by Alexie Aaron
Marc waved the woman over. He pointed to the SGD on the tray.
Brenda moved the tray over and adjusted the lighting so Marc could see the keys.
Thank you. I remember your voice. I think your voice is the first human voice I remember hearing.
“I’m sorry this has happened to you. I’m not here officially, so please don’t tell me anything that would compromise your position.”
The shrink can’t even look at me. What position am I in aside from sinking quickly into madness?
Brenda moved closer to Marc. She adjusted the light and took a long look at Marc’s face. His cheeks had lost some of the swelling, but she could tell that his lips, which were used to resting alongside his teeth, were having trouble maintaining their position. The holes caused by the canvas needle were mending. “Get some dentures, maybe the kind they bolt in… implants. And grow a mustache. No one will see any difference.”
Until I try to speak. How will I communicate?
“I don’t know. I find that expression is at least half of it. There is a lot of technology out there, Mr. Davis. Don’t give up on yourself. Be a survivor,” Brenda said and then held up her hand. “I’m sorry, I’ve said too much. I just know that your dog is missing you. He needs you. You need him. Try, please try.”
Marc let the tears flow. Here was a stranger giving him an impassioned plea for him not to give up. He lifted his hands and rested his fingers a moment before he started typing.
I will do my best to survive this. If I don’t, please find a good home for Argos. I will make sure what’s left of my savings, after the hospital is satisfied, is put into a trust for his care.
“In the meantime, can I read to you? I brought along a book that has always helped me through bad periods of my life.”
As long as it isn’t the Bible. God and I are presently at odds.
“It’s not the Bible, but Mr. Davis…”
Marc.
“Marc, God made Argos, and he kept you warm until we could find you.” Brenda pulled a chair up and pulled a worn paperback from her bag. “It’s called I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou.”
Marc nodded and moved his hands away from the SGD and placed them on his chest. He closed his eyes.
“What you looking at me for? I didn’t come to stay…”
Brenda’s voice was clear and soft. She transported Marc out of his painful existence into the children’s section of the Colored Methodist Episcopal Church. How had he forgotten the power of books? His eyes shot open.
Marc sat up so fast it frightened Brenda. He took a moment to stop his hands from shaking. He typed out: I remember a black book. I opened it and started to read. The book was evil. Beware of Marianne’s black book!
Brenda picked up her phone and called the cell number she had for Detective Jones. It went right to voicemail. She left a message. “Detective, Marc Davis just remembered that he was reading a Marianne’s black book when his memory failed him. He also said the book was evil.” She hung up and sat back down.
Please continue. You were at: “Just think about it…”
Chapter Fourteen
Father Saul looked at Marianne Irving’s admission paperwork on the screen of his computer. It didn’t list a grandmother; yet, there was an older woman identifying herself as a relative, insisting to be put through to Marianne’s therapist.
Father Saul picked up the line. “This is Father Saul. May I help you?”
“Forgive me for the lies I told your staff to get to you, but there is an evil book afoot, and I understand that maybe your patient was put in contact with it.”
“How would you know this?” Father Saul said. He knew he could have played dumb, but he also knew this was an opportunity to get to the truth of Marianne’s situation that he shouldn’t pass up.
“My son runs the book club Page Turners. He saw a black leather book in her possession.”
“Your son is…”
“Wendell Baumbach. I’m Catherine Baumbach. In my heyday, my husband and I chased down many an unusual book.”
“Why are you calling here?”
“Out of concern, not only for the welfare of Marianne, but for the other innocents who may come in contact with this book.”
“Tell me what you think is going on?” Father Saul asked.
“Are you aware of life-snatcher books?”
“My colleagues have mentioned such books. Tell me why you think Marianne has come into contact with one of these?”
Catherine explained what she knew through her son, Wendell, and what she had heard from the teachers about the supposed slam book. “I feel the book is in circulation to gather sick stories for its pages. But I think I know how to catch it.”
