Swamp Monster

by C. A. Newsome

  “Peter,” Susan called, staccato heels against concrete. “This is so exciting. I had no idea.”

  Please God, not now.

  She stepped next to him and took his arm. “You must tell me all about it.”

  “Who’s your friend?” Brent asked.

  Peter forced his jaw to relax. “Brent, this is Susan Sweeney. She’s an old friend from home. Susan, this is Brent Davis. And I’m sure you’ve seen Aubrey Morse on television.”

  Susan’s face registered a purely southern veneer of apology over pity. “I’m sorry to say I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  Aubrey no doubt ate a dozen Susans for breakfast. Her smile held.

  They could have been gunslingers on a dusty Wyoming street. The vibration of one coral fingernail on Susan’s clutch told Peter her mind was going a mile a minute, wondering how to unseat the alpha female she’d stumbled upon.

  Brent slid in next to Susan. “Any friend of Peter’s is a friend of mine. Let’s take a stroll. You can tell me embarrassing stories about his childhood while he finishes with Aubrey.”

  Susan’s expression turned uncertain for a micro-second. She lifted her chin, turning her Sunday-supplement, cheerleader smile on Brent as she allowed him to steer her away.

  “Brent, we still have to schedule that lunch,” Aubrey called after him.

  “You bet, darlin’.” Brent turned his head long enough to catch Peter’s eye. He mouthed, “You owe me.”

  Don’t I know it.

  “Old friends are nice, aren’t they?” Aubrey said, directing Peter’s attention back to her. “I want to stay on top of this story, it’s only going to get hotter. Can I call you for updates?”

  What on earth is Susan doing here? Whatever she wanted, it was the last thing he needed. “Um, sure.”

  “Great! What’s your cell phone number?”

  Peter saw a dark abyss opening before him like the yawning hole he’d almost stepped into while caving in high school. He felt the same jolt now. Back away from the edge. Slow and easy.

  He forced a smile. “Just call the station. They’ll get a message to me.”

  “Is it your old friend? This is purely business.”

  “I’m sure it is. I can never keep track of my phone.”

  Aubrey would know the lame excuse for a brush off. He threw her a bone. “I bet Brent would appreciate a rescue.”

  Aubrey brightened. “You think?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Duff, let’s load up.” She clacked down the sidewalk, not waiting for Duff’s reply.

  Duff shook his head, the rusty dreads dragging across his back. “She’ll eat him up.”

  “I think that’s what he’s hoping for.”

  Duff took his time packing up the van. Peter hung back, preferring to view the coming action from a distance.

  Aubrey strolled up to Brent and slid a finger down his tie, cutting off his conversation with Susan. The move incited a flinty and determined look on Susan’s face.

  Peter wondered what Cynth would say about two women ready to engage in a cat fight over Brent just for form’s sake. Good thing she’s not here to see this.

  Cynth appeared at his elbow, conjured like the Devil, by his thoughts. Unlike the high-maintenance women occupying Brent, Detective Cynth McFadden avoided drawing attention to her looks. It was a necessity in a male-dominated career. Loose clothes hid a Scarlett Johansson figure. Long, wheat-colored hair meant invisible brows and lashes, and a face that washed out without makeup. An unobservant man might not notice how beautiful she was.

  She hissed in his ear. “He’s such a man whore.”

  “Just passing time until you fall in love with him. Are you ever going to do that?”

  “Not if he keeps this up.”

  “You two are something else. What do you intend to do?”

  “I plan to stand here long enough for him to notice. Then I will scorn him. Better yet, I’ll hit on Duff. He’s got a Heath Ledger vibe and he’s better looking.”

  “Don’t blame Brent. He’s distracting Susan as a favor to me. Aubrey just wants information.”

  Cynth’s mouth fell open, her eyes wide. “Susan? The Susan?”

  “The Susan. I need to find out what the heck she’s doing in Cincinnati.”

  “Does Lia know?”

  “Yes, Lia knows.” He headed for the trio.

