Day Shift

by Charlaine Harris

  “What exactly happened?” Bobo carried his plate to the sink and rinsed it. “To make her die, I mean?”

  “They’re doing an autopsy. But Annelle told me Rachel had been taking medication for high blood pressure. There was more wrong with Rachel than I knew. If she’d died at home, I don’t think they would have questioned her death, because she’d been under a doctor’s care. I hope they got the bottle of water she drank from. Surely they did. She had a big old purse full of stuff. And it was all messed up, because she’d dropped it in the lobby, she said, and she just threw things back in there.” After a minute, he added, “She said people in the lobby helped her pick up all her stuff.” He tried hard not to look like he was wondering if Olivia had been there, in the lobby, being helpful.

  “So what about the son, Lewis? The one you said was so crazy?” Fiji picked up Manfred’s plate and took it to the sink. Surreptitiously, she dropped a scrap of roast beef into Mr. Snuggly’s bowl. Though the cat hadn’t been evident until then, suddenly he was there, head down and chewing. She smiled.

  “That was the worst part.” Manfred shuddered theatrically. “It was awful. Just when they were wheeling Rachel out, Lewis showed up, screaming and making a terrible scene. He was making an asshole out of himself, like his mom’s dying was really all about him. It would have made Rachel so embarrassed. I don’t mind telling you, when I heard him yelling? I asked the police if I could go to my new room.”

  “What was he saying?” Fiji was fascinated.

  “Oh, he said I’d killed her,” Manfred said bitterly. Bobo and Fiji were horrified, their mouths open, their eyes wide. “He said there’d been people following her for days. I guess those were supposed to be my many minions. Worst of all, he said that she’d been carrying a king’s ransom in ‘jewels’—that’s what he said, jewels—in her purse, and I must have stolen them.”

  3

  Fiji, who’d been getting the dessert plates out, paused. “You’re kidding,” she said, thinking of how scary that would be, being accused of something so low.

  “No,” said Manfred. “That part was awful. Maybe even worse than Rachel dying like that.”

  “The police didn’t believe him, surely?” Fiji began to cut a cherry pie into generous triangles. They can use the calories more than me, she thought, and squirted whipped cream from a can into fluffy spirals on the pie. It looked pretty.

  “I think it was obvious he’s nuts,” Manfred said. Though his words were confident, to Fiji he sounded uneasy. “And I had already told the police that Rachel had just said that she’d hidden her jewelry from Lewis.”

  “Did she tell you where?” Bobo asked.

  “No,” Manfred said. “I didn’t even think of asking her. None of my business.”

  Bobo looked delighted to see the cherry pie. Fiji smiled at him, curbing her stupid urge to pat him on the head. Over dessert, the conversation veered away from Rachel Goldthorpe’s death and the trouble it had caused Manfred to broader concerns. They talked about Midnight things: the latest curiosity a customer had brought into the pawnshop, the continuing search for a permanent manager for Gas N Go, and the way an overabundance of zucchini in Madonna’s garden was affecting the cuisine of Home Cookin. Manfred seemed to feel better since he’d vented, Bobo seemed thoughtful, and Fiji herself was content in her kitchen (still sunny at seven thirty) with her company. It had been hot work cooking, but the window air conditioner kept the room at a tolerable temperature.

  Fiji watched as Bobo ate all of his pie, and Manfred ate about half of his. She urged them both to take another piece home, and both the men said they would, Bobo with more enthusiasm than Manfred. She was grateful. Leaving her alone with the remains of the pie would not have been a friendly act.

  Bobo offered to do the dishes, but Fiji said, “Nope, tonight’s my treat. Next time, you can help.”

  He protested a little, but she stood firm. Bobo and Manfred thanked her profusely for the food, and then the two men left, walking across Witch Light Road side by side. Bobo was returning to his apartment above Midnight Pawn, Manfred to the house situated to the right of the pawnshop. The sun was a red streak to the west, and the sky was gathering violet shadows.

