Declination

by Gregory Ashe

“Why the fuck did he go to—” North squinted, pinching the screen. “Ste. Genevieve?”

  “Exactly!”

  “That’s not really an answer.”

  “A winery.”

  “Are we playing a game where we yell out random things?”

  “He went to a winery.”

  “Hopscotch!”

  Shaw leveled a withering look at North.

  “Sorry,” North said. “Winery.”

  “They got in a huge fight about it because Jadon had been drinking and Ricky was mad at him and then Jadon drove all the way out to a winery in Ste. Genevieve and Ricky really got mad about that.”

  “So he went to a winery,” North said. “Lots of people go to wineries.”

  “If he wanted a drink, why didn’t he go to Precinct Blue? Or Rivets? Or any of the other gay bars or cop bars or regular bars in the city?”

  “People go to wineries for lots of reasons. Birthday parties, retirement parties, bachelor parties. Sometimes they go just for fun. It’s September; maybe the leaves are changing out there, and Jadon went just because he knew it would be beautiful.”

  Shaw was shaking his head. “He wouldn’t have gone to any of those things without Ricky. Ricky was his boyfriend. He would have taken Ricky to any of those things.”

  North rolled one shoulder. “I don’t agree, not necessarily, but I see your point.”

  “It’s worth checking out.”

  “It’s probably an hour, an hour and a half out there.”

  “If you need to stay, you can stay. Do some more research. But I want to check it out.”

  “No,” North said. “I’ll go.”

  They fueled up at the closest QT, and North bought Shaw a slushie and talked for close to ten minutes about what would happen if Shaw spilled it in the GTO. Shaw listened, nodded, and kept scooping slushie out of the cup with the straw and pretending to drop it on the upholstery.

  “Fine,” North finally said. “It’s your ass.”

  The drive carried them out of the urban desolation of North City and along the rolling hills and bluffs that overlooked the Mississippi. They drove south on I-55; when they reached the turnoff toward the Potosi Correctional Center in Festus, Shaw felt a ping, but then they slid past the exit and he pushed it out of his mind.

  Right then, it felt easy to push everything out of his mind. They had left the city. They had left the brutal murder of a woman who hadn’t deserved to die. The GTO roared as they raced along the highway, a thrum of power that felt violent to Shaw, but exhilarating too. And it was a beautiful day: the clear, deep blue dome of sky, the green still lingering in the grass and the brush, but gold and red and copper spreading along the tips of the trees. And North beside him, filling the car with the smell of Irish Spring and leather and American Crew.

  The Marie Antoinette Winery sat on a bluff that overlooked a sharp elbow of the river, with oak and elm and ash dropping away to give place to a silty bank along the water. From its appearance, the winery was not doing well. The sign at the end of the drive hung askew, the painted letters cracked and peeling. The winery itself was a compound of three buildings: one that sat off to the side, looking strictly utilitarian; and two others that were obviously intended for visitors, with a mixture of stone and slate and painted wood obviously intended to evoke a French country decor. On one, a sign read Hôtel. On the other, Chateau Marie Antoinette. A covered walkway connected the two buildings, and a string of old-fashioned lightbulbs hung along the covered walkway. But the covered walkway was choked with dead leaves, and most of the lightbulbs were missing.

  “Looks like a scene from a horror movie,” North said as he killed the GTO. “I’m not getting stabbed by some psycho in a mask, Shaw.”

  “It’s early afternoon; you won’t get stabbed until it’s nighttime.” Shaw studied the winery, slurping on the last of his slushie. The straw sucked and sputtered in the nearly empty cup.

  “Knock it off,” North said.

  Shaw took another sip.

  “Knock it off.”

  “He didn’t come here for a bachelor party,” Shaw said.

  “I hope not.”

  “He didn’t come here to have a few drinks.”

  “About the only thing you’re going to get here is tetanus.”

  “But it’s open. It’s still in business.”

  “So was the Bates Motel.”