“You speak of this book as a living thinking being. It’s a book.”
“Books can take you to faraway places. Make you see things.”
“The author does this,” Father Saul corrected.
“Father, I’ve seen script appear on a scroll as the event at hand happened. I think this book was created to write itself. But instead of marvelous tales of human existence, I believe it’s encouraging the victims to do dark things, and then as the words appear on the pages, the memories of the events disappear in the minds of the doers.”
“You’ve made quite a jump, Mrs. Baumbach,” Father Saul observed. “How are these books originated?”
“Ask your colleagues. Ask them who is locked up for producing life-altering texts. Ask them where my husband Horace is.”
“Do you think your husband is at the heart of this?”
“My husband has no heart, Father. I’m telling you that he either set in motion this killer book or knows who did or can.”
“You’ve made quite an accusation. Have you spoken to your husband?”
“Not since he was taken away forty-five years ago. You’ll find him wherever your kind keep the monsters.”
“I admit to being puzzled why you’ve come forward. Most people would have left the past buried and gone on with their lives.”
“I did. I even looked the other way when I had suspicions about the real slam book at the former school I taught in. Was it just a coincidence that it was my old school? Is it another coincidence that its latest victims are my son’s book club members? Why is it circling the recipient of the transplanted heart of one of the book’s victims, who just happens to own a secondhand bookshop? I’m sorry, but I’m seeing it as a targeted attack on my son, his friends, and one of the last Knights of Pages.”
Father Saul dropped his pen. “What did you say?”
“Kalaraja Gupta and I believe that Nash Greene, owner of the One More Time secondhand bookshop, is a Knight of Pages.”
“What is a Knight of Pages?”
“He rescues books and those who love them.”
“Is this a social media label?”
“You know damn well it isn’t. If you are in contact with the priests you say you are, then ask them how valuable a Knight of Pages is. In the meanwhile, when your patient says she can’t remember the hours, days that the book had ahold of her, believe her and help her. The police have all the present victims but are struggling. They assume the victims are hurting each other. I fear that, once again, the book will take another life, if it hasn’t already.”
Father Saul wasn’t used to a layperson instructing him, but he was respectful of his elders and what wisdom they may have amassed in their years on earth. “I will do so. May I call on you when I’m in town?”
“If I’m still alive, then it would be a pleasure to speak with you.”
~
Kalaraja looked over at Nash. It could have been a trick of the morning light, but it looked as if Nash was smiling, and not in the vicious way he did when he was ready to drag a poser under a tome. They were working together through the hardcovers. Nash was wiping the dust off the older volumes. He examined them for damages and noted them in his log. Some he took off t
he shelf and placed in the cart for a little TLC.
Kalaraja’s job was to note any book out of line. He speculated on why. Some books he opened and looked inside for clues.
“Let’s take a break,” Nash said. “Clara left some hash. I’ll warm it up…”
“No, let’s go out. Perhaps I need to see the Biscuit, Bagel and Buzz for myself.”
“It’s pretty sunny out there…”
Kalaraja rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to dissolve into a pile of ash. And if you play your cards right, I may not embarrass you in front of your girl.”
“Too late.”
Kalaraja laughed. “She likes me. She calls me Spider-Man.”
“How did you get to be Spider-Man?”
“Evidently I can scale walls. What can you do?”
“Not much. Yet, I’m the one with the lady’s interest.”
Kalaraja liked when Nash’s confidence showed itself. They left the shop and walked to the restaurant. In the city, most restaurants took Mondays off. Not so with the Biscuit, Bagel and Buzz. Johan did good business with the long-weekenders leaving the city and the professionals who wanted more than a paper-wrapped sandwich for their breakfast.
Clara leaned back and observed the last and most promising applicant as the woman showed her prowess with the mixing bowl and ingredients Clara had laid out for her.
Johan breezed through from the front of the house. He waved Clara over. “Your boyfriend and guest are at table seven.”