  “Maybe it will rain tomorrow!” she said to Mr. Snuggly, who’d come onto the front porch with her. He licked a paw, but he suddenly raised his head and glided off into the bushes. She went back inside to clean up. While Fiji washed the dishes, she thought about Manfred’s story.

  And just as Manfred had, Fiji wondered about what part Olivia had played in it.

  Of course, there was a lot Manfred had left out. Any fool could see that. He’d been conspicuously silent about what Olivia had actually been doing at Vespers. As Fiji scrubbed, she speculated. When you added up Olivia’s mysterious absences and her closemouthed policy about her job, combined with her obviously abundant cash, it was logical to wonder if Olivia was a prostitute. Though no one in Midnight had ever said that out loud, it was easy to see they’d all considered that a possibility. But there were good reasons to doubt that hypothesis.

  For one thing, Fiji knew Olivia . . . at least a little. Olivia was more than capable of taking care of herself with extreme force. Though Fiji admitted to herself that she, Fiji, was not that knowledgeable or experienced in sexual matters, Olivia didn’t seem like the kind of woman who’d gladly cater to anyone else’s demands. Even if her gig was as some kind of bondage dominatrix, Fiji couldn’t picture Olivia putting on spike heels and spanking someone unless she chose to do so.

  Plus, more logically, why would a prostitute live in Midnight? Why not live closer to her clientele? Also, how many prostitutes could afford to fly all over the country for “dates”? Not too many, Fiji guessed, though she would be the first to admit she was almost totally ignorant about the actual business of renting one’s body.

  And then, there was Lemuel’s relationship with Olivia. Lemuel . . . how could she put it into words to herself? Men were mysterious, especially Lemuel, who had been alive for decades and decades. However, even though Lemuel seemed to be absolutely tolerant of people who had different sexual preferences from his own, Fiji felt certain that Lemuel would not consider sharing his lover with other men.

  Could Olivia have been actually doing what she’d told Manfred she was doing? Staying in Dallas for the weekend to go shopping and take in some movies or a show?

  Fiji realized she was shaking her head a little. Maybe yes, maybe no; but she was very inclined to settle on “No.”

  By the time she’d worked her way through all these thoughts, the dishes were stacked in the drainer to dry, and the counters were clean. It was full night outside, and the locusts were singing.

  “It’s almost bedtime,” said a small, sharp voice, somewhere around the region of her ankles. She’d heard the new cat flap rattle a moment before, so he hadn’t startled her, though he enjoyed it when he did.

  Fiji looked down. “Yep,” she said to the golden tabby. “Where’ve you been, Mr. Snuggly?”

  “The Rev had a visitor who smelled interesting,” the cat said. “And though I was very close to catching a mouse, I went to investigate.”

  “Thanks for your vigilance,” Fiji said dryly. “Did you enjoy having company today?”

  “The roast beef was good. I want some more. Manfred is very leery of me. Bobo always scratches behind my ears and on my belly,” Mr. Snuggly observed. “He likes to visit me,” the cat added rather smugly.

  Fiji pondered that for a second. “So, who was the mysterious visitor?” she asked, squatting to stroke Mr. Snuggly’s marmalade fur. She could take a hint.

  “He is very tall,” said Mr. Snuggly. “And he is like the Rev.”

  “What do you mean? In what respect?”

  The cat looked up at his witch. “You know the Rev is not just an old Mexican minister, right?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “An
d you know what he is?”

  “Not . . . exactly.” Though she had her suspicions.

  Mr. Snuggly sighed, as theatrically as a marmalade cat can sigh. “My goodness,” he said, and put a paw on his food bowl, giving it a tiny significant shove. “Your great-aunt was much smarter than you are.”

  “If she’d been that much smarter, she’d have drowned you in a ditch,” Fiji muttered, and stood, looking down at the cat with a frown on her face. When her great-aunt, Mildred Loeffler, had bequeathed Fiji the little house in Midnight and all of her witch accoutrements, her legacy had included Mr. Snuggly. While the cat had his uses, he also had the highest regard for his own comfort and convenience and a great disregard for anyone else’s.

  “Are you going to give me some more roast beef?” the tiny voice said. “If you’re not, I’m going to take a nap before bedtime.”

