by W E DeVore
Q followed his eyes.
“Well, that man in the purple shirt is Stanley.” She waved up to him and called, “Hey Stanley! Thanks for the crawfish!”
“Glad you’re liking them, baby. Come on up when you’re done and find me, I have something I want to talk to you about. And you and me are gonna to play later, you got that?” he called back.
She smiled and turned to Ben. “Gonna be a late night, love.”
“I already figured that. Stanley kept you playing until sun-up last year,” he replied, yawning. “You tell him that kind of behavior needs to stop. You’re a married woman and I’d like to get you home to bed in time for...” Ben stopped short and glanced self-consciously at Sanger.
Q winked at him and asked, “In time for what, exactly, dear husband?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Sanger interrupted. “Will the two of you just go fuck already so I don’t have to keep listening to this?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Aaron.” She feigned confusion. “Ben likes to be home in bed before the morning news. Isn’t that right, baby?”
“Of course, it is. Aaron, you have a one-track mind,” Ben joked.
“Yeah,” Sanger muttered. “I’m the one with the problem. That’s definitely it.”
“So?” Q nudged Sanger and peeled another crawfish, putting the tail into his open mouth.
“So, what, Clementine?” he asked around his food while concentrating on peeling the crustacean in his hands.
He struggled with it and finally won. As he examined the perfectly peeled tail in wonder, a congenial cheer went up from around the table and he proudly popped it into his mouth.
“So, spill, Sanger. You could have told me you were dating someone and got Yvie off my back,” Q said, mildly annoyed.
“I didn’t know where it was going. We’ve been through this a few times before. It never seems to work out. Our fathers worked together, up in Memphis. They wanted us to get married from the time we were kids. It was too much pressure,” he explained.
“Wait. I thought you were from Dallas,” Ben said, peeling another tail and handing Q two large claws.
Sanger shook his head. “I moved here from Dallas, but I grew up in Memphis.”
“You’re a Tennessee boy. Now, it all makes sense,” Q said, eagerly breaking open her husband’s gifted claws and sucking down the meat they contained. “No wonder you like all those sad cowboy songs so much. I never saw a man with so much Lucinda Williams in his playlists.”
“She’s from Baton Rouge,” he justified.
“So you’ve said. Repeatedly,” she quipped back. “Now, let me guess, your fathers were lawyers…? Doctors...? Same firm? Same practice?”
“Not exactly,” he hedged, clearly not wanting to divulge his father’s profession.
Q elbowed him and teased, “Same mob boss? Same bank robbing crew?”
He scowled at her. “My father is a rabbi; hers was the cantor at the same synagogue.”
“Wait. Your father is a rabbi?” Q was shocked. “Like a rabbi, rabbi?”
“Yes, Clementine, like a Modern Orthodox rabbi.” He successfully peeled another tail and ate it. “Hey, I think I’m getting the hang of this!” he exclaimed, delighted with his newfound ability.
“Hold on a minute. Let me get this straight. Aaron ‘I eat pork with every meal’ Sanger is the son of an Orthodox rabbi?” She stopped eating and stared hard at his face, as if looking for some trace of the Kashrut in it.
He pushed her away. “It wasn’t like that. I said Modern Orthodox, we weren’t frummy Hasidim or something.”
“Frummy what now?” Ben asked.
Sanger made a twisting motion at his sideburns. “You know, with the locks?”
Ben nodded. “Ok, the gentile is now following. No black hats. Continue on with your story.”
“Nah, it’s not important,” he replied.
“No, no. I disagree,” Q insisted. “I’m going to have to know how the son of an Orthodox rabbi learned how to ignore God’s law and enjoy both pork and shellfish.”
Q kicked Sanger’s foot for emphasis.
Ben looked at his wife and her growing mound of crustacean corpses. “Hey there, little miss champion crawfish peeler, I don’t think you have much room to talk. I very much doubt your grandmother would approve of this particular set of skills of yours.”
“Yeah, but I’m half Cajun, so I get a pass.” Q stuck out her tongue at him.
