I Spy a Demon

by Keta Diablo

  With her last breath she'd find out what Calder, Marcel and Elliott were keeping from her. She wouldn't quit until she knew how her brother really died.

  * * *

  Cecily found Mae in the kitchen reading the newspaper with a steaming cup of coffee beside her. “Good morning, Mae.”

  Peering over the paper, Mae smiled. “Morning, dear. How did you sleep?”

  “Better than I thought I would. I'm sure my familiar childhood bed had something to do with that.”

  Mae wiggled out of the chair, crossed to the counter and poured her a cup of coffee. “Two creams, just as you like it,” she said returning to set the cup down in front of her.

  Cecily took a sip and looked up. “Mae, do you think I could use your car for a while today?”

  “Of course, but why don't you take Gus' Ford Escape parked next to mine in the garage? In fact, use it as long as you're home.”

  “Thanks.”

  Mae’s long, silver hair flounced when she nodded toward a rack near the outside door. “Keys with the yellow ring. Where you off to?”

  “Oh, nowhere in particular; thought I'd head downtown, do a little shopping.”

  “Sounds lovely. I'd join you but I have Garden Club this afternoon at Miranda Whiteside's. You remember her, don't you, dear?”

  Cecily smiled. “Oh, yes. I always picture her picking daisies in heels and pruning roses in the evening gown she wore to last night's Metro Opera performance.”

  “I think that sums her up perfectly.” Mae came to her feet. “I'll see you at dinner tonight.”

  “Yes, six o'clock.”

  As soon as Mae pulled out of the garage, Cecily called Iowa State University of Science and Technology and made an appointment with a metallurgist, a man by the name of Stephen Oliver. She had to speak to him about the dagger, see if he could shed light on the ominous knife. Although on summer break, the man seemed more than eager to meet with her that very afternoon.

  Forty-one miles and an hour later, she pulled into Ames, followed the directions to the parking lot at the University and then entered the building where Oliver said to meet him. The man was younger than he sounded on the phone. Brown hair met the collar of his white shirt and matched the color of his eyes. The round face enhanced his youth, but the thick, black-framed glasses screamed academic geek or major book nerd. She hoped an intellectual brain went along with that scholarly appearance.

  “Have a seat Miss...?”

  “Cecily, Cecily Sizemore. Thanks so much for agreeing to see me.”

  “I hope I can be of help.”

  She settled into a chair on the other side of his desk. “Me, too.”

  “You mentioned you'd like to know a little about a knife you came across.”

  “Dagger, I believe, but first, tell me what a metallurgist does.”

  “Of course. I take it for granted people know.” Elbows on the desk, he leaned forward. “Most don't. We like to call ourselves scientists who specialize in metals, steel, aluminum, iron and copper. We work with alloys too, metals mixed with each other, or other elements to create materials with specific properties.”

  “Sounds complicated. Do you perform a lot of your work in the field, you know, architectural digs and that sort of thing?”

  He sighed. “Unfortunately, no. We spend most of our time in offices, laboratories and manufacturing facilities...or like me, in a college setting. A small percentage work for the Federal Government.” He extended an arm across the desk and opened his hand. “So, the dagger, as you call it, I assume you brought it?”

  She dug in her bag and placed it in his hand. And then she watched his expressions change as he studied it. He flipped it over several times, held it up to the light overhead and then turned it this way and that. Next, he lifted his hand up and then lowered it, as if weighing its worth. While she squirmed in the chair, she wondered what his silence meant. She did her best to tamp down her accelerated heartbeat. “Well?” she said after a lengthy time ensued. “What do you think?”

  He examined the blade, ran his hand over the twisted serpent on the pearl handle and at last, blew a light whistle. “It's quite detailed, isn't it?”

  “Yes, what do you suppose those designs mean on the handle?”

  “They're symbols, religious or perhaps mythological. I need to examine them under a microscope before I commit.” Dagger still in hand, he lifted his chin and caught her eyes. Fudge. The color of his reminded her of chocolate fudge. “Where did you say you got this?”

