by Angie Sandro
I run out of the bathroom.
“Hold on, let me look at you.” Mama grabs my face and tilts my chin up. She stares into my eyes with a frown then roughly fingers the knot. “You sure you want to go? Be better if you stuck ice on that lump and rested.”
I wince and push her hand aside. “I’m fine. What’s the big deal?”
“The fact that you don’t remember what happened scares me.”
“Nothing happened.”
“Mala, I had to beg Dixie to get her to send George. You were locked in the bathroom for thirty minutes with me not knowing if you were dead or alive. So don’t tell me nothin’ happened. That’s thirty minutes you scared off my already short life.”
Mama calls me hardheaded for good reason. A little bump won’t keep me from making George squirm like a night crawler on a hook for treating me like an outcast at the crime scene.
“Well, I’m fine now. And Bessie’s waiting.” I hug her and give her a kiss. “Stop fussing, it’ll give you wrinkles. I’ve gotten worse lumps from falling out of trees.”
I try to pull back, but Mama’s arms tighten. “Tell me what happened, Mala. Before you passed out—did you see anythin’ strange?”
“No, I—”
“Try to remember. It’s important or I wouldn’t ask.”
“All I remember is getting out of the shower. I must’ve slipped and hit my head.” I stare at the velvet picture of Elvis Presley hanging over the fireplace mantel, trying to replay the last moments before everything went dark. My thoughts grow fuzzy, and my vision clouds. The vibrant baby blues of Elvis’s eyes darken to cobalt, the shape elongating to tilt slightly at the corners.
The hairs on my arms rise, and I shiver. “It’s cold, Mama, like ice running through my veins.”
“What else? Do you smell anything?”
“The swamp…the smell of decay,” I whisper, swaying in her embrace.
“Don’t let go, baby.”
“I’m dizzy. My head’s pounding.”
“I know. One last thing. What did you see?”
I’m whimpering. Tentatively, I probe the dark corner in my mind. The place that feels glossy, slick to the touch, like oil coating the top layer of water. I don’t want to go deeper. I don’t want to relive an experience that obviously scared the hell out of me the first time.
I raise a shaking hand to cover my eyes.
Mama shakes me so hard my neck snaps back. “Damn it, Mala. Why did you scream?”
Footsteps thump on the porch stairs.
“Stop, let me go!” I jerk her hands off of my shoulders. My head’s pounding again, and I almost wish she snapped my neck.
“Wait, we need to talk about what’s happening.” Her expression breaks my heart, but I learned how to cut off the hurt as a child. I lock away the guilt and toss the imaginary key out the window.
“No, we don’t. I’ve got to go.” I throw open the front door, not wanting to make Bessie wait any longer. George stands on the porch instead, and my smile wilts as I snap, “Oh crap, it’s you again.”
George stands flatfooted in my path.
“Move,” I say, edging around him and slamming the door closed behind me.
His eyes travel leisurely down the length of my body. “Mala, I—”
“Sorry about Mama dragging you from your crime scene. As you can see, I’m fine.” I slide my hands down across the slick silk clinging to my hips.
George’s green eyes darken as his gaze follows my hands, and he licks his lips. “Yeah, you look real pretty…” He frowns and shakes his head. “Shouldn’t you be in bed? You took a nasty fall. What if you have a concussion?”
Now he’s acting all nice. If I’d knocked myself unconscious last night, would he have felt sorry enough to let me work the crime scene? I jerk my head aside and force my voice to sound cold, even though I feel hot, hot, steaming up…whew, breathe, girl. Calm down. “Thanks, but I don’t need your ‘coddling’ any more than you need mine.”
He stumbles when I brush past. “What? That’s not—”
“Look, you made your feelings clear last night.” I exhale the heavy breath tightening my chest. I turn and start down the stairs.
George grabs my arm. “Hold on, Mala. You can’t go flinging out accusations, then storm off without letting me defend myself. Hell, I’m not even altogether clear on what you’re going on about.”
