by Terri Garey
Kelly broke down at that, giving way to tears.
In a few moments we'd said our good-byes to Peaches's only visitor and were heading toward our cars, Butch pushing Kelly's wheelchair between the headstones while Joe, Evan, and I followed. My two men flanked me, each of them taking one of my hands.
"Well, that was certainly interesting," Evan murmured. He tucked my fingers into the crook of his elbow and patted them absently as we walked.
Joe shot me a frowning glance. "No offense, but that lady seemed a little weird."
We'd almost reached the parking lot. Butch was already wheeling Kelly onto the blacktop.
"Why would I take offense? I don't even know her." And I wasn't sure I wanted to know her either. All this talk about "training" and the "knack" screamed bad news, with a capital B. I had enough problems without going to Savannah and looking for more.
I caught the glance Evan and Joe exchanged.
"She's your grandmother, Nicki," Evan said.
"Maybe. So she says. Whatever." I looked at Joe for reassurance, but he just shrugged.
Evan took a quick glance over his shoulder. "Trust you not to have a normal grandmother. A sweet little old lady who likes to bake would've been nice. But, no, you get the mysterious 'lady in black.'"
I stopped and looked back to where the old woman stood alone by the grave, a breeze ruffling the hem of her black dress. Despite my desire to avoid any more sticky family entanglements, I couldn't help but wonder about her. "What kind of a name is Bijou, anyway?"
"I don't know." Evan eyed the old woman a final time before moving toward the car. "But Joe's right—she's weird."
Kelly was very quiet on the drive home.
Evan and Butch had driven to the cemetery in Butch's SUV, so it was just the three of us in Joe's BMW—Kelly, Joe, and me. Joe was quiet, too, shooting me an occasional anxious glance when he thought I wasn't looking. I appreciated his concern, and rested a hand on his thigh as he drove. Other than a few stilted replies to a few stilted comments, Kelly sat silently in the backseat, staring out the window, as we made our way back to my Ansley Park neighborhood.
"You wanna come in?" I asked Joe when he pulled into the driveway.
"I think I'll go home and change out of this monkey suit," he said. "I'll be back in an hour, and take you both out to dinner."
The guy was so sweet—he was giving Kelly and me a chance to talk privately, to unwind a little after the funeral.
"Thanks, but I don't really feel like going out again today," Kelly said. "You two go ahead." She opened her car door and started to get out, moving her bandaged ankles carefully.
I gave Joe a shrug, opened my own door and waited while he got Kelly's wheelchair out of the trunk. "I'll see you later, handsome."
Joe grinned at me, and I couldn't help but smile back. He looked good enough to eat in his so-called "monkey suit," though I'd never refer to custom-tailored Dolce and Gabbana that way. I'd picked out the tie myself, a subtle gray and black geometric by Ralph Lauren.
"One hour," he said.
"Forty-five minutes." An hour was too long.
A quick kiss, and he was off, while I wheeled Kelly into the house.
"Well?" I pushed her into the living room and sank down on the couch. "What did you think of Bijou Boudreaux?"
Kelly looked troubled, her face pale. She was still holding the white rose from the gravesite. "Why didn't Peaches tell us we had a grandmother?"
I shrugged. "Bijou said they'd had a fight. Do you believe her?"
"I don't know," Kelly said. Her lip trembled. "Why would she think Peaches's death was no accident? Was she blaming me?"
The idea that there was any blame to be laid was a new one. Peaches hadn't blamed anyone but herself for what happened, and Kelly shouldn't, either.
"Of course it was an accident. Bijou wasn't there, how would she know what happened?" I gave a rude snort. "Oh yeah, I forgot, she 'senses' things."
"Maybe she does." The acceptance in Kelly's voice surprised me. "We 'see' things other people can't, don't we?"
She had me there.
"You don't seriously blame yourself for the accident, do you? Peaches didn't blame you—I swear she didn't." Nobody should have to carry around that kind of guilt.
Kelly wouldn't meet my eye. "Thanks for saying that. It means a lot."
