Glazed

by Deany Ray

  “What about the other kid?” Marge asked. “Who was Lucas with?”

  “Kid by the name of Perry, goes to the university,” Bert answered. West Springston University was well regarded in the state for its programs in liberal arts. Celeste had told us in the car that Lucas was a sophomore there.

  “Did they say why they were carrying and why they were idling in front of the bank?” Celeste asked.

  Bert cleared his throat. “Their explanation was rather confusing. They said everybody is carrying nowadays, one needs to be protected, and it’s enough to have a gun to scare people away. The gun doesn’t have to be loaded. Their explanation for being at the bank was that they stopped to decide on where to eat and were discussing it in the car. Only the car was running for a while.”

  Celeste frowned. “I understand. Is there something else?”

  “No. That’s it,” Bert said. “My gut tells me that those boys wanted a little action and something different from their lives as university students, and our police officers just stopped them in time before they did something stupid.”

  Celeste looked thoughtful. “Thank you for calling me,” she finally said. She leapt up from her seat. “We’re off to bail the kid out. I haven’t even called my sister yet. I’m not looking forward to that call.” She looked at Bert, and in that look, I saw a challenge. “If there’s something else I should know, give me a call first thing.”

  He nodded. “I always thought the world of Lucas. I’ve got to say it kind of shocked me to see his name mixed up with this. I haven’t called his family. I’ll leave that up to you. I knew you’d set him straight.”

  Celeste nodded. “I appreciate it.” She said it as if she really meant it, her voice changing from the normal tone she used around her ex. She reached out to touch the spot above his belt where the hint of a pot belly had just begun to form. “You know what the doctor said about the carbs. Are you filling up on fries and burgers again? Do you ever eat a salad? Is there a single veggie in that fridge of yours?”

  He looked down at the floor. “I bought some carrots last week. But when I try to cook them, they just don’t taste the same as when you used to fix them.”

  “Are you taking your heart pills?” she asked. “And tell me the truth. I can see a lie from a mile away.”

  “Oh, I know you can,” he said. “Most days I remember to set my pills out with my breakfast.”

  I could see the worry flash across her eyes. “Is your cholesterol okay? You did give me a scare back then.”

  He shrugged. “Not great but getting better.”

  She studied him and nodded curtly. “Eat an apple now and then,” she said. “Oh, and by the way, we’re ready for a new case. I’m still waiting on that call.” She headed toward the door, and Marge and I stood up.

  “The three of you did a good job on that last one,” Bert said. “I’ll have to give you that. Your way of working is rather unconventional and you put yourselves in danger, by your own choice, but it did get the case solved.” He gave us a small smile of approval as he walked us out of the office and I wondered if I should take that as a compliment.

  “Beat the heck out of your own guys when it came to getting info,” Celeste said, stopping at the entrance to the lobby.

  He couldn’t argue with her there, and he hadn’t even assigned us to that last case. We’d been working for a private client, chasing down a deadbeat husband, when our case intersected with a police investigation. CMC had way outshone the cops in getting information to wrap up the case.

  Celeste looked Bert in the eye. “We’re good. You know we’re good.”

  “Like I’ve said before, when something comes my way, I’ll give you a call, and right now I’ll call the jail, tell them you’re on the way.”

  ***

  After bailing Lucas out, we sat in Marge’s car while he explained himself to Celeste or, to be accurate, while he listened to her talk.

  “What were you even thinking?” she asked him as he hung his head in the back seat. He hadn’t said a lot. Celeste was in the seat beside him while I sat up front with Marge.

  He was thin with a neat haircut and a trendy T-shirt with an expensive brand name scrawled across the front, not your typical bank robber wannabe. “Aunt Celeste, I’m so, so sorry. We never, ever wanted anybody to get hurt. Please believe me when I say that.”

  “What exactly were you planning?” Celeste asked in a stern voice. “Give it to me straight.”