  Shaw gave one final slurp and then opened the door.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going inside.”

  “That’s a bad idea,” North said, grabbing his arm. A firm grip. Really firm. Shaw realized he might not be going anywhere. “You stay here. I’ll go inside.”

  Shaw tilted the cup over the seat. Melted red slushie rushed toward the mouth of the cup.

  “Asshole,” North shouted, releasing Shaw’s arm and snatching the cup at the last moment.

  Shaw slipped out of the car.

  “I owe you for that fucking rentboy getup,” North said as he caught up to Shaw. “I already owe you for that. And now the fucking slushie.”

  “Scary.”

  “Keep joking, Shaw.”

  “I’m shaking.”

  “Laugh. Go ahead and laugh. Enjoy it while you can.”

  Shaw mimed a shiver.

  “You’re damn right you better be scared.”

  Laughing, Shaw pushed open the door to the building marked Chateau. Inside, he found a large, open room set up as a restaurant. The furnishings were simple, with light woods and straight lines predominating, everything accented with blues and whites that had probably once been meant to look chic and cheerful but now sagged, their colors muted to almost indeterminate shades of gray. French windows ran the length of the far wall, all of them thrown open to reveal a patio that hung out over the bluff and offered diners the option of watching the river in the cool September air. The restaurant was empty. Shaw listened; his heart had moved up into his throat. But he heard nothing.

  “Creepy as fuck,” North muttered.

  “Somebody’s here,” Shaw said.

  “Of course somebody’s here. The lights are on. The doors are open. The registers are up and running. That doesn’t make it any less creepy.”

  “Hello?” A woman’s voice came from the patio, and shuffling steps announced her approach. “Is someone—oh. Hello. Welcome to the Chateau Marie Antoinette.” She was a tiny thing, shrunken with age, her white hair in a neat bob that she obviously took great pride in. She crossed the room with slow, careful steps, pulling at her cardigan as though warding off a chill. “Let me just get you some menus.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Shaw said.

  “Yes, he is,” North said. “We both are.”

  She gathered two folded menus—large, multi-page affairs that looked more like a legal brief—and shuffled a few steps. Then she looked back. “Booth or table?”

  “I really don’t—” Shaw tried.

  “Table,” North said. “On the patio, please.”

  “It’s a bit chilly,” she said.

  “She’s right, North. I might get cold.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “He’s very skinny,” the woman said, eyeing Shaw with something like disapproval. “I really don’t think he should be out there.”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  “I am very skinny,” Shaw said.

  “That’s because you skip meals, like you’re trying to do right now, and then you eat shit.”

  “I have a weak constitution. I’m frail.”

  “He really does look like he might catch a cold.” The woman had fixed her disapproving look on North. “Let’s get you a nice booth over here.”

  “The patio, please,” North said, grabbing Shaw’s shoulder and steering him toward the French windows. “He’s fine. I’m fine. We’ll be fine.”

  The woman shuffled even more slowly, her opinion about the whole thing obvious in every move
ment, but she got them set up at a table on the far end of the patio, and then she said, “I’ll get some water,” and began her slow marathon back inside.

  Shaw shivered and chafed his arms.

  “Don’t,” North said, fixing him with a flat stare.

  Shaw let his eyes get huge and innocent. He shivered again.

  With a grunt, North opened the menu and pretended to read.

  “I don’t know why we had to sit out here.”

  Not looking up, North pointed toward the parking lot.

  “Oh,” Shaw said.

  “Yeah. Oh.”

  “So we can see if anybody else shows up.”

  North grunted again.

  Shaw leaned over the table. “Do they have macaroni and cheese?”

  North shoved the second menu toward him.

  Ignoring the menu North had passed, Shaw poked his head over the one that North held, trying to read upside down. “Do they have cheesecake?”

  “Look at your own fucking menu,” North growled, planting a hand on the crown of Shaw’s head and shoving him back into his seat.

  Laughing, Shaw collected his menu and flipped it open. “This is exciting, right?”

