Onyx Webb 7

by Diandra Archer

  Onyx touched the tip of her paintbrush in the vermillion red paint and waited patiently for the moment when the sun first kissed the water before applying the stroke in a long vertical line on the canvas.

  Then the cat meowed.

  It wasn’t the standard I’m-hungry or please-pet-me meow. It was a groan of distress from somewhere deep in the animal’s belly—a warning kind of meow.

  Onyx looked down and saw that the cat’s tail was bushy and pointing down. “What?” Onyx asked. “If you make me miss my sunset—”

  Then Onyx noticed the cat was staring at the mirror.

  The cat released another guttural groan that turned into a hiss. Onyx set the paint brush down and took a step toward the mirror.

  And then she saw him.

  It was Onyx’s lover from Las Vegas. She hadn’t seen him since the final day of her trial sixty-plus years earlier. He was wearing the same double-breasted suit and gray fedora that she’d seen him in that day, standing in the back of the courtroom.

  “Is it really you?” Onyx asked.

  The man nodded. “Yes, it’s me.”

  “I saw you that day at my trial,” Onyx said.

  “Yes.” He took a step forward until his image was just behind the surface of the glass. “I came to see if you needed help, but it was obvious you were handling things just fine on your own.”

  “Why didn’t you stay?” Onyx asked.

  The man held up his hand, and Onyx saw the wedding ring on his third finger. “Oh, I see.”

  “Not all loves are meant to be,” the man said. “But we came close.”

  “I was carrying your child when Ulrich took me away from Las Vegas,” Onyx said. “I lost it. I had no idea I was pregnant, or that Ulrich was poisoning me.”

  “I know,” the man said softly. “I’ve seen her. She’s beautiful.”

  Onyx’s breath caught. “How could you—”

  “Her spirit,” the man said. “I saw her spirit.”

  Onyx nodded.

  “You need to cover your mirrors,” the man said. “When she comes, that’s how she’ll try to enter the lighthouse.”

  “Who? When who comes?”

  “You know who,” the man said.

  Suddenly Onyx understood. He meant Claudia.

  “You knew she wouldn’t stay away forever,” the man said.

  “Is that why you came? To warn me?”

  “No. I came because you asked me to come. Don’t you remember?”

  Onyx began to shake her head and then she remembered. A few nights earlier she was at the piano, playing through the set list she used to sing at The Apache on Freemont Street in Las Vegas—starting with “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” and wrapping with her favorite song, “Moonlight Bay.” And she’d thought of him. She didn’t just think of him—she wished she could see him again.

  “I remember,” Onyx said. “Is that how it works? Is it possible to simply wish someone to you?”

  “Sometimes,” the man said. “Assuming the person you want to see hasn’t moved on.”

  “Can you come out of the mirror?” Onyx asked. “Can you come here into the room, here with me?”

  “Yes, but I’m not going to,” the man said.

  “But why not?” Onyx said, her voice tinged with hurt and desperation. “I’m so—all alone.”

  “Not all loves are meant to be,” the man said again, his image beginning to fade. “Nor are all lovers meant to be together.”

  Onyx nodded.

  “It won’t be much longer,” the man said, barely visible now.

  “What?” Onyx asked stepping forward and placing her hand on the glass. “What won’t be much longer?”

  “Love,” she heard him say, though she could no longer see him. “Love.”

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  OCTOBER 28, 2005

  The thought of having anything to do with Myron made Kizzy Ashley want to vomit. But what choice did she have? Alistar had left her between a rock and a homeless place. Now, even though she’d been the one to reach out to him for help, she was having second thoughts because of the size of the investment.

  “Fifty thousand dollars?” Kizzy repeated, taking a sip of red wine.

  “Yeah, well, buying in at the ground level isn’t cheap,” Myron said. “You got any vodka or bourbon around here?”

  Kizzy shook her head. “I’ve got red wine. It’s over on the counter.”

  Myron shook his head.

