by Tracy Ellen
This announcement was a double-dipper of a good time for Chief Jack. His grim countenance lightened up briefly for the first time since arriving at seeing the stunned look on my face at Luke’s reply to Wade’s invitation to leave. Plus, Luke had no way of knowing Wade Patterson has been in love with my grandmother since before we were both born. Mr. Patterson is an old sweetheart, and while he’d probably draw the line at letting me get away with cold-blooded murder, even that is debatable if NanaBel is in town. Shooting a full clip at a known bad man in self-defense while being attacked in my own home is a slam dunk, even with a weapon not registered to me. I learned chances were high it was Reggie’s bullet that killed him first. As Chief Jack liked to say, this meeting was strictly for crossing the fucking T’s.
Once they were done with my interview, I made no effort to speak with Jack. He seemed to be avoiding me, too. I was okay with being alive due to my decision to trust my own instincts. I didn’t give a rat’s ass about his emotional well-being due to professional embarrassment, or whatever else was causing his mood. His insistence to keep me in the dark had almost accomplished that permanently. This was one of those times that my silence would speak much louder than any words.
My brother will try to lord it over me the rest of our lives that he saved me with one head shot compared to my ten fired below the belt. I informed him this would be true except for one fact. I was aiming based on my theory that most men’s brains are in their pants. He proved my theory by only needing one bullet in the man’s head. He was still thinking that over when he left.
I assured Reggie, in fact I insisted, that he should go home to shower and relax. I wasn’t up for cooking any breakfast right now. He said he’d be back for dinner and took off as soon as the cops were done with him. Turns out his head wasn’t sliced to ribbons because it never hit the glass, it was his shotgun that broke through the window. His head had been smacked hard against the wooden frame of the window when Moth Man landed on him. It stunned him insensible for a few seconds. It probably saved his life. The Hammer didn’t mess with him anymore, but came right after me.
Luke and John left soon after my brother. They were the first on the scene within seconds because they weren’t out ordering women for breakfast like I had grumpily imagined, but had been keeping my building under surveillance. It was too bad Gustav Hammerschmidt didn’t get the memo he was supposed to come from the outside to attack me.
Luke saw the turret window shatter. He was on the stairs when the first shots started. It was over by the time he burst into the attic. Like he’d told me earlier, he knew right away I was still alive. I was doing the croppy on the floor. I was wriggling like a fish out of water while trying to get my wind back and squirm out from being half buried under The Hammer’s revolting body. That image is nearly as pleasant for me to contemplate as fainting twice this weekend.
I don’t know what Luke was thinking about today’s events. He was closemouthed on the subject of The Hammer being overlooked in the police search when Reg brought it up. He was silent in general, he and John staying in the background as the police took over the scene. I was also keeping silent. This wasn’t the time or place to discuss any personal issues. I had a feeling this near death experience may drive home to Luke the necessity to lighten up on the macho madness with me in a way no casual discussion could ever get across. If not, he was too thick to ever get it.
When I was done being questioned, John waited by the stairs to leave while my unsolicited Solicitor took me aside in the foyer.
I didn’t say a word, but Luke held up a hand as if I had barraged him with a firestorm of questions. “I need to take care of some business, and then I’ll come back in an hour. We’ll talk about everything then.”
I shook my head. “No, please don’t come back before five tonight for dinner.”
Brows meeting in surprise, he rapped his knuckles against the arm of the church pew bench while digesting my blunt refusal.
“I know we have things to talk about, Luke, but I am simply not up to it. I’m all yours later tonight after dinner. Frankly, I’m not feeling very cooperative or compliant. You won’t be happy with anything I have to say right now.” I frowned up at him. “I know I won’t be happy with anything you have to say to me right now, that’s for sure.” I almost patted his jacket arm. “I’d love to really kiss you good-bye, but I know you are disgustingly smeared with dried gook in spots under your jacket. Please have a heart, get the hell out of here, and let me be alone a few hours.”