Clara smiled.
“Do you know that his guest owns three city blocks?”
“Kalaraja Gupta is a slumlord?”
“Tsk tsk. He’s no slumlord. He owns…” Johan stopped talking and looked at Clara and caught the twinkle in her eye. “You are such a bad child. Go out and take their order.”
Clara walked over to the applicant. “Cindy, I’m going to play waitress. I’ll be back to see how you’re doing,” she warned and left the kitchen, snagging an order book on her way out. She saw Nash looking at her as she exited the kitchen. She stopped and put her hand on her heart.
Marie caught the emotional rush and would later tell her husband. “It was as if I was being carried off by an undertow. Clara’s got it bad.”
“Gentlemen, thank you for joining us at the Biscuit, Bagel and Buzz. The specials today are Nova Scotia salmon served on Raul’s fresh multigrain bagel with BBB’s homemade cream cheese, and Belgian waffles dripping in hand-churned butter and crispy hickory-smoked bacon. Or you can test the chef.”
“I’ll test the chef,” Kalaraja said. “I’ll have sour cream crepes with Cumberland sausages if you have them.”
“Would you like the crepes wrapped around the sausage?” Clara asked.
“Wrapped and some fruit on the side, your choice.”
Clara jotted down a few ideas and then turned to Nash who ordered a country casserole and a short stack of pancakes.
She walked over, picked up a carafe, and freshened their coffees. “I’ll be back with your order,” she said.
Nash watched her walk back into the kitchen.
“You’re fogging your glasses,” Kalaraja said.
Nash took them off and wiped them. “I don’t understand it. Why me?”
“You were meant to be with each other,” Kalaraja said. “Sometimes the fates take their time, but in this case, I believe the ladies chose right.”
“When did Spider-Man become such a romantic?”
“You need to refresh your knowledge of the genre. You’ll find that Peter Parker is quite the romantic.”
In the kitchen, the chefs watched as Clara took on the chef’s challenge. Cindy, who was waiting on her muffins to bake, observed how the kitchen worked as a team. Even the self-proclaimed heir apparent Raul had listened to Clara’s step-by-step instructions and worked up the sour cream sauce for her.
As Clara left with the plates of food, the fry chef asked Raul why he was being so cooperative.
“Clara knows my strengths, and I know hers. The object is to have a kitchen that serves the best food in the city, even if it’s only breakfast.”
Clara set the plates down and stood back and waited for Kalaraja to taste his meal. He did and nodded as he savored the multilayers of flavor. He swallowed. “This is wonderful.”
Clara smiled. She turned and looked at Nash.
“Fabulous.”
“Thank you!” Clara walked quickly to the kitchen.
The customers heard the muted sounds of celebration from the staff. Marie refilled cups and chatted with the customers. She stopped at the table. “You’re the one, aren’t you?” she asked Nash.
“If you mean I’m the lucky guy Clara likes, then yes.”
“Make her happy and you’ll not have to face my brothers,” Marie said and moved on to the next table.
Nash steadied his hands. “If I were a villain, I would be heading for Iceland about now.”
“Spider-Man doesn’t eat crepes with villains.”
Clara walked out with a platter of hot muffins. Two waitresses flanked her, placing a plate in front of each diner. Clara lifted a muffin with the tongs and announced, “Attention, we are celebrating the hiring of our new pâtissier, Cindy Grand, by sharing with you her freshly baked white-chocolate raspberry muffins.” She served each table, ending with Nash. She put two on his plate and lifted a finger to her lips and walked back into the kitchen.
~
Jones and his team were working hard assembling evidence and lab reports before he left to attend the postmortem with Officer Blunt. They would be splitting up. Two different medical examiners would be taking on Monica Voorhees and her friend, the now-named Trisha Prue.
“Why me? I’m not even a sergeant,” Brenda asked Jones when he gave her the order.
“I value your powers of observation.”