  “Glad I’m not you,” Cynth called after him.

  Aubrey had cut Brent away from Susan by the time Peter joined her. He bent over her shoulder and said, “You’ll bloody your manicure if you scratch her eyes out.”

  Susan jolted, then turned to face him. “You’re such a kidder. She’s nice. I like her.”

  You like her fractionally more than a case of genital warts. “Why are you here?”

  She pouted. “Don’t be like that. We didn’t get a chance to talk this morning. I just want to catch up.”

  “This isn’t the time or the place.”

  “Peter Dourson, I drove six hours to get here. The least you can do is spare me five minutes.”

  Some things needed to be done, like ripping duct tape off your face. “Ruth’s Parkside Cafe is two miles down the hill. Take a left at Blue Rock and follow the signs. I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes.”

  She looked up at him with soft, serious eyes. “I’ve missed you, Peter.”

  Peter waited while Susan got in her car and drove away. Aubrey sat in the van with the door open, showing off her stupendous legs while she chatted with Brent. Cynth sauntered up, ignoring the tete-à-tete.

  “Hasn’t Brent seen you yet?” Peter asked.

  “Brent can piss up a rope. Duff and I have a parkour date for Saturday. What will you do about Susan?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  You’d think an industrial space with twenty-foot ceilings would be a cold place to dine, but Ruth’s was the best venue for private conversation Peter knew. The hostess led Peter down the row of tall booths to one where Susan nibbled on a salad, her brow wrinkling at the edgy art on the walls.

  She smiled at him, the hesitant smile she pasted on when she wanted to appear vulnerable.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I started. I felt funny just sitting here without ordering. Have you seen the menu? I don’t know about this stir-fry vegan food. You’ll have to tell me what’s good.”

  Peter slid into the booth. “This isn’t dinner.”

  A waiter appeared, hands clasped, face politely expectant.

  “Just a Pepsi. I’m not eating.”

  “Yes, sir, right away.”

  Susan pouted. “It’s dinnertime. You have to eat.”

  “I have plans.”

  “How important can they be? I haven’t seen you in forever.”

  “What happened to the furniture king?”

  “I came to my senses.”

  “Was that the day you found last year’s homecoming queen with her nose in his zipper after he promised to put her in his new commercials?”

  Susan’s eyes dropped. “Don’t be crude. I suppose you talked to your sisters.”

  “We do talk, every so often.” Here comes the brave front.

  She looked up, unshed tears glimmering. “Then you understand why I had to leave.”

  Like the sun rising on an overcast day, illumination arrived late. He said the words, not quite believing as they came from his mouth. “You’re relocating.”

  Susan’s smile was a shade too bright. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “And what do you expect to do with yourself?”

  “I’m a reporter now.”

  “For whom?”

  “For myself. People make big money on YouTube, and I know all about being on camera. I’m putting together a show.”

  She slid a business card out of an oversized designer bag, presenting it with a flourish. “Susan’s Snippets” jumped out in fancy purple script surrounded by stylized daisies on a pale pink background.

  “I designed it myself.”

/>   “You’re serious.”

  “Why not? Cats and twelve-year-old kids are making a fortune on ad revenue. I can, too. If we’d had social media when we were in high school, I’d be a Kardashian by now.”

  “And you’re doing this here?”

  “Cincinnati is an active, exciting city. You’ll help me, won’t you?” Big brown eyes turned on him, making him think of Viola begging for pizza crusts.

  “What could I possibly do for you?”

  “You gave that Aubrey woman an interview. You could give me one to kick off the show.”

  Peter leaned back, took a sip of the Pepsi that had silently appeared on the table. Leveled his eyes at her.

  “No.”

  The face Susan played like a Stradivarius showed confusion and hurt. “After all we’ve been to each other? Why ever not?”

  Peter opened his mouth, knowing when the words were out, they couldn’t be recalled. “I have someone in my life.”

  Susan shrugged. “Can’t be serious.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because your mother doesn’t know about her.”