  Myron wasn’t a red wine kind of guy.

  “Alistar had insurance, right?” Myron asked. “You’ve got to have some cash left from that.”

  “Nothing close to what you’re asking for,” Kizzy said.

  “I thought you got like $100k. Where’d it all go?”

  “Well, for starters, I gave $20,000 of it to send your son to chef school,” Kizzy said. “I used the rest just to stay afloat.”

  Myron leaned back in his chair. “Well, you could mortgage the house.”

  “Mortgage the house? To fund a pot farm?” Kizzy said.

  “Well, shit, Kiz—if you weren’t going to cough up the cash, why’d you call?” Myron asked, pulling a cigarette from a pack of Marlboros and putting it between his lips.

  “Don’t light that,” Kizzy said. “I don’t want—”

  Myron pulled out a Bic lighter and flicked the button, put the flame to the tip of the cigarette, and blew a cloud of blue smoke toward the kitchen ceiling.

  Kizzy shook her head. “You are a piece of work, you know that?” Kizzy held her hand out. “Give me one of those.”

  For the next half-hour, Myron worked at convincing Kizzy her money wouldn’t be at risk. “I don’t know what you’re so afraid of. It’s a sure thing. You put up the $50,000, and me and my partners pay you the $50,000 back in ninety days. After that, you’re a 10 percent partner forever.”

  “Jesus,” Kizzy said, downing the last of her wine and pouring another glass. “I feel like I’m in an episode of The Wire.”

  “So, Noah’s still living here?”

  “Just until he gets a promotion and can afford his own place,” Kizzy said. “How soon would you need the money?”

  Myron knew Kizzy was in. Kizzy was no longer wondering if she was going to invest—she was asking questions about when.

  “The sooner I have the cash, the sooner I can get you your profit.”

  “Is there some kind of agreement we sign?” Kizzy asked.

  “An agreement?” Myron snorted. “You mean like a contract? That’s a good one.”

  Noah was a block from the house when he spotted the red Pontiac Firebird pulling from the driveway and driving off. He pulled the clutch in and released the throttle, slowing the bike, and kicked the gear shifter down. For a moment, Noah considered following the car to see who it was, but, in the end, decided against it. It was past midnight, and he was exhausted.

  Noah was no more than five feet inside the house when he noticed the smoke.

  “Grandma?” Noah called out.

  A moment later, Kizzy appeared around the corner, a glass of red wine in her hand.

  “Were you smoking?” Noah asked.

  Kizzy shrugged. “I have a cigarette every now and then. What’s the big deal?”

  It was obvious to Noah the wine in Kizzy’s hand wasn’t her first of the evening.

  “Who was that in the Firebird?” Noah asked.

  “The Firebird? What Firebird?”

  “The one that was pulling out of our driveway two minutes ago.”

  “It was a friend of your grandfather’s,” Kizzy said.

  “Are you seeing someone?”

  Kizzy let loose a laugh. “Well, that’s none of your business, is it? But if I am, let’s hope he’s got money since none of the other men around here seem to.”

  Noah climbed the stairs to his bedroom on the second floor of the house and got undressed, still trying to wrap his brain around the idea that his grandmother was dating someone.

  If she really was.


  Noah lowered himself down on the edge of the bed and grabbed his guitar, which he discovered was out of tune. When was the last time he played something? It had been so long he couldn’t remember.

  Noah set the guitar back down and grabbed the box with the stories his grandfather had written—stories told to him by Onyx Webb.

  Onyx Webb, the ghost of Crimson Cove.

  Noah was agnostic when it came to his belief in ghosts. Was it possible that ghosts existed? Sure, anything was possible. But probable? No. No more than aliens or Bigfoot.

  But Noah had to admit, the stories Onyx Webb had told his grandfather about her life were entertaining—scary, chilling, heartbreaking—and always mesmerizing.

  If half of what she claimed had happened to her during her life was true—ghost or not—the woman had lived a most extraordinary life.

