Murder on the Rocks

by Clara Nipper

  Perryman was red-faced. I regretted what a heel I had been and I saw the obstacles this woman faced every hour.

  “Hey, Sheriff, I am sorry—” I began.

  “Forget it,” she said. “I don’t need your motherfucking pity. I heard you were good at your job. Too bad you’re just a throbbing hormone.” She jogged away to give instructions to her deputies.

  I smiled and flicked my butt into the darkness. Chicken time.

  Chapter Three

  I started awake with a gasp in the darkness. I was shivering even though I was buried under the covers. The house was cold. I glanced at my bedside clock. Black. I reached to turn on the lamp. The switch dry-clicked with no light. Power outage. I stumbled into last night’s jeans and boots and crept cautiously to the front door. The entire block was dark. I stepped outside onto the porch and had to grab my porch pillar to keep from bustin’ my bone.

  The entire neighborhood was encased in ice, and it was still coming down like sand sifted from the clouds. I inhaled, and the chilled air frosted my lungs. I cautiously wobbled to the majestic river birch in my side yard. It was sheathed in ice from top to bottom. Along the street, the tree limbs were dangerously bowed and reaching for the ground. The azaleas were divided and crushed by the weight of the ice. The hollies were split and lying flattened on the lawn; the arborvitaes were smashed to the earth as if they had been bulldozed. Everyone’s landscaping was curled and sculpted into painfully unnatural shapes that seemed about to snap and break any second.

  The quiet was so complete; it was like being vacuum sealed inside a drum. I slowly crunched out to the street, and I saw a neighbor in a coat and bathrobe, just as shocked and bewildered as I. “Trees are coming down all over!” he shouted, gesturing. “A million and a half people without power!”

  “Shit!” I yelled back. Our voices violated the sanctuary silence. “Shit!” I repeated and sprinted awkwardly for the house. Once inside, I kept flicking switches without thinking and felt more foolish each time the room remained dark. I went to the refrigerator for a Pepsi and slammed the door shut when the light didn’t come on there either.

  When I banged my shin into the coffee table as I searched for candles, I had had enough.

  I crept slowly through the house until I found my phone. I used the bright screen and my old cigarette lighter for illumination as I gathered clothing and prepared for a shower.

  “If the water doesn’t warm up, I’ll stay funky,” I said. Outside, I heard more big cracks followed by enormous crashes. I heard the ice still tapping on the bathroom window like impatient fingernails. The water did heat, and I took a fast rinse and dressed, needing to leave quickly because I felt smothered and suffocated all alone in the cold, dark, silent house. Before I left, I filled the tub and all the sinks with water. The pumping stations would eventually be stranded powerless too, I decided.

  I stumbled to my car, wishing for crampons and an army tank. The car started, vibrating like a tuning fork. I backed all the way into the street before I realized I couldn’t see a goddamn thing. I tried to pull back in the driveway, but my wheels spun. I was already stuck. I left the car idling and stood very carefully and edged my way around the car, chiseling ice from the windows. Ice pellets fell into my collar and slid down my back, causing me to yelp continuously, feeling more and more stupid. But I couldn’t stop myself.

  I got back in the car, brushed off my bristly brush cut, and tucked my fists into my armpits. “Damn, this storm has turned me into a shrieking goober.”

  I backed out, my wheels spinning a little, and then I sped down the block. I hit the limb lying across the road before I saw it. “Jesus Christ!” I yelled. I exploded out of the car and promptly fell on my ass. I lay there, fuming, utterly defeated when I heard laughter echo through the air. Ice pecked my face. I sat up fast, slamming my head against my open car door.

  “Whoa!” I heard the voice exclaim. “Just sit still before you do any more damage.”

  I held my head. It felt wet. I looked at my hand. Bloody. A man in wellies jogged effortlessly down his steps, across the yard, and to me, where he crouched.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I’d be better if this goddamn ice would melt.”

  “I hear that. C’mon, I’ll help you up and get your car free.”

  “Hey, thanks, man.” We clasped hands and I stood.