  “I’m trying to read.”

  “We’re finally making progress. We’re here. This is something, right?”

  Snapping the menu shut, North looked up. “Shaw.”

  “Hm?”

  “Baby.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  “But if you don’t stop talking for a minute, I’m going to kill you.”

  Shaw nodded, raising his hands palms out. “You’re trying to figure out what you want to order.”

  “Yes.”

  “You want me to be quiet so you can focus.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  Shaw waited.

  North watched him for a moment longer and then slowly opened the menu.

  “It’s just—” Shaw began.

  North groaned.

  “I thought you were supposed to be watching the parking lot.”

  “You can watch the fucking parking lot for two fucking minutes, Shaw, while I figure out if I’m going to have the fucking Cobb salad or the fucking plank-grilled salmon.”

  “Well,” came the woman’s briskly disappointed voice—mingled, Shaw realized, with a note of satisfaction, as though North had just confirmed her opinion of him. “You won’t be having anything, young man, if you keep talking like that.”

  “I’ve tried to talk to him about his language,” Shaw said.

  A smile creased her wrinkled face, and she patted his arm and held out a pink cardigan embroidered with flowers. “In case you’re chilly dear. I’m sorry it’s pink, but it’s the only clean one I have.”

  Tugging on the cardigan, Shaw did up the mother-of-pearl buttons. It actually looked kind of good on him; it was just tight enough to show the flat lines of his chest. “You know what he said to me when I asked him to be polite in public?”

  “I can imagine, dear,” the woman said with another scowl for North. “I was married to a man just like him for forty years.”

  “Hey,” North said, dropping the menu again. “I can keep a civil tongue.”

  “I know he thinks he’s trying,” Shaw said. “But sometimes it feels like he doesn’t even want to make an effort.”

  Tsking, the woman squeezed Shaw’s arm again and shook her head. She was sending thunderstorms of disapproval toward North.

  “Jesus Christ, Shaw—”

  “See?” Shaw whispered.

  The best part, for Shaw, was what came next: the red rising in North’s face like mercury in a thermometer, the way he looked at the old woman, his sudden struggle as he worked his mouth and nothing came out and then he growled and snatched up the menu again.

  The woman just tsked again and shook her head. Then, to Shaw, she said, “Dear, you’re skin and bones. I want you to eat something solid. I know some men,” another furious glance at North, “think you should be thin as a rail, but you’ve got to think of your health.”

  “I do,” Shaw said with a nod. To North, “I do, North. She’s right. I really need to start thinking about my health.”

  “He’s lucky to have you at all.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t think that. He gave me a lecture about spilling my drink in the car today. I think he likes that car more than he likes me.”

  “Don’t even get me started. My husband bought me a Caddy when I turned sixty and then never let me touch the blessed thing. He was always tuning it up and washing it and putting a car cover on it and half the time when I wanted to go to the store he made me take his car instead. Some men and their cars. It’s absolutely ridiculous.”

  North was staring murder over the top of his menu. Shaw beamed back at him.

  “Now,” the woman said, patting Shaw’s arm a final time and taking out a notepad. “Let’s put some meat on those bones. I really think you need something that will fill you up. No rabbit food, not today. How about our macaroni and cheese? It’s got bacon and a spicy chicken that we do right here.”

  “North, did you hear that? Macaroni and cheese. North. North?”

  “I heard,” he grated out from behind the menu.

  “Mashed potatoes or French fries?”

  Shaw cocked his head. “Well . . .”

  “Mashed potatoes. We’ll do them twice-baked with the cheese.”

  “That sounds amazing.”

  “And you deserve something sweet, dear. I make the world’s best cheesecake with a raspberry sauce.”

  “North,” Shaw said, slapping the table in excitement. “Didn’t I say cheesecake? Didn’t I?”

  “Macaroni and cheese,” North said. “Twice-baked potatoes with cheese. Cheesecake. That’s an awful lot of cheese for someone who gives up dairy every other week.”

