Enter man #3, Eddie Crackmeir, and I’m getting tired of these men, already. What is Eddie’s part in all of this? Does it mean anything that he’s Kelli’s legal husband? Is he in on whatever’s going on with Nick and Kelli?
Added thought: Are Kelli and Eddie making fools of Nick and the rest of us?
Face it, Lee, these are only three men I know of in Kelli’s life. There could be more. As far as I’m concerned, Cleopatra and Mata Hari were amateurs next to Kelli. I am loathe to say it, but I have a deep respect for her capabilities. And of the three men I know about, what did they do for her in the past, and what are they willing to do in the future? I won’t underestimate their part in this or trust any of them further than I can throw an overweight bull…never mind.
What about the names on the list Nick found and I now have in my possession? How many on that list are already dead? Let’s not forget Gurn is on that list. Making sure he doesn’t wind up dead is something I mean to get an A+ on.
Mentally rerunning my encounter with Kelli Whatshername is like watching one of Boris Karloff’s better horror movies. Something dastardly is going on, and you have no idea who’s going to get done in, or who’s going to be standing at the end. But I promise myself this: I will be standing at the end. And Gurn, my family, and anybody else I care about. It’s too late for Stephen, but there is no way I’m going to let anybody else get taken out.
At six forty-five, I got up and went into the bathroom. Before I brushed my teeth, I cleaned out the litter pan and saw the cat’s food dish was empty. I hadn’t heard the little darlings get up in the night, but apparently they had, ate their dinner, and took care of their business.
I glanced out to the desk and saw that Lady Gee was swimming her little heart out. All was right with her. Should I give her more food? I didn’t know. I’d read once that you had to be careful not to overfeed fish. When I got a chance, I would look it up on the Internet. Lady Gee was mine now, and I’d try to make sure she had a long and happy life.
That’s when it occurred to me I might have gotten more than a D minus on this test. After all, I had the cats, the microchip, an expensive, butt-ugly ruby ring, Nick, and Lady Gee, tank and all.
Momentarily satisfied, I pulled out my black practice leotard, tights, toe shoes, and ear buds connected to an iPod
from my knapsack. I had time for forty-five minutes of practice. The few times I wear black is at funerals, or when I do my ballet barre. I’m not sure why, maybe it’s the solemnity of both occasions, but there you have it. The only addition of color was a short, pale pink organza tie skirt that wrapped around my waist.
The flimsy fabric is supposed to help the dancer remember that eventually she’ll be wearing a costume, ninety-five percent of the time a starched tutu. It is important to train yourself to hold your arms out from your body, not to crush the netting. Why this particular dancer—meaning me—wore a flimsy, practice skirt, I don’t know. Call it hope. Dancing on-stage while wearing a costume could someday happen to me…along with winning the lottery.
I tiptoed out of the room, not stirring cats that were dead to the world, and entered the living room. Last night I hadn’t paid much attention to my surroundings, but as I looked around, more refreshed and in the morning’s light, I couldn’t take my eyes off the walls. Painted a rich, forest green, three of them served as backdrops for various sizes of colorful Native American portraits in oil, acrylic, or pastels. Depictions of warriors: some vigorous and young, filled with the glories of war; and old men, memories of long ago victories and more recent sorrows etched across their features.
I didn’t recognize the artist’s brushstrokes, and none were signed, but he or she was someone with talent and no small understanding of the plight of the Native American soul. The fourth wall opened into the large kitchen, a long off-white tile countertop separating it from the living room.
Drawn to one corner of the room, I found a simple hand-chiseled, light wood table held a Frederick Remington cast of a brave, his pony, and a small dog. It was heart-
achingly beautiful, each subject exhausted, despairing, and near death. It was the real deal, and I wondered how Flint came to own a museum-quality work such as this. There would be a story, I knew, but it might not be one I should be privy to. I turned away.