  “Nice car,” he said, stroking the fender. “What is this, a Grand National?”

  “Yeah, you got an eye, man. V6, turbo, four speed,” I said, grabbing a hand full of ice from the roof, holding it to my head, and leaning against the body for support.

  “Should you be driving a prize like this out in the weather? She needs to be nestled in a velvet box in a climate-controlled garage.”

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s not pussy. It’s just a car.”

  The guy shrugged. He walked to the front of the car and peered beneath. “Not bad. You’re just hooked on a small branch. Start backing the car.”

  I threw the bloody ice into the gutter and sat in the car again. I put it in reverse, and after some bouncing, tire spinning, and yelling, I was free.

  “Thanks again, bro. I owe you one!” I shouted as I sped in reverse down the entire length of the street to the first intersection. I crunched over a pile of limbs and headed toward the hardware store. Whether businesses had power was hit or miss. Most were closed and dark. The hardware store was open and bright. The parking lot was so full. I had to park half on the sidewalk and half in the fire lane. Inside, the lines were long and the shelves were picked clean. I looked for batteries—gone, car cell phone chargers—sold out, ice scrapers—gone, bags of sand—gone, candles—none, flashlights—sold out, generators—all lined up in cashiers’ queues getting bought by customers who were not clumsy, tardy oafs.

  “Ya’ll got anything left?” I asked a clerk who was restocking the gas cans.

  “Hardly. We’ve got ice melt.” He pointed.

  I grabbed an ice chest and a bag of ice melt, and stood in line enviously eyeing the econo-packs of batteries that everyone else had.

  “When will you get more batteries?” asked a man holding a baby in one arm and a toddler with his other hand.

  “Supposed to be later today,” the manager said, pressed into service as a cashier.

  The lines were slow and the wait was tedious. I was behind a woman with an expensive haircut who was buying a basket load of batteries. When her purchase was finally totaled, she put her purse on the counter and began digging for her money. After some time, she located her checkbook, extracted it, and flopped it open. She gestured to the cashier for a pen. He patted himself down and shook his head.

  I groaned. “Are you kidding me?”

  She turned to me. “Do you have a pen?”

  “Hell no, I don’t have a pen. You need to get your shit together before you come out in public.”

  “Pardon me?” Her voice was soft and cultured.

  “You are a piece of work, sweetheart.”

  “Excuse me?” She glared at me, her voice hard.

  “Yeah, I’ll say it. Who do you think you are, bringin’ all that mess to the register and not even being ready? Can you pull your head out and realize there are other people in the world besides your privileged cracker ass and we’ve been waitin’ a long time and here you are with your sorry check and no pen and all the batteries that God ever made. What is wrong with you?”

  “How dare you! I have just as much right—”

  “Shut it, softie.”

  “I demand to speak to the manager! I’ll call the police!”

  “Good luck, lady. I am the police.” I said, the wound in my head beginning to pound. The cashier wordlessly gestured to the manager who was busily ringing up customers. The woman stormed off.

  “Now you’re talkin’!” I placed her basket of batteries firmly in front of the cashier. “I’ll take these.”

  “Hey, can I have some of those?” the man with kids, standing in line
with a bag of cat litter, asked.

  “Sure, what size?” I parceled out most of the batteries to people in line behind me. I kept two packs for myself. The cashier rung up my sale.

  “Do you have a pen?”

  Chapter Four

  I drove to Maple Ridge, wanting any diversion to keep me from returning to my empty house. I had avoided seeing Sophie Walsh. She had nearly captured me when I was in Tulsa before, and I had not been in touch with her since I returned to my hometown from a temporary madness in Missoula, South Dakota, and took a job with the homicide division of the Tulsa Police almost a year ago. She didn’t know I was here. Well, today was her lucky day. This weather made the time ripe for surprises.

  My mind wandered to my memories of Sophie in anticipation of what I would be enjoying later.

  The geometry of that woman hooked me right where I lived. Sophie was steep slope and gentle grade, the concentric circles emanating from her hypnotizing me like a Bartok symphony.