  “It’s the only way I can fit into the jeans he likes me to wear,” Shaw whispered.

  The woman settled a death stare on North. He tried to meet it, he tried to sputter a denial, and then he slowly shrank down behind the menu until Shaw couldn’t see him anymore.

  “You can have the salmon,” the woman said with a sniff. “And steamed broccoli.”

  “Could I get some French fries—”

  “No.” Patting, Shaw’s arm, she started to turn, and then she looked back. “Now, sugar, my name is Marjorie if you need anything.”

  She began her slow shuffle back across the patio. Shaw barely heard her; he was still grinning at North, who was hidden behind the menu.

  North poked one hand out from behind his barrier and held up three fingers.

  “What?” Shaw said.

  “That’s three.”

  “Three what?”

  Slowly, the menu came down. North still had pink dusting his cheeks, but he didn’t look mad. Not really, anyway. But he was still holding up three fingers. “One for the hooker outfit you made me wear.”

  “Hooker isn’t really a PC term anymore.”

  “One for pretending to spill your slushie.”

  “You wouldn’t let go of my arm.”

  “And now this—” North gestured wildly, groping for a word. “This fucking debacle.”

  “I think she’s cute.”

  “Three.” He displayed the fingers again. “You’re going to pay for all fucking three.”

  “Well, if Marjorie hears you—”

  Shaw stopped, almost strangling on the words. He heard her name now. Heard it in his own mouth. And suddenly electricity ran through him like all the right switches had been flipped. Jadon Reck had come out here. Jadon Reck had learned something that had sent him back into the path of Taylor and Waggener. Jadon had found out something that made him a threat, and so they had tried to remove him.

  Jadon had come here.

  Where a woman named Marjorie worked.

  “Marjorie,�
� Shaw hissed, grabbing North’s wrist. “Marjorie.”

  “If you’re having a stroke, it’s probably because you ordered so much fucking cheese.”

  “Marjorie Parrish, North.”

  North straightened in his chair, his gaze darting toward the parking lot, still empty aside from the GTO.

  “Marjorie Parrish—” North started to say.

  “She’s the widow of the dead cop; she’s the one the car from the Slasher video was registered to. The Slasher was driving her car.”

  Chapter 24

  WHEN MARJORIE CAME BACK, she was pushing a cart with their food on it. The mid-afternoon was still brisk, but the sunlight fell like a hammer on North’s back, and every noise seemed too loud now, startling him: the rumble of the castors across the patio deck, the splash from below, where a bird—a kingfisher, part of North’s mind thought absently—broke the surface of the water, even the diesel roar from the state highway just beyond the treeline. The smell of the salmon turned North’s stomach now.

  He could really only keep one thought at the front of his mind: what was this going to do to Shaw?

  “Now,” Marjorie said, “I’ll bring the cheesecake out in a bit, and if he behaves, you tell me and I’ll bring him a slice too. For now, though, eat up. I want to see these plates clean before—dear, what’s wrong? You don’t look well at all.”

  Shaw shook his head.

  “Do you need—water.” Marjorie mimed smacking herself in the forehead. “I never brought you your water. Maybe you’re just a little dehydrated. It’s your color, dear. You really—”

  “Are you Marjorie Parrish?” Shaw’s voice was low and rough and unlike him.

  Marjorie considered him for a moment. “Well, yes.”

  Shaw slumped against his chair, his breathing ragged.

  “What is this?” Marjorie asked. “What’s going on? Who are you?”

  Shaw passed his hand across his mouth. North leaned forward; then he caught himself and leaned back. It was like some damn Oscar Wilde play, North thought, but he felt too sick to laugh.

  “My name is Shaw Aldrich. This is North McKinney. We need to talk to you.”

  “Well, you’re lucky it’s not the busy season.” She was speaking carefully, her eyes moving back to the inside of the restaurant, dark behind the wall of French windows. “I’m sorry I don’t recognize your name, Mr. Aldrich. Should I know you?”