  “You can have some with your breakfast tomorrow. You’ve already had supper, remember? You know what the vet said at your last checkup.” Mr. Snuggly stuck his pink tongue out at Fiji, and when she scowled at him, the cat stalked from the room. She heard a squeak as the cat jumped up on her bed. She knew if she went in, she’d see him on her coverlet, curled into a compact circle against the bump of her pillow.

  Fiji folded her dish towel and hung it from its rack by the sink. On a whim, she walked into the front of her house. The large front room functioned as her shop and as the meeting place for the women’s group she led on Thursday nights. She crossed directly to the west window. Next door, the Reverend Emilio Sheehan’s chapel sat in pristine silence. She knew the Rev was there, even though it was later than he usually stayed, because the light inside was on.

  While she watched, a tall man came out of the chapel. He was followed by a small, thin man wearing a big hat; this was the Rev, and he was holding the hand of a child. Fiji could not tell if the child was a boy or a girl, only that it was unhappy.

  Mr. Snuggly was suddenly at her feet. “Outside,” he said urgently, and she picked him up and opened the front door. She stepped out onto her front porch. The lights at the intersection of the Davy road and Witch Light Road cast a glow over the scene.

  Fiji had never seen the tall man before. He was beautifully put together: broad shoulders, narrow waist, tight ass, long legs. She was afraid her mouth would water. He was quite bald; she wondered if he was truly hairless or if he shaved his skull. As she watched, the tall man knelt, put his arms around the child, and kissed it, holding it close for a long moment.

  A leave-taking, she thought, and felt sad. She could hear the child crying. The tall man, who’d stood to walk away, paused for a moment. She could almost feel his misery, his hesitation, his misgivings, in the droop of his massive shoulders.

  He seemed to sense her presence, or perhaps he smelled her. He turned to look at her as she stood on her porch, holding the cat in her arms, the gusty wind blowing over her like a hair dryer on Warm. His eyes scanned the wooden sign in the front yard, which read THE INQUIRING MIND. She felt an impulse to call to him, to say, “I’ll help!” without knowing exactly what help she could provide. But Fiji had no doubt he sensed her benevolence, because he nodded at her. Then he stiffened himself and left, climbing into a compact rental car.

  Fiji thought of walking over to the Rev and the crying child. She was as close to a friend as the Rev had, as far as she knew. But she hesitated. The child was already dealing with one stranger. Would another be any help? She shook her head. The Rev would ask for her assistance if he needed it. Where the Rev was concerned, she was very, very careful. She might not know all his secrets—she didn’t want to—but she knew it was wise to use the greatest restraint where he was concerned.

  “I’m sleepy,” complained Mr. Snuggly, and she retreated inside her house.

  From the window, she watched the Rev and the child walk out of sight, going west, presumably heading to the Rev’s cottage. Fiji couldn’t help but feel sad at the thought of a child in the sparsely furnished living room, which was the farthest she’d ever penetrated into the Rev’s domain.

  She was left to wonder why the Rev had been chosen by the stranger as the caretaker of the child. She knew the Rev had not ever had a child of his own; he had told her that. The postman almost never stopped in front of his house, and Fiji could not remember ever seeing visitors there. At the chapel, yes; two or three times a month, people arranged for the interment of some beloved pet in the large fenced area behind the chapel, and every year four or five couples got married in the chapel proper. Occasionally, someone would stop in front and simply go inside to pray. But that was the extent of the Rev’s communication with anyone in the outside world, as far as Fiji knew.

  Though Fiji had had some experience as a babysitter while she was in her teens, it had been years since she had dealt with children of any age. But she realized now she would have to step forward.

  She fell asleep that night with Mr. Snuggly curled against her, thinking of Bobo, thinking of adding green onions to the roast the next time she cooked one, thinking of the child.

  4

  Joe Strong, too, had watched the Rev walking back to his cottage with the child. He’d been so surprised that he’d called Chuy to their front window to see. Their apartment above the shop reflected their love of comfort and color, and Chuy heaved out of his easy chair with some reluctance. He’d been watching television, with a magazine at hand for the commercials.