  But listen, I’m no brainiac loser; I only know who Bartok is because I followed a twist into a classical music elective in college and I learned about the composer before I could drop the course and quit the girl.

  I was going to run my tongue from Sophie’s ankle to the delicious crevices and interior angles and lose myself in her vanishing point. I was jumpy with eagerness. I panted and my eyes darted frantically. I sweated just keeping my car on the road and making the right turns. The arc of our overlapping triangles would bring me peace. The symmetry of our joining would settle and feed me. At last, I eased my car into the space behind Sophie’s. I fondled the Zippo in my pocket.

  I walked cautiously to the front door. Sophie had scattered salt and sand on the walk, which was effective until the new ice covered it. I stroked the front door as if it were cashmere. The algorithm would be this: me: “I’m here.” Sophie: “Fuck me and never stop.”

  Grinning big, salvation at my fingertips, I rang the bell. Hearing nothing, I realized the doorbell wouldn’t work in a blackout. I knocked and heard quick, light footsteps. I smoothed melting ice crystals off my flattop, smelled my breath, and stood up straight.

  The door flew open and a wad of cash was thrust at me. I got a breathtaking view of Sophie’s back. Her long blond hair was in a thick braid; she wore a white cable knit turtleneck, and her juicy rump was sealed into jeans tapering to boots. Behind her, I saw a gothic horror movie number of candles perched on every surface creating the perfect, soft, romantic ambience.

  “Pizza’s here!” she called into the house, her arm still extended to me. I leaned against the doorjamb, my eyes smoking her like a grit. Sophie finally turned to me with impatience and took a startled step back, her bow of a mouth falling open.

  “Hi,” I murmured. Now she could proceed to adore me. I licked my lips.

  “Drop dead,” Sophie said, the blue look of contempt not melting into sex and worship.

  I took her response as merely an opening flirt. “I’m single and cold and I don’t want to be,” I told her, my voice low and hoarse. I reached for her, and she grabbed my hand in an awkward greeting and laughed uncomfortably. “So you do remember me.”

  “Jill.” A noise behind her startled Sophie out of her scorn and into politeness. She looked over her shoulder. “Where are my manners? Come in.” She giggled unpleasantly. “We found one pizza place in Broken Arrow who has power, and we bribed them to deliver all the way over here, so we’ve been waiting.”

  “Aw, baby, you know me better than that.” I pulled Sophie into a blissful embrace. “Remember the meteor showers?” I whispered into her heavy, silken golden hair.

  Again, Sophie pushed me away, and this time, she blushed and her laugh was like a bark. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Suddenly, footsteps sounded down the hallway. A white man, toweling his chestnut hair, emerged dressed in cords and a sweater. “Well, at least we still have hot water. Sugarfoot, where’s the takeaway?” His British accent made me despise him on sight. I touched my handcuffs.

  “Um.” Sophie made a limp gesture toward me.

  “No pizza, motherfucker,” I said, hating him and trying to glare an answer out of Sophie who wouldn’t look at me.

  “Ah.” The man lifted his eyebrows and looked from one to the other of us. Sophie was studying the tip of her boot. “No pizza.”

  “Nope,” I said then thundered at Sophie. “Who the fuck is this?”

  Sophie clenched her jaw and rolled her eyes.

  “I’m Alistair Bellingham,” the man answered jovially and then asked with a smile, “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m—” There was a loud pounding on the door.

  Sophie sprang to life as if electrified. “Pizza’s here!”