Nick was asleep on the sofa, lightly snoring, his left arm over his head and the right holding onto the gray blanket covering him below a naked chest and abdomen, no longer filled with rippling muscles and a well-defined six-pack. Whatever else was going on in Nick’s life, he was no longer a slave to his daily workouts. His pants and shirt—correction Ken’s pants and shirt—lay haphazardly on a worn suede overstuffed chair, said chair having seen better days but still exuding its initial expense.
Attaching the iPod to my waist, I walked softly through the room, wondering about the paintings on the wall. Something told me they might be Lonato’s work. While I had known him most of my life, it was always as my father’s friend. Lonato was a private person, solitary and ruminative. In the past, I often hesitated on asking him the simplest questions, allowing a wall to be built between us, especially when I was a child. No more. After the past twenty-four hours, I saw a man who was giving and generous. I wanted to be more than Bobby’s daughter to him. I wanted to be his friend.
I began my barre, freeing my mind of those thoughts and others. For me, this is similar to the reason why many people have a hobby. It’s a small allotment of time when you can put everything on a backburner and concentrate on a golf swing, a needlepoint stitch or, in my case, a dance step.
After my stretches and warm-up, I moved on in earnest. On and off for many years, I have been practicing a series of steps, which create one grand movement. From fifth position, I do a plié, which is French for bend at the knees,
then a relevé, also French, meaning rise to a toe point on one or two feet. On one point, I raise the non-supporting leg out to the side, with knee sharply bent so my toe is pointing next to the supporting knee. I say all of this because in the scheme of things, this is about a thousand dollars worth of ballet lessons right there.
But here comes the hard part. While you’re rising up to point, you need to mentally and physically prepare yourself for a series of turns or pirouettes in place, spotting something in the room so you know when you’ve made one complete revolution. After the turn or turns, the dancer is supposed to relax the body and return to fifth position, exactly from where he or she started. Tack on another fifteen hundred bucks.
Even the most beginning of dancers can make one turn in place with a little practice. You need more experience and technique to do two turns, which I’ve been able to do since junior high. Only the really good can manage three or more turns in place, me not being one of them. One day, if I’m lucky and don’t continue to fall on my butt, I might be able to accomplish three turns with a return to place. It is devoutly wished.
Listening to selections of Swan Lake on the iPod, I did the preparation, then the turns, and managed to do my usual two and a half revolutions before I lost my balance and came down off toe, not facing the countertop but the sink. Undaunted, I returned to fifth, about to plié again, when I heard Nick’s voice, smooth and sultry.
“You always were a beautiful dancer, Lee, but then, you’re a beautiful woman.”
I hadn’t seen him rise from the sofa I’d been so intent on my barre. I threw a hand towel around my sweaty neck before I faced him.
“That was something you used to say when you wanted to get laid.”
“How am I doing?” He flashed a smile and leered at me.
“We’re divorced. I don’t remember much of our marriage, but I remember that.” I returned his stare.
He grinned again. “Maybe I remember enough for the both of us.”
I turned away and wiped my forehead roughly with the towel, taking out on my skin what I’d like to take out on my ex. “Nick, don’t insult either one of us with this kind of crap, okay?” I faced him again and
threw the towel at him. “We’ve got far more important issues at hand, so don’t make me mad. I might forget I’m trying to save your life.”
His mood changed abruptly, and he looked down. “Okay. Sorry, Lee.” After a pause, he looked back up. “Truly, I’m sorry. I’m not myself lately. I guess having your wife’s boyfriend put a contract out on you makes you a little nervous.”
I hesitated, and my voice softened. “About that, Nick. The wife part.”
“What?”
I moved around to the edge of the counter and stepped back into the living room, heading for the sofa. When I saw it was more or less still his unmade bed, I changed my mind and sat primly on the suede chair. “Maybe we should both sit down.”
“Okay,” he said, following me, a questioning look on his face. He grabbed his shirt from the back of the chair, pulled it on, sat at the one end of the sofa, and waited.
“Nick, I don’t quite know how to put this, so I’ll just say it. Eddie Crackmeir isn’t Kelli’s uncle. He’s her husband.”
“What?” Nick jumped up and glared at me.