  “We didn’t mean any harm, I swear,” he said. “We were just being stupid. We were tired of being good kids; we thought we might try a little something badass for a change. We were tired of being boring.”

  “Boring keeps you out of jail,” Celeste said. “Boring got you to university – the first one in our family. I was counting on you, Lucas, to be the one who made it in the world. You’re supposed to be the best of us. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said quietly.

  One thing I did know about Celeste’s family was that following the law was not exactly a priority to them. It was kind of unspoken knowledge around town that the last name Ortiz was not associated with the kinds of things you’d do by light of day when the cops might be watching.

  “Who’s the boy that you were with?” Celeste asked.

  “Just a friend I know from history class. Perry’s a real good kid.”

  “Could have fooled me,” Celeste said. “One thing that’s important is to know how to pick your friends.”

  Lucas looked to be near tears, too traumatized to speak. I was sure this wasn’t the last time he’d be questioned by Celeste, who wasn’t finished talking.

  “Stay out of trouble. Do you hear me? And if everything goes fine, no one in the family will hear any of this from me.”

  He looked relieved. “Thank you, Aunt Celeste.”

  Who knew what might happen when you made your parents mad in that kind of family. A failed bank robbery. I wonder which part of that phrase would upset the Ortiz clan the most: robbery or failed.

  “What about your friend?” Celeste asked. “Is he still in jail?”

  “No. His family got him out.”

  Families. My own suddenly seemed okay.

  ***

  After we dropped Lucas at his dorm on the West Springston campus, Celeste stared, dejected, out the window as we made our way through town. She looked heartbroken almost – an unusual show of emotion for my normally stoic friend. I tried to think of something to get her mind off of the boy.

  “Hey,” I said enthusiastically. “Who wants to go see that apartment?”

  Celeste perked up right away. I was glad my ploy had worked. It was a way of getting her mind off of her troubles – and maybe a way of getting me out of my parents’ house.

  Celeste was adamant in her suspicions about the place we were heading off to see. “Charlie, there’s something wrong with that apartment,” she said. “If something wasn’t wrong, there is just no way they’d be renting out that place for that kind of money.”

  “But wouldn’t it be so much fun if Charlie moved to Clarkston Heights?” Marge cried. “They have the cutest little bookshop there. And we have to try the crepes at the French restaurant on the corner.” Her squeak matched the squeal of her tires as she took a curve too fast. When Marge got excited, she drove even worse.

  “Charlie doesn’t have to move for you to go eat crepes,” Celeste said with a sigh. “You can still go there to shop.”

  “But the neighborhood’s so cute!” Marge squeaked, slamming on the brakes as a light turned red.

  I pulled out the old expired coupon where I’d written the address. “6222 Clarion Way,” I said.

  “Oh, I know the street,” Marge said as she did a U-turn on a busy four-lane road.

  In the back, Celeste tried to brace herself. “This is hardly an emergency. Marge, please take your time and get us there alive.”

  Soon we were passing lush green lawns and huge, expensive houses as we drove beneath
a canopy of elms.

  “I had no idea there were apartments on this street,” Marge said as she slowed to look for 6222.

  “Oh, wow. Here it is,” I said as I admired the house from the car.

  Marge pulled into the drive as we leaned forward to check out the small grouping of townhouse-style apartments that looked more like mini versions of stately colonial homes.

  Marge gave me a thumbs-up. “Charlie, welcome home,” she said.

  We got out of the car and walked toward the units, stopping to admire the pansies and the roses scattered along the front path. Celeste eyed a discreet silver sign on a nearby door. Property Manager on Duty. “Follow me,” she said. “Let’s see what the story is.”

  We opened the door to find a tall, thin man with dark hair working behind a desk. He smiled when he saw us enter. “Good day. Have you come to look at the apartment?” he asked in a slow, deep voice that sounded almost…creepy. I couldn’t put my finger on it. He seemed happy to see us in a way that was almost uncomfortable.

  “Yes. I saw the flyer for the apartment,” I said.