We were both quiet for a minute. Then she said, "What if Bijou really does have some kind of psychic ability? What if seeing dead people is hereditary? What if Peaches could do it?" She was absorbed in thought, eyes distant. "Bijou said we were in danger, and you said Peaches came to give you a warning. What if this gift really is dangerous?"
"Gift?" I begged to differ. "This is no gift—it's a curse. And for the record, Peaches never said we were in danger. She said that a liar was coming, and not to believe him." I pinned her with a sour glance. "But you chose to believe that lying jerk Keith Morgan, and nothing bad happened." Not yet anyway. "You're making too big a deal out of some weird old woman's ramblings."
"Bijou called it the 'knack.'" Kelly was still lost in thought. "She said Peaches was talented, but lacked focus." Finally, she looked directly at me. "She said you knew what she was talking about."
Uncomfortably aware that I hadn't told Kelly everything Peaches had said to me, I found I couldn't meet her gaze very long. With a sigh, I said, "All I know is that Peaches said she used the knack to help pay the bills. She told me she didn't want that kind of life for us—that it was one of the reasons she gave us up."
Kelly made a strangled noise. "And you were going to tell me this when!"
"I didn't think it was important," I lied. The real reason I hadn't said anything was because it seemed like a private conversation between Peaches and me, and I didn't usually go around broadcasting the details of all my private conversations.
Or something like that.
"What else did she say?"
Kelly demanded details, so I went ahead and told her everything. "She said you can only see male spirits and I can see female spirits, and that we're bound to each other—two halves of a whole."
"Yin and yang," Kelly murmured, fascinated. "We're yin and yang."
"Would I be yin, or would I be yang?" I heard the sarcasm in my voice but couldn't help it. "I've always kinda liked being Nicki."
"And now Bijou wants to train us to use the knack." Kelly's mind was working. Her fingers moved restlessly on the stem of the rose. "But Peaches didn't want us to use it. This is weird."
"Thank you." I breathed a sigh of relief. "At least we agree on something."
"What should we do?" Her question surprised me. I supposed there would come a time when it became easy to think in terms of a we with my sister, but right now it was part of the weirdness.
"I'm not jumping into anything," I said. "If you want to get to know Bijou better, that's fine, but I'm not running off to Savannah to get 'trained.'" I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "I'm nobody's monkey."
Kelly looked at me thoughtfully. "I need to think about it," she said. "The first thing I need to do is get well." She touched her left rib very gingerly, then gestured toward her bandaged feet. "I'd like to have some time to recuperate before I go anywhere."
I couldn't help but feel sorry for her—she did kinda look like hell. She'd been crying and wore no makeup; there were dark circles beneath her eyes. It was obvious that Peaches's funeral had taken its toll.
"Let's just take it slow for now, okay? There will be time in the future to get to know Bijou, if that's what you want to do."
"Sounds like a plan," Kelly said tiredly. She maneuvered her wheelchair in the direction of her room, pushing herself along with both hands.
"Can I get you anything?"
"Answers would be nice."
I sighed. "Can't help you there."
* * *
CHAPTER 7
"Good Lord, woman. You said you'd be 'dressed to kill,' not maim."
I sauntered toward Joe on four inch
stiletto heels, slapping a leather riding crop against the palm of my left hand.
"What's the matter," I asked huskily. "Scared?"
He gave me the slanted grin that always set my heart tripping. "Absolutely," he said. "Scared stiff."
The avid way he was eyeing me was no joke, so I took my time modeling this year's Halloween costume, enjoying his undivided attention.
"What would a Wicked Witch be without her whip, hm?" I trailed the riding crop across my much-more-prominent-than-usual cleavage. I'd glued a single plastic spider on the curve of my right breast. "Or her black corset?" I could barely breathe in the thing, but it was worth it to see the look on his face. I flipped up the hem of my flirty orange and black skirt so he could see the garter belt I was wearing beneath it. Of course, I'd stayed true to my goth roots by making sure the fishnet stockings were ripped in all the right places, and added fake spiderweb tattoos on both shoulders for good measure. My hair was streaked with orange glitter gel beneath my pointed witch's hat.
"I can't believe how gorgeous you are," Joe said. He shook his head admiringly, obviously enjoying the view. "You are hot. Black lipstick might be my new favorite."