  But the sight was worth getting up for. “The Rev and a kid?” Chuy said. “Boy or girl?”

  “I’m sure it’s a boy. I wonder where he came from,” Joe said after a moment of silent wonder. “Looks about four years old, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe. The Rev didn’t steal him,” Chuy said, putting his arm around Joe.

  Joe kissed the top of Chuy’s head. “Nope, that didn’t cross my mind. If the kid stays more than overnight, he’s going to need some help.”

  “Who, the kid or the Rev?”

  “Both of them.” Joe shook his head. “I have to say, I feel sorry for the kid.”

  They both knew the Rev was a creature of habit, and a solitary one at that. Any man the Rev’s age, both silent and unsocial, was not going to be an ideal companion for a little boy—though the Reverend Emilio Sheehan was far from a typical elderly cleric, if such a person existed.

  “That’s what we’re here for,” Chuy said. “To help.”

  “And to fix antiques and fingernails,” Joe said, laughing. “I wish I didn’t love old furniture, and you didn’t love decorating women. I wish we were both accountants or bounty hunters. Something less predictable.”

  “As long as we’re happy. And we take care of each other,” Chuy said, much more seriously.

  “I try to take care of you,” Joe said, turning to take Chuy in his arms. “How’m I doing?”

  “Pretty good,” Chuy said, and it was the last time he said anything sensible for a while.

  The next morning, as they lay together in the old bed they’d restored, both of them reluctant to start the day, Joe said, “Lemuel went in the hotel a couple of nights ago.”

  “Lemuel,” Chuy murmured, a note of exasperation—distaste?—in his voice. “What did he say?”

  “He said it was almost finished. He couldn’t believe they’d accomplished it on schedule. He believes they’ve poured money into what should surely be a minor project for a big company like that.”

  “That worries me.” Chuy snuggled closer. “And I was so relaxed.”

  “Sorry, honey,” Joe said. “But I wanted to tell you . . . he thought people would be in the hotel by next week.”

  “That soon. Damn.”

  “Yeah, I know. Could be good, could be bad.”

  “Why can’t things just stay the same?” Chuy asked plaintively.

  “Good question. Boot that one upstairs.”

  Chuy punched Joe in the shoulder and soon f
ell back to sleep.

  But Joe forced himself to rise and pull on his running clothes. When he’d become conscious that the waist of his pants was getting a little tighter than he liked, he’d promised himself to resume running. This was his fourth morning in a row, and he was feeling really good about it.

  He trotted down the outside stairs in the early-morning sun. The sky was clear as far as Joe could see, and a breeze was blowing steadily, for which he was grateful. Since the sidewalk (except around the hotel) was cracked and uneven, Joe ran on the road. This was normally quite safe, since vehicles on Witch Light Road were few and far between; the Davy highway was much busier. He went west out of town, waving at the only oncoming truck, driven by a local rancher named Mark Kolb. Mark lifted an index finger from the steering wheel in response.

  Smiling to himself, Joe puffed along. When he’d run twenty minutes, he turned around to run back. His plan was to lengthen his run by five minutes every week. After he crossed the road to return, the sun was in his eyes, so Joe didn’t see the small crowd until he was much closer to home. Stunned, he slowed, ran in place for a moment until he could evaluate what he was seeing, and then bounded up the stairs to the apartment. “Chuy, come down!” he called, and returned to the sidewalk.

  There were at least five nice cars and a television crew at the Midnight Hotel. There were concrete planters full of flowers outside the main door of the hotel, which was situated on the corner. There was a banner hanging over the entrance, which Joe couldn’t read until he’d walked to the corner opposite the hotel.

  The banner read, NOW OPEN!

  Chuy was beside him in five minutes, fresh and clean in khakis and an oxford-cloth shirt. His dark hair was carefully combed and styled, his mustache newly trimmed, and he smelled wonderful.

  “Don’t hug, I’m sweaty,” Joe warned him.

  “No kidding,” Chuy said. “Is this not crazy? How’d the Culhane woman get them to work so hard?”