  “Very good. Shall I get the key?” he asked, standing and straightening his black tie. He had a kind of gravelly voice that made him sound like a narrator in one of the horror movies I loved when I was a child.

  “Yes, please! Oooh, we can’t wait to see the place,” Marge said.

  “You will just love the unit. It’s very, very lovely.” The way he dragged the words out reminded me more and more of the kind of movie that you never dared to watch alone. Still, the apartment was vacant – and the pictures of it were gorgeous. Both of those were good.

  Soon, he was ushering us into a beautiful, pristine space with marble countertops, hardwood floors and a gorgeous view of a creek that flowed behind the building. The living room was huge.

  “You’ll find the price is excellent,” he said.

  Celeste and I exchanged glances.

  “What’s the story on that, anyway?” Celeste asked. “Why is the price so low?”

  The manager cleared his throat. “We’re within walking distance of a number of restaurants,” he said.

  “Why did the price go down?” Celeste asked again.

  “Did you see the fireplace?” he asked. “The double oven? Let’s step into the kitchen!”

  “You didn’t answer my question.” Celeste blocked his way. “What’s the problem with the place?”

  With Celeste, it’s like having your very own bodyguard who always watches your back.

  The manager stopped in his tracks and there was silence for a beat.

  “Let’s just say that the last few tenants…ran into some misfortune.”

  Marge gasped. “What happened to the tenants?”

  He held up a hand. “Nothing to do with this place! Not related at all to their living situation!”

  “What type of misfortune?” I asked, feeling my bubble about to burst.

  “And if it had nothing at all to do with their living situation, why did they move out?” Celeste asked.

  He held a hand solemnly over his heart. “I wouldn’t say that they…I wouldn’t say that they moved out,” he intoned in a voice that seemed to have grown even deeper than before. Now he sounded like he was hosting one of those true-life shows which seemed to promise a gruesome reveal after each commercial break.

  “What do you mean by that?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid that each of the previous tenants met an unfortunate demise.”

  “Oh my gosh! It’s haunted?” Marge began to back out of the room before Celeste grabbed her hand.

  “How exactly did they die?” I was almost afraid to ask.

  “The first one was struck by lightning while on the balcony,” the manager said mournfully.

  “You mean he died right here? Right here in the apartment?” I glanced over to the balcony, which was furnished with what looked to be a high-end set of wrought iron table and chairs. They were beautiful. Still, I couldn’t help but think someone might have sat down at that table and never gotten up. I swallowed hard.

  “Yes. I am afraid that this is where he came to his sad end,” the manager continued.

  Sheesh. His mannerisms! He should work at a funeral home. The man had missed his calling.

  “And what about the others?” Marge asked in a frightened whisper.

  “One, unfortunately, passed away when a radio fell into the tub while she was in it. And the other died of natural causes, of a stroke during her sleep. Precious Mrs. Alberts. I like to imagine that she never felt a thing.”

  I rubbed my temples. Okay, it’s just a weird coincidence. It’s just a weird coincidence. I needed to keep telling myself that. But the balcony, the bathtub and the bed? There was death all over this place. Cold chills ran down my spine.

  Marge grabbed me by the elbow. “Charlie, please don’t do it. I saw this movie once where this poltergeist…”

  Celeste put her arm around her. “Oh Marge, for heaven’s sake. Charlie, you should take it. This place needs some happiness. If this is the reason for the lower price, then consider yourself lucky.”

  Oh yes. Lucky me.

  I looked around. Nothing remotely like this had come close to fitting my budget. The kitchen had a nice desk, and there was a beautiful white leather couch in the living room. I could take such naps on that couch.

  The manager saw me looking. “The couch comes with the unit.”

  “And nobody…”

  “No one met their end on the lovely couch,” he proudly – and creepily – intoned.

  I looked around the apartment again and sighed.

  “And when can I move in?” I asked.

  “As soon as you pay the first month’s rent,” the manager said.