“Then maybe you are incompetent. ’Cause it’s pretty obvious.” I snatch my arm away. My heels click loudly on the stairs as I stomp down them. Idiot!
“Mala,” George yells back. “Tell me what I did.”
I spin around. “Nothing. You didn’t do anything. And I’m fine. See”—I wave a hand down my body—“no lasting injuries. Mama scared the living daylights out of you, and you rescued me. Just don’t assume I fell on purpose to get your attention.”
He digs his fingers into his hair. “I never—”
“Well then, good.” My face burns hot enough to go off like a Fourth of July firecracker. Colored sparkles flash before my eyes as I hurry across the lawn to the patrol car. Each step spears a clod of earth, and I wobble rather than storm gracefully over to the car.
Chapter 7
Mala
Stuck on Stupid
Bessie leans against the passenger door of the car with her arms crossed. She raises an eyebrow, and I drop my gaze, unable to maintain eye contact. Part of me feels like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders at not being a dishrag and confronting George over how he humiliated me at the crime scene, but the other still fumes that he has no clue why I’m angry. He’s like a kid who can’t figure out why his mama’s mad at him for eating all of the Halloween candy in one sitting. Serves him right if he gets sick with the guilt.
Let it go, Mala. He’s not worth it.
“Mala,” Bessie says, and I jerk to a halt. “I need to remind you to keep quiet about finding Lainey. With so many people involved in documenting the crime scene, I’m sure a bunch of rumors are already floating around town. People will be hungry for particulars about how Lainey died, but for the time being, the details of the case need to remain confidential.”
My face grows hotter. “Who exactly do you think I’d tell, Detective Caine?”
“Don’t get mad,” George says, coming up beside me, and I spin. “I asked Bessie to talk to you. This is an active investigation, and the fewer people who know what’s going on, the better.”
What’s this? Gang-up-on-Mala day? I share my glare with both deputies. “And you think I can’t keep my mouth shut? I’m not an idiot.”
Bessie returns my glare with an even stronger one. I wilt, feeling all of four years old. “Don’t get smart. I mean for you to keep quiet around Maggie too.”
I glare at the mixed pink, yellow, and purple pansies in the raised beds bordering my vegetable garden. Their little pansy heads bob in agreement with Bessie as the wind brushes their delicate faces. Little traitors. See if I water them anymore.
“This is a big trust being laid on you, Mala,” Bessie says. “I know once you’ve given a promise you’ll keep it.”
Her faith in my judgment melts my anger. “Fine, I’ll exercise my right to remain silent even if Maggie uses her blueberry muffins to torture me for information. Promise.”
“Thank you,” Bessie says with a smile.
I shrug. I’ve gotten off easy. At this point, I’d agree to cutting out my own tongue if it meant getting free from George.
Bessie’s and George’s radio mikes beep. Ms. Dixie’s voice comes through as a scratchy, high-pitched, inaudible squeak. Not her normal even tone. Something’s up. Wish they’d turn up the volume so I could hear what’s being said because worried frowns settle on both of their faces.
Bessie lifts a finger. “Come on, Mala. You’re riding with me.”
George grabs my arm when I start toward the car. His eyes flick over to mine, and I read the worry darkening the jade depths. “Are you crazy, Bessie? Don’t tell me you plan on taking
Mala with you?”
Bessie stiffens from her slouch. “I think it’ll be a good experience for her.”
“She’s still a kid. It’s not a good idea…”
My chest puffs at the kid comment. Who does he think he is? He’s only three years older than me.
Bessie swells up even bigger than I do. “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Deputy Dubois.”
I hide my smug grin as the color leaches from his already pale face. Ah-ha, you’re busted. Take that, Mr. Smarty Pants.
Red-gold lashes brush his high cheekbones when he lowers his gaze to stare at my feet. I shift from one foot to the other. The stupid heels make my toes feel like I set hot coals beneath them. His eyes narrow, but he shakes his head. “Sorry, Bessie. Do what you think best. You’re the boss.”
“Yes, I am.” Bessie waves me toward the car.