  How old would Onyx be now? Noah wondered.

  He seemed to remember from the film festival that she was forty-four when she stood trial for her husband’s murder. In what, 1942? That would make her like—107?

  How old was the oldest person on earth? Noah wondered. She had to be close. If Onyx was still alive, that is. No, she couldn’t be alive still. She had to be dead.

  And if she was? That meant Noah could publish the stories. That was the deal his grandfather had made. Wasn’t it? Noah flipped through the box and found the contract. That was the deal.

  He could be sitting on a gold mine.

  SAVANNAH, GEORGIA

  NOVEMBER 4, 2010

  Keep it down, boy. The neighbors will hear us,” Mika said in a hushed tone after Tiny barked the second time. Mika tugged on the leash, but Tiny held his ground and squatted for a second go-around. She really couldn’t blame the massive animal—after all, it had been fourteen hours since he’d last been taken out. “Dear God, hurry up.”

  “Boy’s got to do what they got to do,” a voice said from behind her. Mika spun around and almost screamed.

  It was Bruce Mulvaney.

  “Jesus Christ, Bruce,” Mika gasped. “What in the hell are you doing out here lurking around in the dark?”

  “I could ask you the same thing, Mika, but we already know,” Bruce said. “You’re hiding from the police.”

  “I am not. I’m walking the dog,” Mika said.

  “Okay, play it that way if you want,” Bruce said. “I came to see if I could help you out of your situation, but if everything’s fine…”

  Bruce turned and took several steps.

  “Wait,” Mika said.

  Bruce stopped, turned back, and saw something he’d never witnessed before. Mika’s head was down, her hands pressed to her face, unsuccessfully trying to hold back tears. Finally, she pulled herself upright. “Oh, Bruce, I am so screwed.”

  Bruce took a seat at the kitchen table, doing his best to keep the dog from jumping on him, while Mika poured two cups of coffee.

  “You can turn the lights on, you know,” Bruce said. “No one is coming to break down the doors at this time of night.”

  Mika flipped on the light switch, set the coffee cups on the table, and took a seat. She reached out and grabbed Tiny by the collar and forced him to the floor next to her chair. “So, where do you want me to start?”

  “Let’s start with the missing cash. Did you use money from the foundation account for personal use?” Bruce asked.

  Mika closed her eyes and silently nodded. Bruce knew more than she thought. The question was, did he know everything? Had Declan told him about the eggs and the book she’d stolen from his study? Probably not. Bruce wouldn’t be here to help her if he knew that.

  “Yes, it’s true,” Mika said, taking a sip of coffee and doing her best to act naturally. “I did borrow some money from the account.”

  “You borrowed some money? No, Mika, you didn’t borrow anything. You stole a million dollars.”

  “It was stupid, I know,” Mika said. “I thought I could—”

  “Why, Mika?”

  “I’m broke,” Mika said, pushing the coffee cup away.

  “Broke? How is that possible? You inherited $200 million, and you’re broke?”

  “It was six, Bruce,” Mika said.

  “Six?”

  Mika nodded. “I didn’t inherit $200 million. I exaggerated the amount a bit. It was only $6 million.”

  “Christ, Mika, you really are a piece of work.”

  “Did you come here to berate me or help me?” Mika asked.

  Bruce shook his head and released a breath. “So, is that why you were trying to sell the house?”

  Mika nodded.

  “How much equity do you have in the place?”

  “I don’t know, a million maybe,” Mika said. “But that was before Domingo Gutierrez decided to remind the world that a serial killer dumped a dead reporter on my front porch back in the ‘80s. Skyland something or other.”

  “Skylar Savage,” Bruce said.

  “Yeah, that’s it. It was big news apparently.”

  “Yes, it was.” Bruce remembered because in August of that year—only two months earlier—he had asked Nisa to marry him. His mind drifted, remembering how horrible Nisa thought it was. He also remembered laughing and telling her not to be silly—nothing like would ever happen to her, not as long as he was around.