  Chapter Five

  My CV is this: I was an orphan, raised by fools who are now dead due to their foolishness. The only legacy I have is a number on the Native roles (which I have inked in the small of my back) and my beloved Zippo lighter I snagged from my grandfather’s coffin before it was closed and sealed. It’s a silver souvenir from his military service with “Rogers” and our tribe’s insignia inscribed on one side and “Korea 1954–1956” and the quote, “I am sure to go to heaven because I’ve served my time in hell” inscribed on the other. My grandfather was the only man I’ve ever admired until Chief St. John. So although I was only ten when Edudu died and I didn’t yet smoke, I knew I would need that lighter. I devoted my life to honor Edudu’s memory so I studied hard, playing with that lighter constantly like a talisman. I earned a scholarship in theology from ORU. That’s Oral Roberts Uni to those outside Tulsa. If you’ve never seen it, look it up. It’s an architectural freak show and has been turning out closeted Christian gays by the thousands since 1963. It was originally built over acres of farmland and field, and though at the time, it was self-isolated because the street address preferred by its nutbag founder, 7777 South Lewis Avenue, was such a long drive from town to the campus, to out of town guests and tourists, the drive was always worth it.

  I wanted to help people, so I planned to be a missionary or a minister, but when I was caught in another girl’s bed, this crazy Christian college disciplined me so severely, I still have head trauma. I just missed being sent to Conversion Therapy. So I snatched my degree and decided God was over. Evil is always taking care of business so I had to get out there and get busy. Cops are the anointed ones, God’s own chosen people, and I was born to be one. I couldn’t trust God’s judgment, so I joined the police academy where I could be an enforcer. As a cop, I could apply neutral laws to perps. Be an egalitarian. So I became a beat cop, got my degree in CJ from TU, and was set loose on the population. I have a remarkable solve rate because I still have snaps of that divinity I once swallowed without question. So when I care to show that to people, they feel comfortable confessing to me. Fuck God in the eyeball.

  Chapter Six

  “Let’s sit in front of the fireplace and eat this while it’s hot.” Alistair clapped me on the back. “What do you say, old sock? There’s plenty.” Then, to Sophie, “Why don’t we have some wine? God knows you two look positively green.”

  I gripped my Zippo and took a deep breath to start lining this joker out. Then I would explain the rules to Sophie. My cell started ringing. “Excuse me,” I said coldly. “Go for Rogers.” I watched Alistair touch Sophie’s lower back as they walked toward the living room together.

  “Detective? It’s Dana Perryman.”

  “Sheriff? What can I do for you, doll?” My respect for her grew because she didn’t throw her title around, but I couldn’t let her know that. Yet.

  She sighed to ruffle my black flattop. Her voice was a cinder block. “Rogers, I need you to come to my office.”

  “Am I in trouble, Barn?”

  “You shitty son of a bitch, get your sorry ass in here ASAP!” Perryman shouted and hung up.

  “Lovebirds, I need to reschedule our awkward dinner,” I called into the living room. “Booty call.”


  Alistair peered around the wall at me. “Certainly, sport.” Sophie emerged, dragging her feet.

  “Oh, butter doll, you gonna walk me out?” I bit the words cold and hard like crunching ice.

  “Come on, dog in the manger.” Sophie took my elbow, propelling me out.

  I shook her off. “I don’t know that song. Can you sing a little humpin’ heifer? Or faithless whore monkey?”

  “You drop dead and go to hell.” Sophie jerked open the front door and shoved me outside. “Why did you come here?” Sophie hugged herself. The ice pellets fell around us. The wind blew curls out of her braid and across her mouth. I longed to straighten and smooth her hair. I wanted to hold the back of her skull as I crushed her to me in a kiss that would tell her everything.

  I would kiss her until she understood. I would make love to that sweet candy mouth, drinking from it until I was intoxicated, feeding her little by little, spark by spark, the torch I had carried all this time until Sophie contained the whole of my blaze. She would glow with my passion. Then when we touched, we would spontaneously combust, flames consuming us both. On my knees, our fires crackling, I would put my mouth on her smoking coal and suck it to cremation. Sophie’s cries would rise with the billows of smoke and we would collapse in a pile of ash. Then, from the gray flakes, I would find a chunk of cinder not yet completely incinerated, and I would caress it into ember then to fire then to screaming obliteration. When we were finally, completely cool, the air would turn green and fresh, and Sophie would smile into my face.

  I blinked at her. I opened my mouth a couple of times.

  “What did you expect?” Sophie’s voice was shrill. “Who the hell do you think you are?”