  “I didn't, but it's been in the family for years. When my aunt died, she left it to me.” She hated to lie but until she knew whether or not the dagger was related to Calder's death, she wanted to play it safe.

  “As I said, I need to examine the piece up close. Any chance you'd be willing to leave it for a day or two? I'll be happy to write out a receipt that it's on temporary loan to the University...the Department.”

  “Yes, I can do that. You said you'd look closely at the symbols but will you be able to determine what it's made from?”

  His mocking smile made him look even more boyish. “I didn't say, but yes, I should be able to come up with a breakdown of metals.”

  Cecily stood and offered a hand. “Thank you. If you'd be so kind to write out that receipt, I'll return in two days for your analysis. What do I owe you?”

  “Oh, nothing. I can't take money for this, against the rules and all that.” He dipped his chin and looked over those ebony frames. “However, if you'd like to make a donation to the college, I wouldn't object.”

  “I'll hit the office on my way out,” she said with a vigorous nod. “Thank you, Mr. Oliver.”

  “You're welcome. Send me a text on Friday and I'll meet you here again.”

  “Have a good day.”

  “And you, Miss Sizemore.”

  After slumping behind the wheel of the Escape, Cecily expelled a long breath. She relived the many expressions that had crossed Oliver's face as he turned the dagger over in his hands. A flash of surprise flitted through his eyes and then they widened. He seemed to compose himself after that, working hard, in her opinion, to school his features. She tapped her lips with a finger. Did he know a lot more at first glance than he let on?

  Seconds later, she turned the key in the ignition and drove from the parking lot.

  Next on her agenda, a meeting with Mr. Bridger at the mortuary.

  Chapter Four

  Cecily hated the smell of funeral homes. Since her arrival home, deceit hung in the air, but here, death reeked from every corner and crevice. She pushed the memories of her parents' funeral to the back of her mind and greeted Clarence Bridger with a handshake. He looked the same as he had at Calder's funeral, different color shirt, different pair of trousers, but the same tall, lean, slightly balding middle-aged man.

  “Miss Sizemore, nice to see you again.”

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”

  He stretched an arm toward a door. “Why don't we have a seat in my office?”

  She skirted the man and slumped into a chair near his desk while he settled into one behind it. “You mentioned you had a few questions. What can I help you with?”

  “Did you receive a death certificate with Calder's...?” A lump froze her throat. “Calder's body?”

  He shook his head. “I'm sorry to say I can't be of much help there. The death certificate would be filed in the county where he died, not here. If you want a copy, I can help you send for one.”

  “Thank you but I'll contact the St. Louis County Clerk to obtain one.”

  He opened a folder on his desk, his eyes scanning a piece of paper. “My notes from the coroner say Calder died in Washington County, near Irondale, Missouri.”

  Thump. Thump, kerplunk went her heart. “Irondale? I thought-I thought Marcel said they were visiting St. Louis.”

  “They probably were and took a side trip to Irondale.”

  Cecily rubbed her clammy hands. “It would seem so if Calder died there
.”

  “I've been down that way once or twice. If memory serves me, Irondale isn't far from St. Louis, an hour by car.”

  “What's in Irondale? I mean is it a tourist town or—?”

  “Irondale?” He gave a short laugh and shook his head. “No, I'd say it's more like a small town. I don't recall anything that stood out or caught my interest. Guess they had a boy scout camp there some years back.” He cocked his head to the side and his eyes narrowed. “Are you all right, Miss Sizemore?”

  No, I'm sick to my stomach and getting worse by the minute. “Yes, fine, thank you.”

  “If you're intent on securing that death certificate, you should know, Irondale and St. Louis are in different counties. You'll need to contact the County Seat for Washington County, and that would be Potosi.”

  “Potosi, thank you.” Cecily dreaded asking the next question but pressed on. “Mr. Bridger, Mae said she brought you clothing for Calder so you could dress him for....”

