Bette, on the other hand, was filling her cart with the makings of what appeared to be a sumptuous Italian dinner. Wide flat noodles, tomatoes, basil, ground beef and lamb, French bread, olive oil spread, ricotta, mozzarella, parmesan . . .
“You going to invite Tonya and me over to help you eat all that?” I grinned at her.
Her eyes crinkled. “Actually, this is my prebreakup dinner for Dent. He loves my cooking. Might as well give him one last nosh. But I’ll be happy to make up a second batch for you to take home tomorrow morning.”
My mouth watered. Bette could cook. Bette could cook like a champ. “Yeah, that would be awesome. Not too much garlic, though. Alex can smell it on me a mile away.”
“You’ll notice I don’t have any in my cart. Onions, I will use, but because I work with Alex, I long ago gave up on garlic.” She paused, in the middle of the baking aisle, and turned to me. “You need to understand something about Alex. It’s frustrating and kind of makes you want to kill the guy, but the fact is, he loves women. I am not saying he’s a horndog. Actually, it’s the opposite. Alex has a hero complex. He likes to rescue women. It’s in his nature and he doesn’t realize it. In fact, he’d deny it if you told him. But I’ve seen it time and again. That’s how we met.”
I hadn’t heard this story before. “How so?”
She started pushing her cart forward again. “You know I’m from Greece, right?”
I nodded. Bette had mentioned that she was originally from the Greek islands, and the way she hinted, she had been alive for a lot longer than Alex. Other than that, she never spoke of her past.
“I was traveling the world when I met Alex. I had taken a boat to Australia after a spate of bad luck. When I arrived in Sydney, I met Alex one night in a bar. He was hanging out with some friends when I came in. Some perv tried to force me to kiss him, and before I could, Alex decked him a good one. We got to talking, and ended up walking all night long and getting to know one another. But I think . . . the fact that he ‘rescued’ me set us up to talk in the first place.”
I stopped at the deli to grab chicken and jo-jo potatoes for dinner. I added some coleslaw for Tonya and a lemon meringue pie. Then, realizing we’d need something when we woke up in the evening, I added a box of doughnuts and several pints of berries. I had bacon and sausage at home, so that would be perfect.
“Do you think . . . do you think he feels he rescued me?” The thought nagged at me. Yes, the Wing-Liege had dumped me on Alex’s doorstep, but that wasn’t quite the same as rescuing. Was it? My thoughts must have been apparent on my face, because Bette turned to me.
“You don’t owe Alex your life, if that’s what you think—and he doesn’t for the moment believe anything of the sort. Yes, he agreed to take you on, but the Wing-Liege wouldn’t have forced the issue if he had said no. And you pull your weight around the office, girl. Never think that you don’t. Alex respects you.” She added a tub of whipped topping to my cart. “But the problem is that Alex still feels responsible for Glenda. She managed to brainwash him at the start, and I imagine she’s going to try to reinforce that. Once she gets him off guard, she’ll be out to do whatever she can to make you miserable.”
“Chai thinks I’m her target, too.” We headed toward the cashier.
“You are. Listen to him.” And with that, the conversation was over and we checked out, then headed to Stacy’s.
* * *
The house Stacy shared with her mother and brother was up in Shoreline—which, while it was its own incorporated city, was still part of Seattle as far as general opinion was concerned. They lived on 202nd Place, off Richmond Road, in a house that her family had owned for forty-five years.
Bette and I carried the bags to the front door. A moment later, Stacy answered, a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She looked like hell and her cough was deep and phlegmy.
We carried the food into the kitchen. “No, you don’t. You sit down and tell me where you want these,” I said as Stacy moved to unpack the bags.
“Fine, bossy. How much do I owe you?”
I shrugged. “I have no idea. I already owed you for two dinners and a bunch of coffees. Call it even?”
She frowned, but then, with a soft sigh, gave in. “I’m too tired to argue it. And truth is, with me being off work—and with no sick leave—this is taking a bite out of my pay. Thanks, Shimmer. But I get to buy dinner next time.”