  “And I’ll thank you to let it stay that way.”

  Susan’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “What are you hiding, Peter? Is she … you know …” her voice dropped to a whisper, “an atheist?”

  “What?”

  “There has to be a reason you haven’t told your family.” She sat bolt upright, genuine shock on her face. “No! You’re gay. I knew there was something wrong when we were together.”

  Peter spoke through gritted teeth. “I am not gay.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Lia is none of your damn business.”

  “Lia?”

  Dammit. I did not mean to say that.

  Susan’s eyes flicked around the table, a sign of rapid calculation.

  Here it comes.

  “Your landlady with that vicious little dog? You’re living with her? Out of wedlock?”

  For once, Peter appreciated Lia’s fine distinctions about boundaries. “We are not living together. I have my apartment and she has hers.”

  “Under the same roof in a house she owns. Your mother has a right to know.”

  “And what gives her that right?”

  “You caused excruciating pain when you passed through her womb. She’s entitled to pray for your eternal soul.”

  “And you’re the one to share the happy news?”

  Susan’s brown eyes narrowed, as if she were preparing to kill a small, helpless creature. More likely plotting a spot of blackmail.

  Blackmail went both ways. “I don’t imagine you’d like the details of your impending divorce to be top of the page on Google every time someone plugs in your name. It might hurt the image you’re trying to create.”

  “You’d never do a rotten thing like that.”

  “I have to go now.” Peter scooted to the edge of the booth.

  “You used to love me.”

  He hated this, hated the need to speak brutal truths. “When I was eight, I thought people who smoked grass were burning their lawn clippings. I grew out of that, too.”

  “Don’t be ugly.” She stared into her iced tea as she stirred it with her straw, then peeked up under her lashes. “Remember when you were prom king and I was queen? I still have the photograph dad took. That was the happiest day of my life.”

  Sad, and probably true. “Our relationship was nothing more than a foregone conclusion hatched by our mothers when we were in diapers. I was never the man you wanted me to be.”

  “Didn’t you love me, even a bit?”

  “I’m not sure if what we had counted as love, for either of us.”

  “It suited you well enough back then.”

  “What makes you think it wouldn’t be us divorcing right now?”

  “You would never leave me. I left you. I’ll be sorry about that for the rest of my life.”

  He stood.

  “Getting fingerprinted like a criminal was the second-biggest humiliation of my life.”

  Everything was the something-est for Susan.

  “At least tell me you’ll take care of the fine.”

  Peter shook his head and turned for the door, abandoning his Pepsi.

  Susan’s voice floated after him. “What about the check?”

  With David and Zoe finally out the door, Lia slumped in the leather Morris chair she’d bought for Peter in a defensive move to keep his unforgivably ugly Lazy Boy out of her living room. She sighed, waving Zoe’s check to fan her face, or maybe to remember why she put herself through the meat grinder like this. Thank God it was over.

  It took hours for Zoe to decide, after Lia pulled out everything she had, after David measured every canvas (as if Lia didn’t know how big they were), after Zoe held paint chips and swatches next to each one, asking if Lia had the same thing, but with apricot accents, or maybe something in raspberry.

  David knew Lia’s limits, steering Zoe away from the cliff with pithy remarks and gossipy distractions. But when it came to the sticking point, Zoe would dig in her three-inch heels, tapping a lavender nail against her pouty bottom lip as she delivered a hesitant, “I don’t know …”

  At the restaurant where Lia worked during college, a fellow waitress liked to hide in the soundproof walk-in and scream when things got crazy. When Zoe got on her nerves, Lia plastered a smile on her face and imagined screaming in that walk-in. As the afternoon dragged on, she’d replaced that image with one of Zoe padlocked in a freezer, bloody nails clawing the lid as she whimpered for help.

  Zoe finally chose the trio of stargazer lilies on display when she walked in the door. Lia had known they were the best fit and wanted her to have the impact of seeing them as she entered the room. Zoe put them aside because finding the perfect dress on the first try meant you didn’t get to put on every dress in the store. That or she loved the way David cajoled when she played hard to get and didn’t want the fun to end.