Sanger asked Ben, “Does she win every argument with you, too? Because I find it very annoying.”
Ben thought about his question for several seconds, while regarding his wife. “Probably… but there are more important things than winning.” He pointed to the gate behind them. “Camilla’s here.”
As usual, Camilla St. John-Wills was strikingly beautiful. Her dark cocoa complexion was set off by the white sundress she was wearing and her sun-streaked hair was caught up in a brilliant orange scarf. She approached them and kissed Q on the cheek.
“Who wears white to a crawfish boil, Camilla?” Q goaded her.
“Who wears a Goatwhore shirt to play Jazz Fest, Clementine?” Camilla replied flatly.
“Point taken,” Q said. “Where’s Tommy?”
Camilla gazed heavenward for assistance. “Already out back at the luge. Gonna be a super fun Monday morning.”
Tom rarely drank liquor and when he did, he was a complete beast to be around the next day.
She scanned the table. “Have y’all seen that nephew of mine? He was supposed to meet me up front.”
True to his musical prodigy nature, JJ walked down the front steps of Stanley’s house right on cue. He carried four cups of beer in his hands.
“Those better not be for you, young man,” his aunt scolded. JJ was barely twenty.
He shook his head. “Nope. There was huge line at the keg, so I jumped in for Q and them while Ben was helping Mr. Walter with the boil.”
“And the fourth cup?” Camilla eyed him with suspicion.
JJ blushed as much as his dark complexion would allow and Camilla shook her head. “Come on, let’s go find that fool husband of mine.”
He set the beers down next to Q and stole a quick drink before leaving with his aunt. Q took a grateful gulp, cooling off her mouth from the spice that was making her lips tingle. She handed a beer to Sanger and picked up one of his abandoned attempts. He took a long drink and stared at the porch, his eyes examining the crowd.
Q dramatically dropped the crawfish head she was dissecting and reached for a paper towel to dry her fingertips. “Alright, let’s go.”
“What are you talking about, Clementine?” Sanger asked, already knowing she was setting him up.
She held out her hand to him. “I promised you a pretty lady to spend your birthday night with, and I am a woman of my word. Let’s go find your girl. And I expect an introduction, young man. I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
Ben wiped his hands before putting them on his hips. “Seriously? You can’t figure out why he didn’t tell you?”
“What?” she said.
He turned to Sanger. “Care to field that one, Aaron?”
“You can be a little pushy, Clementine,” Sanger hedged.
“Fuck you,” she said. “I can be a lot pushier, Sanger.”
His face suddenly grew somber and he glared into her eyes.
“If you embarrass me in front of her, I will never speak to you again, do you understand me?” he said with more force than she expected.
“Holy shit. You like this woman!” she exclaimed.
“Promise me,” he said. “I mean it. Do not fuck this up for me. It’s already hard enough getting her to spend time with me without you putting your pretty little nose in my business.”
“Aaron’s got a girlfriend,” she sing-songed. Sanger continued to glare at her and she dropped her amusement. “No funny business, detective. I promise. I’ll be on my absolute best behavior.”
; “I hate to say it, but the bar’s not set too high for that, darlin’,” Ben said as he walked around the table to kiss the top of her head.
She turned to him and said, “Good thing you didn’t marry me because I’m well-behaved.”
“Good thing.” He bent down to kiss her.
She turned to Sanger. “You sure you want to go through all the trouble of chasing down a woman that won’t stay put? It’s a lot of work. Ask Ben.”
Ben was suddenly very quiet and looked away.
“You knew, didn’t you?” she asked him flatly.
Sanger grinned at her. “I needed expert advice.”
Chapter 2
Yesterday’s Rain
Having sated his stoned hunger, Sanger was visibly excited to move inside and out back to the tequila. Q, however, had the distinct impression that he was more excited by the possibility of seeing his new girlfriend on his birthday, but was just too stubborn to admit it.