“Deal.” I tucked the groceries in the cupboards, fridge, and freezer. “What do you want to eat? While we’re here, we might as well heat something up for you.”
Bette shooed us into the living room. “She needs some good hot soup and tea. The pair of you leave it to me and go talk.”
I glanced around. I had been to Stacy’s house once, but only briefly. She usually stopped in at my house when she got off work, so we wouldn’t disturb her mother. Speaking of . . .
“Where’s Emily?”
“She’s still asleep. She had a rough night.” She glanced at the clock. It was seven thirty.
“Right.” I waited until Stacy had curled up in the rocking chair, then handed her a blanket. She wrapped it over her, leaning her head back against the cushion. Her coughs were jarring, but I knew that was the nature of bronchitis.
I wandered over to the mantel. The living room felt weathered, but it was cozy, and the fireplace mantel was covered with family pictures. One was a picture of three women. I recognized one as a much younger Stacy. The second woman was, I thought, Emily. The third was an elderly woman with dark, rich skin and salt-and-pepper hair. “Who’s the older woman?”
“That’s Grandma Hailey. Hailey Noble—she was the first woman in our family to own property of her own. Grandpa Jack died young. I think Mom said he died in 1968—a bad car crash. Grandma Hailey took their savings and the insurance money and bought this house. Mom’s sister, Crystal, is married to a lawyer and living in New York.”
“Is your grandmother still alive?”
Stacy nodded, interrupting with a coughing fit. After a drink of water, she continued.
“Grandma Hailey decided she wanted to travel the world. When Mom was pregnant with Martin and began to develop multiple sclerosis, our father ran off. So Grandma deeded the house over to Mom in a trust that stipulates it will always remain in Mom’s name. When she passes it down to one of us, we have to agree that if we are married, our spouse—or any fiancé—has to sign a prenup excluding it from community property. The house is paid for, and Grandma Hailey pays the property taxes, so Mom will always have a place to live.” She frowned, toying with the edge of the blanket. Her mother’s condition weighed heavy on her mind. That, I had known from the first day we met.
“I wish I knew more about my relatives.” Once again, the feeling of being isolated—a random blip in the universe—stole over me. “How far back can you trace your family?”
Stacy glanced over at me. “Back to 1840. Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandmother Hessie—4G Hessie we call her, to make it easier—was a slave in South Carolina. After the Civil War, she and her husband made their way up to New York. It wasn’t until 1935 that my Great-Great-Grandpa Thomas got a job out here in Seattle, working on the docks as the city began to grow as a major port. He brought his family west, and our family has been here ever since.”
I let out a slow breath. I wasn’t sure how to approach the fact that her ancestor had been a slave. I knew that among humans, race was still a touchy issue—though the influx of Fae and Supes had kind of eclipsed it. A number of the hate brigade found it easier to target the Supes than the blacks or Asians or Hispanics. The differences were more obvious, and the us-versus-them mentality liked to latch onto those things. Then again, when I looked at my own kind, prejudice wasn’t so much based on color—though that played a distinct part in the hierarchy—but lineage.
“Actually, when I think about it, my kind are as racist as humans.
Though it’s a bit different, it’s still based on color and lineage. Whites are the low dragons on the ladder . . . silver at the top.” Shaking my head, I shrugged.
At that moment, Bette carried in a tray with a steaming mug of soup on it, along with some buttered toast and a cup of peppermint tea. “Here you go.” She edged it down onto a TV tray, then pulled it to where Stacy could reach it. “Get some of the broth in you, at least. And the tea.”
Stacy gave her a wan smile. “Thank you. I really didn’t expect you guys to wait on me hand and foot.”
“Of course you didn’t. But we’re doing it anyway.” I motioned to Bette and she settled in on the other end of the sofa. “Tell us if we’re keeping you from sleeping. You need to rest.”