  “Burial. Yes, she did.” Compassion edged his words. “In the end, Marcel and Mae decided on the closed casket. I'm sorry you weren't able to see your brother.”

  “Marcel said you agreed with that decision.”

  “Sometimes it's best if we remember our loved ones as they were in life, especially....”

  “Especially what? Please continue.”

  “Miss Sizemore, I don't think—”

  “I need to know, Mr. Bridger.” She looked into his eyes. “I assure you I can handle the truth.”

  His eyes darted left to right, just like Marcel's had at the cemetery when she pressed him for answers. “Very well. He had multiple injuries to the head and body, and....”

  “Go on.”

  “His skull and torso were crushed, neck broken.” He blew air through his lips. “Multiple contusions, deep cuts and abrasions.”

  Her mouth went dry. Did he say deep cuts and abrasions? She tried to imagine under what circumstances someone would have deep cuts from a car accident. “I see. Where were the deep cuts?”

  “I-I don't see how this will help you in your grief.”

  Her voice hardened. “Where, Mr. Bridger?”

  “Everywhere.”

  “What does that mean...everywhere? On his torso, his legs? How about his back? There too?”

  Bridger nodded.

  “Marcel said he found him. Did he give you any explanation, like perhaps Calder flew through the windshield?”

  “I believe he said he found your brother in the vehicle, pinned behind the steering wheel. The broken ribs and broken thigh bone could have happened under such circumstances.”

  Her heart launched into triple beats and her shin bones took on a familiar ache. Bridger squirmed in the chair as if he too sensed what Marcel told him about the accident didn't add up to Calder's horrific injuries.

  A haze clouded her thoughts, as if a heavy fog had crept up from the river and crawled inside her brain. Broken ribs, broken thigh? She didn't know how much more she could absorb. “But the deep cuts and abrasions?”

  His eyes closed for a brief moment. When he opened them, they were watery? “Look, I don't see how reliving all this will help you. Calder was your twin, and I know how close twins are. People say they're bonded for life once they share a womb.”

  “Yes, and it's because of that bond I must know the truth. Something doesn't add up here. I've known Marcel most of my life. He's always close-mouthed, plays his cards close to his chest, but it's because I know him so well—”

  “You feel he's keeping something from you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe because he wants to shield you from—”

  “I don't want him to shield me when it comes to Calder. Don't you understand, until I know how my beloved brother died, I'll never be at peace?”

  “I'm sorry, so sorry.”

  “Look at me, Mr. Bridger.”

  His head came up, his filmy eyes meeting hers.

  “Do you think the injuries you just described are the result of a car accident?”

  “That's not for me to determine, Miss Sizemore. The coroner who did the autopsy determined the cause of death.”

  “I'm asking for your opinion.”

  “It's possible, I suppose, the broken glass, the impact....”

  She came to her feet and looked down at him. “But not likely. Am I correct, Mr. Bridger?”

  Beads of sweat marred his forehead and he wrung his hands. “If I had received the body, performed the autopsy, I could offer you my best opinion, but I did not. Calder was sent here to be prepared for burial only. Marcel and Mae insisted the casket be sealed. I always abide by the family's wishes.”

  “Well, that's the thing, Mr. Bridger. I'm Calder's family, his only blood.” She extended an arm and offered her hand. “Thank you; you've been a big help. I mean that.”

  She turned to leave and pivoted around when he called her name. “I'm so sorry about Calder. Living in Des Moines, you get to know a lot of people. Your brother was one of the nicest young men I ever had the privilege of knowing.”

  Tears rushed forward when his sweet face loomed behind her eyelids. “He was, wasn't he? Have a nice day, Mr. Bridger.”

  * * *

  With Mr. Bridger's words ringing in her ears, 'Mae and Marcel decided on the closed casket', Cecily rode home in a daze. What did Mae know about all this? Was she somehow involved in this conspiratorial mystery? No, it wasn't possible. Mae loved her and Calder, had given up so much to take them in, raise them, and never once made them feel as if they were outsiders.