"Well, you know what they say." I gave him my sexiest pose, hand on hip, one leg forward. "If you've got it," a flirtatious wink, "haunt it." Then I blew him an air kiss.
He laughed appreciatively, and I felt good all over. We were going to have a great time tonight.
"It's a good thing I chose a 'tough guy' costume over 'Dr. Phil Good,'" Joe said. "I'm going to need to look tough to keep the other guys at the Vortex away from you."
"Are you kidding? When the girls get a look at you in those leather pants, I'll probably need to use this whip for real."
Joe had morphed into a sexy 'bad boy' in his biker clothes—all handpicked by Evan, of course. Tight leather pants, chunky black combat boots, and a sleeveless Harley-Davidson T-shirt. His beautiful body was usually hidden under surgical scrubs—I could get used to having a boyfriend with a regular gym habit. Nice shoulders, lean belly, and great biceps, now sporting fake tattoos even cooler than mine. He'd refused to let Evan style his hair, though, and slicked it back himself. The gel made it even darker than usual.
A flutter in my belly made me look forward to the end of the evening.
"Wow." Kelly thumped into the living room on her crutches, smiling. "You guys look great."
"You can still come with us," Joe said. "It's not too late for me to get a hospital gown and a wheelchair. You can go as an accident victim."
"Ha ha." Kelly gave him an exasperated look, but she was grinning. They seemed pretty easy with each other. The divorce papers had been signed with no fuss. She had even gone back to her maiden name, Charon.
Styx and Charon—the river of the dead and the boatman who ferried lost souls across it. Pretty weird when you thought about it.
"I don't want to go like this," Kelly said. "Maybe next year."
Next year. That's right. There would always be next year.
In the weeks since the funeral, Kelly and I had lived pretty quietly. She had the house to herself during the day, and at first she spent a lot of time watching TV in her room. She was an early riser, like me, so we'd fallen into the habit of having our coffee and newspaper together.
"You'd have fun." I tried to tempt her into getting out of the house. "Maybe even meet somebody."
Something flitted over Kelly's face before she looked away. "I guess I'd just prefer to meet Mr. Right when I'm looking my best," she said, still smiling. She looked back, and whatever it had been was gone. "You guys have fun for me. Tell me all about it tomorrow."
"You just wanna get back to that computer." I turned to Joe and said, "Kelly's been doing research into the paranormal, reading a lot of ghost stories on the Internet."
I normally didn't tease her about the amount of time she spent online, because I didn't blame her one bit. What else was there to do when you were recovering from two bum ankles and a couple of broken ribs?
"You should try reading up on the paranormal sometime, Miss Ignorance Is Bliss," Kelly answered, giving as good as she got. "Particularly now that we have to live with it."
I didn't wanna think about that tonight. After all, a ghoul's just gotta to have fun sometime, doesn't she?
"Presenting," Evan's voice boomed from the hallway, "the incredible Miss Liza Minelli," Evan and Butch stepped into the room in full costume, "and the love of her life, Mr. David Gest!"
We greeted them with the gasps of amazement they deserved, followed by bursts of laughter.
Evan was glorious as Liza, fake-eyelashed to the hilt, wearing a spiky black wig and a dramatically regal expression. "Liza" modeled a white fake fur over a tea-length black dress, heavy makeup, and stockings with high heels. No way was Evan gonna miss his annual chance to get campy—last year he'd gone as Cher, and looked damned good doing it.
But Butch stole the show.
Looking taller than usual in a heavy black overcoat, normally bald Butch wore a half wig, slicked straight back, and a giant pair of dark sunglasses. He was dressed in formal wear, white silk ascot around his neck, long white evening scarf dangling. He held his mouth as though he'd just tasted a lemon.
It was hilarious. Alone, Evan would just be another Liza Minelli impersonator and Butch a constipated goon in an overcoat, but together they were a celebrity freak show event.
"Wait, wait," Evan said between giggles, "you have to see him without his glasses."
Butch—trying hard to stay in character—took a moment to straighten his face, then pulled off his sunglasses without saying a word. Evan had taped his eyelids, stretching the skin on his forehead to a ridiculous degree. The result was a plastic surgery nightmare.
