’d turn out to be his sister.

  “Are you planning on redecorating?” she asked suddenly, without thinking.

  “What?”

  “I thought you might want to redo this room.” She looked around. “Paint job’s a little old. If you ever do want to repaint, I can recommend someone. Realtors always know a good painter.”

  “You know I rent, right?”

  And, of course, she did.

  On Wednesday, Cara attended an open house for a new listing—a medium-sized office complex, newly constructed. The listing agent gave each of the realtors a thirty-five-page handbook detailing its construction, the various ways it could be divided, and its architectural assets for prospective renters. As she was thumbing through it, waiting for the oral presentation to begin, the woman she saw with Joey two nights before walked into the room. Though she’d only seen the woman in profile, the color and style of her hair alerted her. Her laugh, head tilted in that same way, convinced Cara. Did Joey have a thing for realtors, or was she showing him property too? Her personal property or her real estate properties? Cara was jealous on all counts. Working her way around the table on the pretext of getting coffee, she overheard the man asking the woman if she was insured.

  “You mean for a break-in while we’re listing a property? Oh, sure. The company has a policy that protects us against accusations of theft, fire—you know.”

  “Did they figure how he got in yet?”

  She laughed that laugh again. “It’s an old building and one of the cops suggested he used the chimney.”

  “Wow! Wouldn’t you need blueprints to make sure it was wide enough?”

  “You’d think!” she said. She turned then to face the head of the table as someone cleared his throat. Swinging from her neck was what looked like a pineapple on a silver chain.

  The meeting began.

  It all clicked into place a few minutes later. While the gray-haired man at the microphone was talking about plumbing or electricity, Cara was thinking about chimneys.

  “Hey, Joey. I have a nice property I’d like to show you. It’s a classic—just like the ice cream shop. A converted Victorian. There’s a law office across the hall. It’s an elegant building.”

  “What’s in there now?

  “Crazy luck, but a jewelry store. Guy’s about to retire. Maybe you can even make a deal for some of his inventory. I can mention it to him.”

  “Let’s not rush into anything. I don’t want to seem too eager.”

  Joey’s voice was notably less blasé than usual. Perhaps she was imagining a tone based on what she now knew. But Cara was only partly convinced she’d gotten it right: that Joey used his relationships with female realtors to scope buildings out for a robbery. His entry might not always be through chimneys either—if it even was the chimney used in the fur store robbery. There were probably lots of opportunities to figure out ways into properties while the female realtor, enamored with his attention, was otherwise occupied. She remembered vividly how Joey went over a few of the places she’d shown him with a magnifying glass. He was thorough, all right. And skinny enough to use a chimney if he needed to.

  The place she had in mind had a chimney. It looked very large from the roof but narrowed into an upside down V as it approached the first floor, each side servicing a different fireplace in the two separate premises. She wouldn’t have known this, but the inspector showed it to her in detail when he insisted the soot inside it must be removed to avoid fires. Getting stuck inside might land Joey in jail. Or serve as some sort of revenge at least. Let’s see him wiggle out of this one, she thought.

  Joey followed her through the place, delight evident on his face. “This would be a perfect spot for me,” he said. “When’s the guy going to move his inventory out?” His eyes glinted with greed as they scanned the locked cases in the rear.

  “You are excited,” she said.

  Thinking it over as carefully as her rage allowed, she figured the longest he’d be stuck would be a few hours, and he could use his cell phone to call for help. She could imagine people in the law office coming in and hearing his cries for help. If he managed to get out on his own, he’d be locked in the store, and he’d never be able to climb back up.

  There were a number of things Cara hadn’t counted on when she made her plans. He chose her cell to call for help, but she didn’t answer, figuring he could darn well call another one of his female realtors. The phone rang a half a dozen times, and he left a message every time that she quickly erased. She’d be darned if his voice were going to seduce her again.

  After that, Joey’s cell phone had apparently dropped, and he was unable to make more calls. The law firm next door had closed down for a week’s vacation while some floors were being refinished, so no one heard him yelling. The jeweler selling the property in the adjacent business came down with the flu and stayed in bed, his one employee already let go.

  At some point, Cara figured, or allowed herself to believe, he would have gotten out, although she didn’t hear from him. She dialed him a few times, and when it went to voice mail, she assumed he was pissed.

  Her colleague, Todd Rumsen, found Joey. He was showing the property to a client about three days later when they both noticed a smell. Joey had been skinny enough to slide into one side of the V, where he was asphyxiated from the fumes from the refinishing product and from a lack of oxygen inside the chimney.

  “Hey, you must have showed the guy this place,” Todd told her later. “Your name was on his phone. He was probably calling you for help.”

  “We dated,” she admitted. “And I did show him this place, among others.”

  “He asked me to show him properties,” she told the cops later. “I didn’t realize he was scoping the places out.”

  “He must have been looking for means of entry,” the cop said. “Too bad he picked this place and this weekend. That refinishing application is toxic. When we first went in, you could still smell it.”

  She could tell there was a hint of suspicion, but when they matched Joey up with at least three other female realtors, their suspicions disappeared. The one she knew about passed her in the hallway at the police station, in fact. A man hung from her arm protectively. Close up, the necklace, which she was wearing again, was not much like Cara’s at all.

  Perhaps she had just been Joey’s realtor. Cara tried not to think about that. She tried not to think about any of it. He was playing her the whole time, wasn’t he? She could play too.

  They Shall Mount Up

  With Wings Like Eagles

  They were traveling from Boston to Norfolk, but Gaylen couldn’t remember exactly how this happened. Why Norfolk, or who came up with the idea of a trip at all? She couldn’t say where in Virginia Norfolk was, so it probably wasn’t her idea.

  It was the sixties and sudden depar
tures, or trying a new drug you’d never heard of, or skipping the entire semester’s worth of chemistry classes just seemed to happen. Routine events seemed backlit by action going on a million miles away and not much worth bothering about. Almost daily, there was a new vocabulary to learn, or a fresh issue popping up, or an entirely different style of clothing on someone passing by. Like those crazy bell-bottom jeans with a flag on the butt that some skinny blonde wore only last week. Or vests. She hated vests, but damn if she wasn’t wearing one right now, some sort of tie-dyed thingy with gingham patches. Gingham? Freaky.

  It was like the earth had accelerated its spin and just staying anchored on a task or a thought was impossible.

  No one knew her whereabouts right now, and that was pretty freaky too. There was no time to leave a note or make a call. If this bus they were riding slid into a ditch—conceivable since the rain was falling hard and the bus seemed pre-World War Two—her parents would be shocked to get a call from a distant hospital or a police station. Especially on a night when they assumed—if they thought about her at all, which she doubted—she was grinding her teeth in her dormitory bed in Massachusetts. They spent a lot of money imprisoning her in a Christian college where bed checks were not unheard of. Their college research last year had centered on non-academic issues like early curfews, dorm surveillance, compulsory chapel, and pledges not to drink, smoke, or have sex. She’d get married after graduation anyway, and it would be easier to land a nice Christian boy if she was a nice Christian girl with Christian college credentials.

  “I’ll be able to sleep better knowing you’re in good hands,” her mother said before driving back home two months ago. She’d been in a lot of hands lately but few of them were good.

  It was easy to get talked into something like jumping on a bus and taking off for no stated reason nowadays. It all seemed pretty cool last night. Or perhaps it was she who did the talking—came up with this plan—she wasn’t sure. Getting hopped up on phenobarbital was probably not a good move. But that was all Trixie had in her fake Capezio shoebox/drug chest.