“They were married in Oklahoma five years ago. There’s no record of divorce.”
“What are you talking about?” Nick began in protest. “She told me he was her uncle. He came over to our condo and introduced himself to me as her uncle.” He stopped sputtering and tugged at the neck of his shirt, pulling the
collar out. Then he threw himself back down on the sofa, while I went on.
“I understand, but he’s not. Richard found a copy of their marriage license online, her father’s signature on it because she was underage. Eddie Crackmeir is Kelli’s husband.” I stopped talking to let the words sink in.
Silence loomed for several seconds. I could see various thoughts and emotions running across Nick’s face almost as if he was speaking out loud. He turned to me.
“All this time, she wasn’t my wife. I wasn’t her husband. She lied to me.”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? You’re sorry? Holy shit! I’m married to a fucking bigamist, and the woman’s sorry.” While he was yelling at me, he pulled at the bottom of the shirt in anger and frustration, one of his old habits resurfacing.
“Hey!” I said, and then I lowered my voice, looking toward Flint’s bedroom door. “Stop taking your troubles out on everything and everyone else like you usually do. It’s not your shirt; it’s on loan, so don’t ruin it. And don’t take this out on me. You got involved with Kelli, and you married her, Nick, so step up to the plate. Take your strikes like a man. And keep your voice down. We don’t want to wake Flint. Although,” I said looking at my watch, “he needs to get up soon if I’m going to make it to the airport by eight.”
Just then the front door opened, and Flint walked in carrying a cardboard container with three Styrofoam coffee cups and a bag of donuts on it.
“Morning, all,” he said, looking at us. His eyes darted from Nick’s face to mine. “I see Nicky Boy just found out little Kelli had not been completely honest about her marital status.”
Nick turned to me. “You mean Flint knows, too? Am I the last to know about this?”
“Often how it goes, Nicky Boy,” answered Flint, unloading the Styrofoam cups from the container. “Look at it this way, son. The fur of the jackal may be pleasing to touch, but he is still a jackal…or in this case, she is still a jackal.”
Nick stared at him, his face contorted in pain. Despite the fact I was pissed at him, I tried to help out.
“Kelli is good at deceiving people, Nick, something I’ve experienced first-hand, myself,” I said. “You’re not alone in being taken in.”
“From what I’m learning about the little lady, she’s a master of deceit,” boomed Flint. “Here’s a bonus: since you’re not legally her husband, you’re not responsible for any bills she may incur or credit cards she may run up.”
He threw Nick the bag of donuts. Nick caught it without looking.
“Let’s move on to more important business,” Flint went on. “Two kinds of donuts, strawberry or blueberry jelly-filled. Fresh this morning. Help yourself. How do you take your coffee? I brought sugar, artificial sweeteners, and some creamers…” His voice trailed off, and he winked at us.
“God, I’m such an asshole,” said Nick, still staring at Flint.
“That’s true, son, so pick a donut,” said Flint.
I bit back a smile, glad to have the situation diffused, and Nick smiled after a moment, opened the bag, and peered inside.
“Would you look at this?” he said, pulling out a donut. “Real jelly-filled donuts. I haven’t had one of these in years.” He took a huge bite. Thick, dark blue filling spurted onto his left cheek. “Ummmm! Yummy,” he said, stretching his tongue to clean his cheek of the goo. “I take my coffee black,” he said, moving toward the kitchen counter.
From the bedroom, I heard my cellphone give out with Beethoven’s finest. When things slowed down, I’d really have
to change it. Before hurrying for the phone, I grabbed a cup of java and a strawberry jelly donut. I’d have to do pushups for a week with one of those in my gullet, but some things are worth it.
After shutting the door, I answered the phone and allowed Gurn’s voice to wash over me like a warm sun shower. I assured him the cats and I were still okay, and we arranged to meet at the airport around eight-thirty a.m. Currently airborne in his handy-dandy Citation CJ4, he would do a quick refueling when he picked us up. He’d been kidding about the manifest. Ha ha.