Joe was laughing harder than I was, and Kelly was dying. I saw her grab the back of the couch to keep from falling off her crutches. She looked younger when she laughed, and prettier, too. The bruises on her face were finally gone, her long brown hair freshly washed and tucked behind her ears.
"I've got to get pictures," Kelly said, when she could stop laughing. There was a camera on the counter, and she got some great ones of the four of us, then more of us as couples—Joe and I, Liza and Butch. Evan camped it up even more for the camera, and we all laughed again at how well Butch held his plastic escort pose.
Then we were off to the Vortex for some Halloween fun.
Atlanta's Little Five Points took October 31st seriously. An annual costume parade, a fall festival and pumpkin carving contest, lots of different bar parties. Halloween night was the night to get together and get weird—and in an area known for its weirdness, that was saying quite a bit.
We parked and walked down Moreland toward the Vortex, taking our time. "Liza" and her big goon strolled the sidewalk arm in arm, while Joe and I walked behind, admiring the other freaks we passed along the way.
The air was full of music and laughter, lifting my spirits like the smoke from the fog machines in Findley Plaza. Reggae music spilled from the open door of Hey Mon's, not quite drowning the thump of heavy metal coming from The Crypt. Two women dressed as vampires passed, eyeing Joe like he was a pint of plasma and they were a quart low. I gave them a cheerful "too late, girls" grin. SpongeBob SquarePants stumbled by, led by a woman in a harem outfit. Poor SpongeBob had either had too much to drink or was about to get lucky, I couldn't tell which.
A leering scarecrow with corn-husk hands and a burlap head jumped out at us from an alley between the buildings, and a guy in a Bill Clinton mask tried to pinch my butt. Once I realized what he wanted, I let him, then playfully smacked him with my riding crop, enjoying the anonymous flirting.
"See? What'd I tell you?" Joe shook his head, grinning from ear to ear. "Forget Dorothy and her ruby slippers, you're the sexiest Wicked Witch the Land of Oz has ever seen." He was watching the milling crowd of partygoers, looking everywhere at once. "This place is wild."
I laughed. "Good girls like Dorothy may end up with cute shoes, but bad
girls have more fun." Joe was holding my hand, and it felt like it belonged in his. "Anybody can buy shoes."
We reached the Vortex, where an even bigger crowd was gathered. I was glad to see Fat Mitch was the bouncer tonight—he knew Evan and I both from the store. We were always good for an extra lunchtime burger from The Five Spot, or the occasional bottle of Grey Goose, and he let us in.
The place was jumping, all loud music and moving bodies. Constantly shifting purple and orange lights streamed from a giant disco ball; spotlights cast shadows of witches, black cats, and skulls over the crowd. Spiders and spiderwebs dripped from the ceiling, while skeletons and ghosts dangled from the rafters. The music was so loud it made the walls tremble. It was crazy and deafening, and I loved it. We made a beeline for the bar, easing our way through a seething mass of humanity.
I'd no sooner been handed my Black Magic when I felt a hand on my ass.
I whirled, pointed my whip at a man in a gorilla suit and threatened, "Watch it, buddy. Don't make me send my flying monkeys after you!"
Gorilla Man raised his hands and shook his head, backing off. I wasn't sure if he was claiming no responsibility or apologizing, but it didn't matter either way.
"What are you drinking?" Joe was right beside me, but he wasn't having much luck getting the bartender's attention.
"Vodka and Kahlua, with a twist of lemon." I took a greedy sip, savoring the rich flavor of Kahlua. I was restricting my mixed drinks for special occasions now—hard liquor isn't as good for the heart as red wine. "Want a sip?"
He shook his head. "I'll stick with beer, if I ever get one."
"There's another bar in that corner." I pointed. "The bartender's a woman. Go flash those dimples at her."
He laughed. "There you go, treating me like a sex object again."
I reached around and smacked him on the butt. "You love it."
Joe leaned over and spoke directly in my ear. "You're right—I do." He bit my earlobe, and my knees went weak. "Stay here, Little Miss Wicked. I'll be right back."
I watched him walk away, admiring the view, then took a sip of my drink.