The three of them threaded their way through the crowd, going up the steps to the porch and into the house. As they entered the large living room, they were bombarded by the sounds of a live horn section playing the Louis Armstrong rendition of ‘Hello Dolly.’ Q would have recognized the trumpet tone anywhere. Through the open French doors of Stanley’s music room, she saw Charlie sitting on the piano bench next to the clarinetist from Stanley’s band, both of their backs were to the keyboard. An attractive brunette sat on a low armchair in the corner, playing banjo, her tawny legs crossed, top one swinging to the beat. By the way she was looking at Charlie, Q figured it would be Charlie, and not her, getting reproached for doing inappropriate things in Stanley Gerard’s guest bathroom this year.
They walked through the party to the large kitchen and stopped by the spread of beverages arrayed across the center island.
Q picked up a bottle of water for each of them and handed one to Sanger. “Better hydrate, cowboy. You’re going to need it.”
Moving to the glassed-in back porch, they paused on the way to greet some people that Ben knew. When they reached the backdoor leading to another staircase, Sanger paused at the top in abject awe.
Stanley’s back courtyard was something to behold on any given day, but on this evening, its splendor was amplified. The tropical foliage that surrounded the flagstone courtyard was illuminated with strings of light. Fat magnolia blossoms floated in the base of the sizable fountain in the far-left corner, its water illuminated by multiple purple lights. But tonight, the fountain’s position as the focal point of Stanley Gerard’s tiny slice of tropical paradise had been usurped.
In the center of the courtyard stood a four-foot ice sculpture in the shape of a Fleur-de-Lis. A spout formed out of ice, anchored the point of each of the two lower stems. They watched as a woman poured golden tequila into the channel at the top of the middle stem. The liquid split down two conduits, through the ice, and out each of the lower spouts into the awaiting shot glasses in the hands of two party guests.
“You were right, Clementine. I am definitely going to love this,” Sanger said, skipping down the steps into the courtyard. Ben kissed the back of her neck and they followed him.
As they stood in the short line to get the icy agave, Sanger asked, “So this guy, Stanley, he does this every year?”
Q nodded. “Thirty years running.”
“It must cost a fortune,” he said.
“It ain’t cheap, that’s for sure. But Stanley’s good for it.” She nudged him forward and he got his shot glass ready.
“What does he do?” he asked.
“What do you mean, ‘what does he do?’” she asked, taken aback. “He’s Stanley Gerard. The Stanley Gerard. Neil Diamond sings his songs. The Rolling Stones sing his songs. He played with Bowie, for the love of god.”
Sanger filled his glass and they exchanged places in line for her to do the same.
“Clementine, I’m a cop, not a musician. How should I know?” He leaned over her shoulder to say in her ear. “Besides, if he wants to play with you, how good could he really be?”
She glared at him. “Watch it, Sanger.”
He laughed, satisfied with his well-landed verbal hit.
Ben’s phone rang. He answered it and put his finger to his ear, trying to hear the voice on the other end.
“Hold on,” he said into the phone. He turned to Q. “I’m sorry, darlin’, it’s Terrence Hill’s booking agent trying to back out of our contract. Give me a minute.”
She closed her eyes and begged the universe to stop screwing over her husband. For the past two months, she’d used all her influence to get JJ’s old boss and mentor, Terrence Hill, to play at the Cove while he was in town for Jazz Fest, even promising to convince JJ to play a few gigs with Terrence this summer. They’d sold out of the pre-sale tickets in the first two days and things were finally looking up. If the gig went South, so did any chance of making up some of the lost profits for the last few months.
Q picked up another shot glass for Ben, filled it, and walked with Sanger towards a nearby bench, carrying a glass in each hand, her water bottle tucked under her arm. Thoughts of the dark days that had caused Ben’s current business predicament filled her mind as she led Sanger towards a stone bench under the shade of an arched sweet olive tree.
A lean, sandy-haired man blocked her way. He stood too close to Q, looking her up and down, his eyes lingering on her braless chest.
“Where do you think you’re going, my angel?” he asked, licking his lips.
Blood roared in Q’s ears as a panic attack unexpectedly crashed over her. She closed her eyes, gasping against it. She felt Sanger’s arm move past her to push the man away. As he did, he bumped her just hard enough for her to lose her balance. She sat heavily on the bench.