“This is my first postmortem,” Brenda confessed. “I may be too busy fainting or puking to be much of a tool of observation.”
“I somehow doubt that an officer who handled Marc Davis and his dog with such compassion would fail Monica Voorhees.”
“I hope your confidence in me isn’t misplaced,” Brenda said.
“Either way, it’s taped,” Jones said. “I would like to be at both, but when we were given priority, we were also given two of the best medical examiners.”
“How did I get Ms. Voorhees?” Brenda asked.
“I don’t expect any surprises there. Now her friend Mrs. Prue looks to have been drained of her blood and had some of her organs removed. I have a lot of questions.”
Brenda nodded. “Me too. Did you get the overwhelming odor of potpourri when we first entered the apartment?”
“Potpourri, copper, and lilacs,” Jones admitted.
“The automatic air freshener was loaded with the scent of lilacs. Where was the potpourri? We didn’t find any on the premises?” Brenda asked as she walked out the door.
~
Detective Jones was detained by his commander who needed an update before Jones left. Because of this, he arrived late for the postmortem. He waited patiently for the medical examiner to finish his examination of the decedent. When Dr. Standish Mason had finished, he directed his staff before walking over to address Jones.
“I’m sorry I was late,” Jones said.
Dr. Mason waved off the apology. “We found a few surprises. Not your everyday homicide.” Dr. Mason nodded to his assistant who brought over two large clear evidence bags and held them up for Jones to see the contents. “Inside the body cavity of the victim, we found a combination of equal parts potpourri and wadded up pages from, what my assistant has identified as, several bride magazines. The kitchen canisters contained quite a few organs – I have noted them on the report – apart from the heart, which was still in the body. This, according to my college recollections, is in keeping with the Egyptian way of embalming. Feel free to look this up, and if I am wrong, I will edit my report accordingly.”<
br />
“Cause of death?”
“Suffocation.”
“Not exsanguination?” Jones asked, surprised.
“Her blood was drained after death.”
“Suffocation but not strangulation?” he asked. “Could you clarify?”
“I found a large contusion on the back of her head that may have either rendered her unconscious or made her manageable. There are circular marks on her gluteal area. Her arms and legs also contained bruising. All of this led me to believe that the decedent was tied down to a toilet. I found this jammed down her throat. I believe it caused her to suffocate.” Dr. Mason presented another evidence bag this one containing a plastic rendering of a bride and groom. “Cake topper according to my assistant.”
Jones was silent, trying to wrap his head around this.
“My assistant has made another observation that initially I dismissed.”
“Go ahead.”
“She said it looked like the body was stuffed to make the woman appear to be fat.”
“It could just be an overestimation of what was needed,” Jones said.
“But, and let me quote Ms. Alvarez, ‘Doctor it looks like someone was so angry at this bride that she took out all her anger on the woman.’”
“May I speak to Ms. Alvarez?”
Dr. Mason walked over and tapped the shoulder of one of his assistants. The focused woman jumped a bit but turned around and nodded when the doctor asked her to come over.
“Could you explain your observations for me, please,” Jones requested.
“Detective, after seeing the copy of the wedding photo you used to identify the decedents on-site, it occurred to me that I could identify with the murderer. You see, last weekend, I was a bridesmaid in my cousin Mandy’s wedding. I got to thinking that if this lady treated her bridesmaids like I was treated by Mandy, then I would say it was justifiable homicide. First, Mandy said I was too fat and had to lose weight, which I did. Then she had me dye my hair to match the other three bridesmaids. I had to buy my dress which was an overpriced piece of sh… clothing. She didn’t like this; she didn’t like that; and after, when I caught the bouquet, she said, ‘There goes a waste of good flowers. She ain’t never getting a man.’ She was a bridezilla times ten. Some powerful dark thoughts crossed my mind. Fortunately for Mandy, she will be living in another state, and I won’t see her until the holidays.”