“The company does me good. I love my mother but to be honest, we’re very different people and I need somebody else to talk to. And Martin is so busy with his schoolwork that I don’t want to take up his time.” She ladled up a spoonful of the soup and tasted it, then smiled. “I love this brand—it always reminds me of my childhood.”
As Stacy set to eating, Bette asked, “What is your brother studying?”
“He wants to be a lawyer—he’s studying law and politics. And that’s not cheap. He’s on a full scholarship right now at the University of Washington, going for his degree in criminal justice. Then he’ll apply to law school at the UW. By then, we’re hoping he’ll qualify for some sort of internship or scholarship or some way to help him pay for it. He’s a straight-A student.” She ate one piece of the toast, coughing as she swallowed, and then finished the soup. “I think I’m getting sleepy now.”
“That’s because you should be in bed.” The voice from the door echoed through the room—a rich, throaty voice. The woman it belonged to was in a wheelchair. She was dressed in a pair of olive green trousers and a rust-colored V-neck sweater. It was Emily, Stacy’s mother.
She was a handsome woman, stately, with short curly hair cropped close to her head, and she looked tired but still had a smile on her face. “Shimmer, good morning.” Her gaze traveled over Bette, and I caught the faintest glimpse of disapproval, but she merely nodded and extended her hand. “I’m Emily, Stacy’s mother.”
Bette crossed to meet her. “I’m Bette. I work with Shimmer.”
“Mom, you should have called me—” Stacy started to say, but Emily cut her off.
“Nonsense. If I needed you, I would have called you. I had a rough night, but I’m feeling a bit better now.” She sniffed. “Do I smell soup?”
“Would you like some? We brought over some groceries so Stacy wouldn’t have to go shopping.” I started to stand but she waved me back into my chair.
“Relax. I can get it myself.” She glanced over at Stacy, then held her finger to her lips and nodded. Stacy had dozed off. “I wish I could get her into bed without waking her.”
While Emily didn’t know I was a dragon, she did know I wasn’t human. “I can take care of that, if you’ll let me.” I carefully lifted Stacy and carried her back to her bedroom—the house was ranch style, all on one level—and tucked her in. Stacy must have been exhausted because she didn’t even flutter her eyes.
When I returned to the living room, Bette was deep in conversation with Emily. They were discussing some TV show I’d never heard of, with a fierceness that made me wonder if I shouldn’t be watching it.
“I tell you right now, they never should have gotten rid of Agent Gideon.” Emily’s voice was firm, and she shot Bette a cool, scathing look.
“He wanted to leave the show—it wasn’t like they could hog-tie him to the set. And you have to admit, Rossi isn’t all that hard on the eyes,” Bette parried, winking.
“Whoever Rossi and Gideon are, they need to wait. Bette, we have to go. I should get my groceries home before anything goes bad. Emily, it’s always wonderful to talk to you. Call if you need anything. We all want Stacy up and running around again, and it’s no trouble to drop over if you need help.” I jerked my head toward Bette. “Move it, woman.”
Bette snorted. “Hold your britches, sugar pie.” To Emily, she said, “It was nice to meet you. Maybe we should have a Criminal Minds marathon sometime. Watch from the beginning.”
“I’d like that. Stacy has no time for TV, and my son . . . he’s immersed in his schoolwork. None of my book club members share my interest in crime shows.” By the tinge in her voice, I could tell that Emily didn’t get much company.
Bette handed her one of her business cards. “Absolutely. Call me when you’re interested. I own all the seasons so far on DVD. We can settle ourselves in front of television with something good to eat and continue debating the merits of Rossi versus Gideon.”
And with that, we were off. As we headed back toward my house, I thought about the friends I had made since I had been exiled Earthside, and was suddenly very glad I had stolen from Greanfyr, even if it had put me in danger.
CHAPTER 10
By the time I woke up and began getting ready for work, Tonya was awake. She had slept well and was nose-deep in her laptop, waiting at the table. Chai had made breakfast out of the food I’d brought—sliced strawberries and whipped cream with doughnuts. My mouth watered. Mostly, I preferred meat, but now and then sweets caught my fancy. I slid into a chair and snagged a strawberry from the plate, popping it into my mouth.