  That was Halloween 1985.

  Eight years later, Nisa would go missing.

  “Hello? Earth to Bruce?” Mika said.

  “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” Bruce said, shaking off the memory. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll have my lawyer standing at your door at nine sharp. He’ll drive you to the DA’s office, and you’re going to turn yourself in. Then—”

  “Turn myself in?!”

  “Yes, Mika. That’s exactly what you’re going to do,” Bruce said. “The lawyer will arrange for an expedited arraignment and for bail to be set. You’ll be out in two hours without ever seeing the inside of a jail cell.”

  “You don’t understand. I can’t make bail.”

  “Yes, you can,” Bruce said. “Because I’m going to buy your house.”

  “What?”

  “For the full asking price,” Bruce continued. “That will give you enough to make restitution to the foundation. Then we’ll work on getting the assault charges dropped or reduced to a misdemeanor.”

  “And I can stay here?” Mika asked.

  “Until things get worked out, yes,” Bruce said.

  “Why are you doing this for me?”

  “Why not? Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

  Mika thought about the situation with Declan again. She was right to have kept that part of things to herself—especially the part where Declan had already given her $100,000 to keep her mouth shut about the remaining Fabergé eggs.

  With any luck, Declan would keep his end of the bargain.

  Mika waited for Bruce to leave and then grabbed her cell phone and pressed the number for the fence who had Declan’s copy of Ulysses.

  Fortunately, he answered.

  “I’ve left like ten messages for you,” Mika snapped.

  “Yeah, I noticed. What’s up?”

  “What’s up is I need the Ulysses book back. Fast.”

  “No can do,” the fence said.

  “What do you mean, no can do?”

  “Someone broke into my crib and stole it. Ironic, huh?”

  “Do not tell me that,” Mika said. “I need that book back. Do you understand me?”

  “Yeah, well I need a set of twenty-inch gold-plated Diablo rims for my El Camino,” the fence said. “Come up with three grand for my spokes, and who knows? Maybe your book won’t be quite as stolen.”

  “You’re charging me to get my book back?” Mika huffed.

  “Nah, just think of it as a penalty for being such a bitch.”

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  MAY 30, 2005

  We resolve that their sacrifice will always be remembered by a grateful nation,” George W. Bush said to the applause of those ga
thered at Arlington Cemetery. “Every year on this day, we pause to remember Americans who have fallen by placing a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknowns, the names of which are known only to God, but whose courage and sacrifice will never be forgotten by our nation.”

  By the time the president was finished and Bruce Mulvaney found himself behind the microphone, the temperature had risen to sixty-two degrees. But the wind coming in from the Potomac at fifteen miles per hour chilled Bruce to the bone. Even an eight-year-old knows better than to leave the house without a coat. Hell, even George Bush had been smart enough to wear an overcoat.

  Bruce tugged on the lapels of his suit jacket with his left hand, the poem his father had written for the occasion flapping in the breeze in his right.

  “Let me begin by saying what a pleasure it is to be here today,” Bruce said. “Had I known I’d have to follow the president, I might have declined the invitation.”

  Bruce had hoped for a laugh, but none was forthcoming.

  “In reality, the invitation to speak was not extended to me, but—rather—to a true war hero, my father, Declan Mulvaney,” Bruce said, which was followed by mild applause.

  And a smattering of boos.

  This was something Bruce had been warned to expect, but it threw him nonetheless. The idea that veterans would boo a fellow veteran was unthinkable, especially on such a hallowed occasion. But the news coverage of his father’s arrest by the FBI had taken its toll on Declan’s public image.

  A month earlier, Bruce’s father—who was known as a successful business man and philanthropist—had quickly turned into the billionaire art thief. Declan had gone from hero to zero faster than you could say Rembrandt.

  “If I may, I’d like to read a poem my father penned specifically for this occasion,” Bruce said, which was followed by more booing.