* * * *
Three people, two cats, and one fish tank piled into the Jeep and headed for the airport. On the way, Flint told Nick he would be his guest for the next couple of days. Nick took it like a champ and even offered to do a few household chores. I’m not sure which one of us got through to him—I suspect it was Flint—but he was acting more mature and cooperative.
By the time Gurn landed at the small airport, Flint and I were waiting on the tarmac, me holding the cat carrier, and Flint loaded down with my knapsack, Lady Gee, and all her trappings. Nick decided to wait in the Jeep, probably not wanting to meet Gurn, which was fine with me. Flint and I trusted him to stay put, which was a certain leap of faith, but somewhere along the line, you’ve got to do that with a person important to an investigation. Besides, if he took off, odds are Spaulding’s boys would find him before us. Even Nick knew that.
Gurn taxied to the refueling area, came out and had a few words with the gas jockeys, or whatever they’re called, and headed in our direction. Flint and I met him halfway on the runway, and they greeted briefly, the tarmac not being conducive for social chitchat. Flint handed everything off to Gurn and left to get back to his charge in the car.
On the way to his plane, instead of me saying, “Golly gee wimple, I love you and can’t wait to jump your bones,”
the first words I uttered were, “I sure hope it’s a smooth flight home. The animals have been through enough.”
“Should be,” he said, walking up the stairs of the plane and into the cabin. “The weather looks good from here to home.”
With club seating for seven, the interior is sparsely decorated in my mother’s favorite color combo, off-white and beige. Yuk. Gurn told me the first time I saw the interior, the plane had been previously owned by a clothing designer. He traveled the globe with his latest line and gave mini-fashion shows to select clients at forty-one-thousand feet. Airborne designer wanted a boring but tasteful backdrop for his clothes and got it. As far as Gurn was concerned, the leather seats were comfortable, and the padded interior and rug were pretty much stain resistant. End of story.
We buckled the cat carrier into one of the off-white leather passenger seats. Gurn had a special buckle made for securing a cat carrier to the seat, having traveled many times before with Baba. Lady Gee and the fish tank went on the floor, her air pump and filter plugged into the electrical system. As I’d done five or six time in the past four months, I followed Gurn to the cockpit and buck
led up in the co-pilot’s chair.
Less than five minutes later, we were cleared for take-off and taxied to the runway, where we each went into our usual routine: Gurn flips a bunch of switches, while analyzing a bunch of dials. I squeeze my eyes shut and don’t open them until the plane has leveled off at four-ten, as he calls it, or forty-one thousand feet.
“It should be an easy flight, so sit back and relax,” he said in a voice which makes my knees go weak even when I’m sitting down. After a moment’s silence, he said. “So this is the ritual now, is it?”
“What is?”
“The eyes closed until we’ve level off.”
“Pretty much,” I said with my eyes screwed shut.
“Are you afraid of flying?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“You are. You’re afraid of flying.”
“No, I’m not. I’m afraid of crashing.”
“I don’t get it. You fly everywhere. Just yesterday you flew here on a commercial plane.”
“A-hah! But I don’t have to look out an iddy-biddy windshield and know that’s all that’s between me and the ground. In a bigger plane, I can pretend I’m on a boat, a train, or in my living room.”
What followed was the obligatory speech, “Do you know flying is the safest mode of transportation in the world? Why, it’s a scientific fact—”
“Yeah, yeah. Yada yada,” I interrupted. “I know it all. It doesn’t help. It’s this windshield. Possibly I’m a little neurotic.”
He laughed. “What? You? Never!”
The words were perfect, but the way he said them wasn’t.
“I’ve got an idea,” he went on. “Why don’t you go back to the cabin, buckle up along-side the cats, and after the plane levels off, you can come back for a visit?”
“Great! Because I really do like looking at those white fluffy clouds. It’s all the stuff below them makes me nauseated.”
I unbuckled and hurried back to the main cabin and sat across from the cats, who were handling this a lot better than me. This time I did relax into the soft comfort of the ergonomic chair.
Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries) Page 56