Sanger took the glasses from her hands and set them beside her. Squatting down, he took her left wrist to measure her pulse.
“Jesus, Clementine, your heart is racing. Here, drink some water.” He took the bottle from beneath her arm and opened it, holding it to her lips to drink.
As she swallowed, she rocked back and forth slightly, focusing on getting her breathing back under control.
Five things I can see: the ice sculpture, the bench, my hands, Sanger, my feet
Four things I can touch: the water bottle, my leg, the bench, Sanger’s hand
Three things I can hear: laughter, nightingales, water running
Two things I can smell: Tequila, sweet olive blossoms
One thing I can taste: water
She took another swallow of water and her heart rate began to slow down somewhere closer to normal.
“You alright?” Sanger asked. “What just happened?”
She managed a wan smile.
“Panic attack. Boy, that one hit fast.” She exhaled the remaining tension in her body. “I’m fine. Really. I’m just… apparently, not such a fan of being called someone’s angel anymore.” She squeezed his hand. “I can’t remember one crashing down on me like that. Must have been all that weed. Please don’t tell Ben. He’ll just worry. I don’t want him to worry. He’s got enough on his mind.”
He eyed her closely. “You still think about it. Ethan? The Ball?”
“Which part?” She feigned a smile. “The being strangled part? Or the being sexually assaulted part?”
The previous year, Ben’s friend, Ethan Nichols, had killed one of Ben’s employees and framed him for it. To make matters worse, Ethan had framed him for two other murders as well. When he’d made it abundantly clear that Q was next on his list of women to target, she’d confronted him alone in a desperate attempt to get him to confess and prove Ben’s innocence. It had nearly gotten her killed and would have, too, if Sanger hadn’t come out of the darkness in time to rescue her.
“You should tell Ben,” he said, moving to join her on the bench.
She shook her head slowly from side to side. “You didn’t see him, Aaron. When he got out of jail. He was so mad… not at me, but at himself. He can’t know, ok?
I’m fine… Most days, really, I’m fine. Promise me?”
“You talk to anyone about it?” he asked.
“No. I can’t. Ben would find out. I’m dealing with it, really I am.” She tried to find a way to explain. “You have to understand - being responsible, reliable, someone you can count on, is something that Ben takes very seriously. He still blames himself for what Ethan did to all those women, and to me. It would hurt him too much to think that any of what happened is backing up on me and it doesn’t. Most days. It doesn’t.”
Sanger handed her a shot glass. “So what is it? Just panic attacks, like before?”
“Nightmares, mostly. Ethan in our house. With me, instead of Ben. I had one this morning,” she replied. “Thought I shook it off. It was stupid. I was in the kitchen, making coffee and he came in and kissed my shoulder. Said, ‘good morning, my angel.’ And I woke up. Like I said, I can handle it.”
He squeezed her hand. “Well, when you can’t, you can come talk to me, if you need to. I won’t tell Ben. Just please don’t let that asshole hurt you any more than he already has. Promise me.”
She nodded and held up her glass. “Thank you, Aaron.”
They clinked their shot glasses and drained them. Q drained Ben’s as well, to put the kibosh on the remaining panic still rattling her nerves. Sanger pointed to a dark-haired woman laughing with a group of people at the other end of the courtyard. Her long curls were tied up casually behind her head, her tanned skin standing out in stark contrast to the pale yellow of her sundress. Q recognized her immediately.
Sanger smiled. “There she is. Her name is Tori Stone. Come on, I’ll introduce you. Then you make yourself scarce, you understand?”
He stood up and Q pulled him back down, shaking her head slowly. “Don’t.”
“What?” he asked.
“Are you sure that’s her, Aaron? The brunette in the yellow sundress?” she asked, praying that she’d misunderstood him.
“Of course, I’m sure,” he said. “I think I know what Tori Stone looks like. I’ve known her most of my damn life.”
He stood back up and Q caught his hand, pulling him away from the people around them until they were under the branches of the sweet olive tree, and had a reasonable amount of privacy.