For some reason, Luke’s face lit up and he grinned broadly at my words. I heard a muffled snicker from the stairs and shot a questioning glare John’s way. His face was bland and he shrugged innocently. I sniffed. We still hadn’t been officially introduced, but I begrudgingly thanked him politely for his efforts on my behalf, fruitless as they were. He bowed slightly in return. Luke laughed as they departed down the stairs.
By eleven o’clock everyone was gone but the police. While the police followed their protocols and did their thankless, routine work; it felt good to keep busy doing my own thankless routine of work around the apartment.
The housecleaning service came on Fridays, but any woman worth her salt can always find a load of laundry that needs doing. I changed the sheets on my bed and did a pass of the guest bedroom before Crookie showed up. I found myself humming as I slowly worked. My head still hurt a little and I was going to be one sore, whining baby tomorrow, but it’s interesting how having a death threat off the table makes you appreciative of the mindlessly mundane.
Finally, the police left after taping closed the door to the attic. A few hours went by, and keeping busy also helped me sort my muddled thoughts. Not that I came to any great conclusions because I am still me. I don’t really want to change the status quo of having no definitive status quo in my life. Regardless of where Luke and I were headed, I knew I couldn’t take the “protect me for my own sake” attitude. It was a matter of trust, in my opinion, and nonnegotiable. I realized it may take some time, but Luke had to be willing to compromise on this--and mean it.
Anna texted her plan of the day was to break it off with Jim Mardsen this afternoon. Mum was the word on that score; Anna wanted to see Reggie’s face when he heard. Today, Mum was my middle name, so no problem there.
Kenna texted she was happy we were still alive as of ten o’clock this morning. She was at a friend’s in White Bear Lake and not coming to dinner.
This led to me calling Mac about Candy. That led to a thirty minute conversation about The Hammer and Cheryl Crookston, but talking with Mac was good. We’ve always been sounding boards to each other and talk over life’s issues together. My sis can be depended upon to be practical and level-headed—except for the going crazy every eighteen years part. The upside to our conversation was her reaffirmation I probably wasn’t in any imminent danger of catching some foul plague from the grossness plastered all over me upstairs. I don’t think I ate any of Gustav’s guts, or absorbed any through my eyeballs, open sores, or Queen Vicky.
The downside to my call was that it led to me being blackmailed into doing a dessert for tonight. I was making an apple crisp with a crumble topping about three inches thick. This was Diego’s favorite dessert. It was also the vig for Mac agreeing to get Candy over here sometime before five—no questions asked.
If I needed any further proof Mac is wild about her husband, her choice for dessert said it all. She’s a chocolate girl all the way. This was giving it up for love in action.
I worked in my home office for an hour on store business. Thankfully, no pedestrians were nearby when the glass fell from the turret window down onto the sidewalk. The mess was swept up and the window had been boarded shut. Due to my freakish need for control, I was happy to be the one taking care of any store related issues concerning The Hammers’s death. So what if I basically followed the same format as Luke had yesterday. The splitting hairs detail that it was me handling the issues had a way of making everything sunshiny in my w
orld.
Jazy and Tre had done themselves proud and didn’t miss an item on my grocery list. I cranked the music and got busy cooking. If I was banging pots and pans around a little louder than I normally did in the kitchen, it was for a good cause.
“Beat a Pan, Save a Man” was my new motto.
Not knowing how many would show up tonight, I’d decided on soup, salad, and breadsticks for the menu. I finished the chicken wild rice soup, with a smaller pot of mushroom wild rice soup for the non-flesh eaters. My salad greens were washed and chilling, I whisked together the raspberry vinaigrette, sliced strawberries, red onion, and a Gouda cheese, made cracked black pepper croutons, and toasted some walnuts in a little honey. I prepared rosemary breadsticks ready for the oven, and. I whipped up several pots of herb butter.
Cooking is zen-like for me. I wouldn’t want to cook three squares a day for a large brood, but I loved having dinner parties and entertaining in my apartment. As I whisked and diced and boiled and stirred, I let my mind free fall where it would.