Tonya looked up. “I’ve been looking up the past of the house across the street. There are some interesting facts I found out about Mary that she didn’t tell us.”
“Who was she? There really was a Mary?” I began filling my plate as Chai brought me a cup of coffee. He refilled Tonya’s mug and then sat down with us.
“Oh, there was a Mary all right, but the story she gave you isn’t quite the story that actually played out. Mary Smith—yes, I know, laugh.” She paused, grinning.
“Why should I laugh?” I was confused as to what was so funny.
“Mary Smith? Oh, right . . . over here, at least in this country, Smith is one of the most common surnames there is and a lot of people use it as an alias when they don’t want people to know who they are. Mary’s also a common name for a girl. So Mary Smith is . . .”
“Like an assumed name. Got it.” I filed the information away for future reference. It wasn’t so much the big differences that caught me up, but the small ones.
“Right. Anyway, Mary Smith lived in that house, all right, and she did have children there, but in 1938, when she was forty, she killed her husband and her children with an axe. The baby boy was never found, but they assume she killed him, too. Mary Smith is a lovely, sweet axe murderer. She claimed that they were demons in disguise and that she had to kill them to save their lives. She managed to cop an insanity plea, though most researchers are fairly sure she was sane as you or I.”
“So our ghost was an axe murderess? Shades of Lizzie Borden.” Chai shook his head.
I wasn’t sure who Lizzie Borden was but kept my mouth shut.
Tonya nodded, scanning the article. “According to this, Mary was committed to the Greenbelt Park Asylum and kept in the ward for the criminally insane. Which is smack central in your Greenbelt Park District—37501 Sythica Street. Apparently the asylum owner and his son spent fifty years tormenting the patients until there was a revolt. A group of patients seized control of the institution, killed the administrator, and slaughtered a bunch of other inmates. Then one of them, Silas Johanson, who was also a murderer, managed to burn the place to the ground by . . . well, it looks like he screwed around with the boiler in the basement and it blew up. Massive gas explosion. Three hundred fifty-seven patients died, along with twenty-five guards and twenty-four staff members. This took place in 1959, so Mary would have been sixty-one, but she probably didn’t age well.”
I tried to imagine the mayhem, but the images didn’t set well. “So Mary either burned to death or was killed by another inmate.”
“Righ
t.”
“Do you think she remembers what happened? Maybe she’s tried to blot it out because she realized what she did to her family and it pushed her over the edge. I’m not sure if ghosts can have PTSD, but . . .”
“I don’t know,” Tonya said, scanning the rest of the article. “She maintained to the very end that she didn’t kill her baby boy. But she couldn’t tell them where to find him.”
I thought over what she said. “So does it stand to pass that all people who are dangerous or psychopathic in life remain that way after death? There’s so much to this that I don’t understand.”
Chai shrugged. “That, I would like to know, too. I make it a point to have as little to do with spirits as I can. But I will tell you this: I feel like you just uncovered the tip of the iceberg about what’s going on over there. I don’t often get spooked, but right now I’m spooked.”
I turned to Tonya. “How far away are we from the Greenbelt Park Asylum? I never heard about it till now.”
Tonya pulled up Mapsi—one of the newest, best maps programs on the Internet. “You are seven blocks away from what’s left. The place was pretty much destroyed. Not very far from here, really. As to your questions about spirits keeping their natures after death, I don’t think anybody knows the answer to that. Unfortunately, this isn’t Beetlejuice and we don’t have a handbook to the afterlife.”
I glanced at the clock. “I have to get to work. You were going to come with me to tell us about your stalker?”
She closed her laptop. “Yeah, but can we take breakfast with us? It was too good not to have another doughnut.” As she gathered her things, Chai made up a boxed lunch for us, along with more doughnuts, berries, and cream, and I slid into my jacket and made sure I had everything I needed.
“Bring your laptop. You can always hang out in the office and use our Wi-Fi.”
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