  She pulled into the long drive and parked the Escape in the three-car detached garage. Since coming home, memories chased her at every turn. Eons ago, Mae said the room above the garage served as servants' quarters. Since Gus and Mae had no need of servants, they turned the massive space into a special play area for Marcel, Elliott, Calder and her.

  In the long run, the room had become much more than a playroom; it was also the place she and Marcel first had sex. One could never call such an encounter with Marcel making love. Like everything he did in life, Marcel went after what he wanted and took it without limits or control. She did nothing to stop him that first time...or at any time during their two-year relationship. He was an addiction she couldn’t seem to break, like the pitiful heroin junkie who kept coming back for more.

  Home from college that fateful weekend, she opted to stay in the playhouse to prepare for an impending exam. More importantly, she needed to sort through her tumultuous feelings for the exasperating Marcel. She'd warred with those powerful emotions for years, thought certain when she started college at nineteen (after a year of aimless wandering) she'd get over him, perhaps meet someone new who’d dispel all thoughts of the man from her mind.

  How wrong she'd been.

  With a lone candle burning in her private sanctuary, she stood at the window commiserating with the stars. She felt a presence in the room. Looking back, she shouldn't have been surprised to turn and see Marcel standing there. He moved like a silent panther, a creature with stealth and cunning when circumstances called for it, and like the force of a fucking hurricane when he wanted to make a point.

  His whiskey-laced voice drifted across the room. 'Did you think a locked door could keep me out, Cecily?'

  He came to her hard and fast, without speaking another word. He took her against the wall in a wild tangle of limbs and bodies. Their lips meshed, as if God, herself, had created the perfect melding of their mouths. Arms flailed in wild abandonment, eager to strip away every shred of clothing in a brazen testament to their unrequited love. She matched him deed for deed, his punishing kisses, his forceful assault on her body. She took as much as she gave, without pretense, without regret.

  And without a single word spoken during the fierce joining.

  When at last he pulled away from her, they panted like dogs after chasing down a rabbit. With his hands on the wall near her head, their eyes locked and held. He reached down and tilted her chin up, th
ose silver orbs burning through her soul. “You're mine, always have been, and I'm yours. Stop running from this crazy thing between us. Next time you come home for the weekend, you'll sleep in my bed, you got that, Cecily?”

  Shaken to the very core of her being, she managed a feeble nod before he turned from her and walked from the room. She would have told herself it was all a dream if not for the way her lips ached for hours, if not for the bruises marring her tender flesh from their feral joining. Like a stupid, stupid girl, she went to Marcel's bed after that, fell so hard and so deep she imagined crawling outta Hell would be easier than leaving Marcel.

  Until Calder showed up one day on campus.

  Cutting across the central courtyard for her next class, she came to an abrupt halt. The familiar chatburst call of the Mockingbird rang in the air─a secret bird call she and Calder had used for years. Knowing instinctively her brother was near, she turned in the direction of the sound. Dressed in a white cotton V-neck and worn blue jeans, Calder stood next to a thick-trunked oak sporting a boyish grin. She didn’t have to ask how he’d found her on such a large campus. Twins had an innate familiar when sniffing out their doubles. She walked toward him, acutely aware the cheeky grin faded and a somber expression crossed his fine-boned features.

  What is he doing here?

  Eyebrows low, he caught her eyes. “Got time for lunch?”

  “Not really. I'm on my way to class.”

  “Take time, Cecily. I need to talk to you.”

  Something was wrong. Like always, she felt his emotions—panic, desperation, and fear. For who...her? Her heartbeat kicked into high gear. “You’re scaring me, Calder.”

  He shrugged, but she knew his body language well. Whatever he was about to say would change her life. She felt it in her bones.

  “Come on, I’m parked over here.” He led her toward a nearby side street and opened the passenger door of his car. “Climb in; we'll grab a hamburger.”