‘Geez Louise, we have long phone conversations. What could possibly be the reason for Luke keeping a law degree hush-hush? Did he have so many talents and degrees he couldn’t keep track of them all? Who can keep secrets like that, anyway? Most men bragged their butts off until you wanted to pay them to stop! He was a damn, tight-lipped freak of nature--was what he was.’
Peeling and cutting up the Honey Crisp apples, I absently munched on a juicy slice as I then recalled a comment I wanted Reggie to expand on from yesterday. It niggled and wouldn’t stop, so I called him.
He was vegging out watching the game but it was a commercial break, so I was absolved. Courtesies were exchanged. We agreed we each felt much better now. We agreed we would refer to The Hammer’s murder as a joint effort to keep the peace between us.
Then I asked, “What did you mean yesterday in reference to Cheryl Crookston when you said she was a ‘ditch-digging whore’?”
“Ah, yes. How erudite of me. Jack nailed Cheryl for a DUI awhile back. She got fined and sentenced to do some community service hours. It was picking up trash in the ditches on the side of roads. She tried to get out of it.”
I smiled at that scenario. I also complimented Reg on his impressive usage of last Friday’s “Word-of-the-Day”. Jazy had jokingly given us all the same calendars last Christmas in our respective stockings.
“Oh yeah, how did that work for Cheryl?”
“I think she offered up her services to Jack in another capacity. Well, you know ol’ Jack,” Reggie’s voice was ripe with innuendo, “the job always comes first. Cheryl did her time in the ditches.”
I snickered, but my hands stilled for a beat in the process of combining the crumble topping ingredients. I thought of my brother’s streaked blonde hair and husky, muscular build. I couldn’t believe where my Law and Order SUV voice in my head was leading me. No wonder his comment had niggled in the back of my mind.
Reg’s hair is like mine. It’s streaked with different colors from the darkest brown to whitest blonde. The white blonde streaks dominate the more sun we get. Since he works outdoors throughout much of the year, his top layer of hair is often bleached platinum blonde by the sun.
“Huh.” was my less than erudite reply. I got busy again cutting in the softened sticks of butter with the flour, brown sugar, chopped pecans, and spices. This was going to be the mother of a huge pan of apple crisp happiness.
I asked casually, “Off topic, do you ever lend out your truck to friends? For instance, speaking of Jack; does he ever borrow your work truck to get supplies when he’s doing projects around his place?”
“Tell me you aren’t thinking of borrowing my truck?”
“You’re too funny.”
Chuckling, he said, “Sure, he’s used my truck lots of times. Why do you ask?”
With perfect timing, I heard a roar of cheering from the television in the background. “I hear the game’s back on, so I’ll talk to you later. Bye!”
‘Was I really thinking Jack was the man in bed with Cheryl Crookston the night Crookie spied on her?’
I didn’t want to even contemplate Jack could be Cheryl’s killer. I shook off that disquieting thought after telling my detective voice it had better shut up, or we would tangle. However, if he was the man Crookie saw it sure explained why he was so determined to control what information I received on her murder. I could easily see him writhing in embarrassment if I found out he had been screwing her. She was a girl my age, not only married to one of my friends, but a woman that he had also arrested.
My smile outdid a Cheshire cat. ‘Jack, Jack, Oh Jack.’
With a lighter heart, and singing along with Sara Barilles because she begged me from my iPod, I cautiously danced around and cleaned up. Finished with KP duty, I went to change out of my flour dusted yoga pants and T shirt. I had fun over the next hour doing girly-girl stuff.
I scrutinized my closet offerings. I chose a royal blue, gauzy peasant blouse stitched with black velvet embroidery. The shirt has an empire neckline and sheer, black embroidered sleeves. It was an exotically fanciful shirt; and it billowed when I twirled. I felt like a pregnant, gypsy queen. A perfect choice it you planned on eating a lot, or dancing around a campfire. I wove my clean, shining hair in a loose side braid that hung down my front, and tied off the end with a black silk ribbon.