  Her next client, she’d save the perfect painting for third or fourth, or even tenth, to see if that made a difference.

  Zoe signed her check with a large, loopy signature, handing it over with the understanding that Lia would hold the check while she lived with the paintings for a week. It was the usual arrangement, designed to avert buyer’s remorse.

  Zoe lagged like a kid being dragged out of a candy store, ooh-ing and ah-ing over the textured paint treatment Lia had given the interior of her “charming rehab” and wondering if Lia might do something similar for her. David lured Zoe out the door with the promise of a lychee martini at The Hamilton. With Zoe’s attention fixed on a new shiny, David doubled back to give Lia a quick shoulder squeeze.

  Lia whispered, “If she doesn’t keep those paintings, I’m coming after you with Peter’s Taser.”

  “Once they’re on the wall, you won’t be able to pry them away from her.”

  “Your mouth, God’s ear.”

  She followed David to the door, an excuse to check the curb. No white Cadillac. Susan had been and gone. Uber? Or had she sweet-talked Cal into bringing her back? At least Peter had texted her midway through the afternoon with a promise of Dewey’s pizza and explanations.

  Her eyes caught on Susan’s scarf, stuffed in a ceramic pot when she’d heard David and Zoe at the door. She ran it through her hands, tracing a finger across the invisible dents Pup put in it that morning. The scarf featured fanciful mythological animals playing a variety of lawn games in muted pink and mauve and gray. Susan must have chosen it for the color. It couldn’t be the subject matter.

  Lia had succumbed to temptation and searched the Hermès website during one of Zoe’s many private consultations with David that afternoon. The design was one of the year’s signature styles, so Susan hadn’t bought it at discount. Peter’s ex had bucks, or someone who liked her did.

  A tap on the kitchen door interrupted Lia’s thoughts, followed by the scrabbling of claws on her wood floor. Chewy bounced in, leaping onto her lap, curling
into a ball as if seeking sanctuary from nuclear attack in a sixties, kiss-your-ass-goodbye pose. Pup pursued and sat at her feet, whining and tugging on Lia’s Boho maxi skirt.

  “Hey, that’s my good skirt!”

  Good was relative. Bought for twenty dollars on sale, and with ten times the yardage of Susan’s pricy designer scarf … Lia was too tired to work the math but decided Susan would hand Lia’s favorite skirt over to the maid—to clean grout.

  She picked Pup up to rub noses. Chewy scrambled out of Lia’s lap and sought refuge on the Mission couch, cowering in front of the prized art pillows Lia had on display for her visitors. Lia made a mental note to put them away before Pup realized they were there.

  Alma entered, followed by Viola. She perched on the couch and gave Chewy a consoling pet. The bird-like woman with her stubbornly black cap of hair had seen everything in her seventy-plus years. She remained serene and sensible in spite of it.

  Lia’s stress vanished.

  “I saw your visitors leaving and decided it was safe to bring them back.”

  Lia glanced at the mantel clock, a vintage Seth Thomas from Ruth’s estate. When Lia bought the house, Alma insisted it couldn’t be parted from the Rookwood fireplace and gave it to her as a housewarming present. Ten after six. Peter was late.

  “Thanks, Alma. I was too pooped to come get them.”

  “I thought that might be the case. Your client was here much longer than you expected. I hope she spent oodles of money.”

  “Enough to keep the kids in kibble a while longer. I hate selling paintings to someone who cares more about her color scheme than whether she likes the art. Unfortunately, those are the people with money to buy.”

  “Sometimes I think buying art should be like adopting a dog from a rescue organization. You have to fill out an application and submit to a home visit to prove you’ll be a good owner.”

  Lia snorted. “That’s how I’ll do it from now on. Throw up a few roadblocks to ownership to give my paintings some mystique. Double my prices while I’m at it.”

  “What was the business out in your yard this morning? I didn’t ask earlier because you were in such a rush.”