  Marge and Celeste were watching me intently and I could see that they both held their breath.

  “Fine,” I said. “Welcome to my new home. Who wants to help me pack?”

  Chapter Three

  That night, my dreams were narrated by the guy from the apartment. He talked as if he were hosting one of those true-crime shows where some beloved friend or mother gets stabbed or shot or poisoned, or simply disappears.

  As the dreams played out, the apartment guy spoke his words very, very slowly. He delivered every sentence with just a hint of doom. As she gazed out at the lovely view from her new apartment, Charlie Cooper didn’t have the smallest indication of the danger that was lurking. She had no idea that those moments of serenity would be her very last.

  Then my dreams became a mishmash. I was falling over the balcony and landing on my head (did I mention I was clumsy?). I was tripping down the steps (I mean really, really clumsy!). There I was at the stove, mistaking the ant spray for the cooking spray. So many ways to die.

  I plumped my pillow and flipped over on the other side, and the dreams took a turn. I no longer had the starring role in the vivid nightmares. A man leaned back in a chair as he dozed off on a balcony that looked over Clarkston Heights. He opened his eyes and reached for his tablet just as a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky. Thunder overpowered the ominous strains of music that were playing in my dreams. The man was suddenly spread-eagled on the floor as the scene switched to the bathroom.

  A young woman leaned back in a bubble bath, then reached to turn the music up when her favorite pop song came on the radio. She reached for the volume button, water dripping from her ponytail as she raised her head. Oh no, I couldn’t look. But it was my dream – I had to look. Then the song morphed into a Perry Como classic.

  Perry Como? What the heck? What odd tastes this woman had. Perry Como was for oldsters, like the ancient students in the exercise classes that my mother taught in our den and backyard. “I’m trying something new,” she’d said a week before. “Music from their generation!”

  This was not a dream. I snuggled into my pillow and tried to get back to sleep, but the music was too loud. That was how it went when your students were half deaf.

  I glanced at the clo
ck. It was just a little past eight-thirty. Sometimes they’d start even earlier. That was another thing about teaching the elderly. They went to bed at eight and were up before the birds. I would have preferred to sleep till normal hours, thank you very much.

  Sometimes I’d wake up at seven to the sounds of rock and roll outside my window. It felt good to know that soon I could wake up when I wanted – in the ritziest part of town. This girl was moving up.

  Still, I couldn’t shake the dreams. To get the images out of my head, I made a mental list of things that I would buy for the new place: a cookie press, some comfy pillows in grays and yellows to set out on the couch, some artsy paintings of the beach. But first things first; I had to get another paycheck before I could buy too much. Hopefully that would come soon. I had a feeling that Bert would come through with another case before we knew it. Celeste had all but demanded that he send us one, and he didn’t look too anxious to irritate Celeste.

  I sat up, feeling kind of off. When I hopped off of the bed, I knew exactly what was wrong. Whoa. I hadn’t exercised that long, but that little bit of cycling had really done a number on my thighs, and my hamstrings too.

  I peeked out my window at the oldsters, who, come to think of it, might be more in shape than me. In brightly colored leotards and sweats, they slowly swayed back and forth with their arms up in the air. Well, good for them, I thought (easy to say at that moment, since I was getting my own place where they couldn’t wake me up).

  In front of them, my mother swayed, her eyes tightly closed as if she were communicating with some otherworldly higher power. She probably thought she was. She believed in everything: feng shui, horoscopes, and mystical powers in the trees and the flowers and the skies. She loved nothing better than “communing” with her roses. She thought that your favorite color or the positions of the stars on the day that you were born could set the course of your whole life. She’d read that in a magazine, and, according to my mother, what you read in magazines is absolutely true.

  I watched from the window as she beamed out at her students once the music stopped. “That was beautiful!” she cried out. “All of you are beautiful, and the Universe salutes you.” Her long, gray-blonde curls caught the sunlight at that moment, and her purple top billowed in the breeze.