Going with the gypsy theme, I put on make-up to accent what I consider my best features; my eyes. Not only have I been blessed with two of them, but they’re a dark blue color with touches of gray. I have long black lashes and dark, naturally arching brows. Otherwise, I like my face, but it’s nothing extraordinary to write home about.
NanaBel and her friends say I have the look of a young Ann-Margaret. Most people my age have no clue who a young Ann-Margaret is unless they’ve watched old Elvis Presley movies. I don’t know who I resembled, but I would best describe my looks in more modern terms as the girl-next-door type, only with a D cup.
Putting on dangly earrings made of lapis lazuli, I heard the sound of the apartment door bell. Checking my cell, I saw it was 3:45 PM. It was Reggie and I buzzed him up.
He arrived at the top of the stairs with two six-packs. “I was bored after the game, and I decided to come over early to bug you.”
“Oh, lucky me.” I scooted past his half-hearted swipe with a laugh, we were both still moving a little slower than normal. “Do me a favor? Go taste the soup and tell me if it needs anything, would you please? I’ll be right there.” I called back over my shoulder, “But do not add anything yourself, Salty Sam, or I’ll go for your femoral.”
“You can try, but it may be awfully hard with the back of your head blown off.” Reggie responded as he went to taste.
From my bedroom, I heard the TV flipped on in the living room. Sports blared. My alone time, rejuvenating afternoon was officially over. I was leaving the bathroom when the doorbell rang again. Reggie beat me to the master station.
He threw me an odd look as he spoke into the intercom, “Hang on a minute.” He motioned me over with his head. “Junior, come here.” He stepped aside for me to peer at the small screen. “Is that Mike McClain?”
I took a quick glance and saw a tiny image of Mike McClain for the first time in almost ten years. My first reaction was to stand back, as if burned.
Recovering from my shock, I murmured, “He’s moved back to town recently.”
“Hey, that’s great! Should I buzz him up?”
I heard the note of eagerness in Reg’s voice. When he was in his teens, my brother had hero worshipped the older Mike. He was the older brother Reg never had, but always wanted.
I had triumphed over a murdering rapist today, Mike McClain was small potatoes. “I guess.”
Reg pressed the intercom. “Mike, this is Reg. I’m buzzing both doors unlocked. Come on up, man!”
I waited at the top of the stairs, but Reggie went down to the landing in his excitement at seeing Mike. Their hearty greetings and backsl
apping echoed loudly in the stairwell. It was strange hearing Mike’s voice again in my apartment after all this time. Luke’s voice was low and deeper, a baritone. Mike’s was a tenor. He still sounded laid back and friendly, a man at his ease in any social situation. He is a practicing corporate lawyer with clients to charm, so I’m sure his natural openness was fine tuned over the intervening years.
“Reg, it’s good seeing you! What are you up to these days?” When his eyes looked up to see me at the top of the stairs, Mike stopped speaking. A smile burst across his face. He recovered his stride and came up to where I was standing. I didn’t return his smile, but waited politely.
“Hello, Bel.” he said softly.
Mike’s about six-feet tall, athletic, solid and muscular. Anna would be happy I could see for myself he was neither fat nor balding. The scumbag looked great. He had fully matured into the man he was just promising to become at twenty. Back then, he was considered boy-band worthy by my girlfriends. Mike was one of those rare golden blondes with dark brows and a dark brown beard—not blonde or red. I could not watch the TV series “LOST” when it aired, even though Anna and Mac raved over it and never missed a week for years. Mike was a dead ringer for the character Sawyer. The resemblance was too eerie and too much of a reminder.
“Mike.” I replied evenly, stepping back a little.
Mike ran a hand through his hair, shorter now and more golden brown than blonde. He probably didn’t spend the summer outdoors working construction anymore. The nervous gesture was familiar, though, and I felt a tug of remembrance before I shut it down.
He flashed a self-deprecating smile. “Thanks for agreeing to see me today. I know it’s rude to stop by this way, but I couldn’t wait to talk to you. I took a chance you’d be here, or in the store. I noticed the store’s closed early today.”