The vibe between them makes me cringe. The boy’s lost his ever-lovin’ mind. What was he thinking to challenge Bessie’s authority? Especially in front of me. As his supervisor, she could write him up for insubordination. Their cryptic conversation convinces me of one thing though; I’m not blowing my chance of seeing whatever it is that George thinks I shouldn’t.
Andy’s caged K-9 car comes down the driveway. He rolls down the window. “Mala, Bessie,” he greets us with a wave then turns to George. “Let’s get this show on the road, man.”
The shadow of Andy’s partner, Rex, a black Labrador, fills the tinted window. He barks his give-me-a-Milk-Bone greeting, not his I’m-gonna-bite-off-your-face greeting. Andy will kill me if he ever finds out I sometimes sneak in treats for his dog, but how can I say no to Rex’s sweet puppy face?
As I slide into the passenger seat, I catch George watching me. He gives me one last indecipherable glance then heads for Andy’s car. Was that a flicker of worry in George’s eyes? Nah. Whatever happened has George spooked.
George gets into Andy’s car, and they drive off in a peal of squealing tires and flashing lights. Bessie waves me over, and I slide in beside her.
We ride in uncomfortable silence for a while. I stare out the window, watching as woodland turns into fields of sugarcane and then, upon entering Paradise Pointe city limits, to the main street lined with beautiful, colonial houses beneath towering, moss-draped ancient oak trees. My favorite home belongs to my boss, Ms. Marcheline Dubois. It resembles Tara in Gone With the Wind and has an award-winning rose garden, which I help keep up in the summer. I do other sorts of yard and housework for her, in addition to working at Munchies.
The best part about working for Ms. March is sitting under the ceiling fan on the veranda and watching HBO on her giant television with a huge bowl of popcorn propped on the couch between us. The woman loves her some True Blood. She told me in confidence that she hopes a sexy, elderly vampire will move to town someday and make her his before she gets too shriveled up to appreciate him. I can’t imagine actually living in a house so big and fancy—but old, yeah.
Gerard Savoie built my house in the 1840s for his slave concubine, my ancestor, after he freed her and their children and gifted them with twenty acres of swamp. I wish he passed along a little more money to his illegitimate descendants for upkeep on our drafty, rotting homestead. Still, we made out better than the ancestors of my friend and cousin Dena Ackers. Savoie’s inheritance bypassed his legitimate female descendants. The Acker clan survives on less than I manage to scrounge from the bayou, and at least Mama’s pastime brings in money for decent clothing.
It’s not until we pull onto Court Street that it dawns on me that Bessie doesn’t seem inclined to explain where we’re going. Or share why George was so upset that he threw in his two cents. I turn in the seat so I can read her face. “Is something going on that I need to be worried about?”
Bessie’s eyebrows shoot up, but she keeps her gaze on the road. “No, why would you think such a thing?”
I frown. “Seriously?”
“It’s nothing to worry about. I have an emergency that takes priority over your interview. I thought you might like to do a ride-along. Was I mistaken?” She slants a look in my direction. “I can always drop you off at the station.”
I frantically wave my hand. “Oh, no, that’s okay. I’m fine.” I avoid her eyes and stare out the window as we pull into the parking lot for a two-story, redbrick building with a sign—Coroner’s Office—posted in the landscaped lawn.
My eyes widen. “Bessie, am I going to the autopsy?” A grin stretches my lips. I wiggle in the seat. I’ve researched what happens in an autopsy. I’ve memorized all the steps, from placing the cadaver on a body block to expose the chest, the Y-shape incision…I know it all, but I thought it’d be years before I’d ever see one.
Bessie laughs and pats my hand. “Girl, I must’ve been a good role model if you get all giddy over seeing a body get dissected.” She shakes her head and unbuckles her seat belt. “I’m not staying for the full autopsy. I need to chat with Dr. Rathbone about the case. It’s against department policy to leave the keys or the car running when I’m not in it. Go wait on that bench in the garden. I shouldn’t be long.”
My smile fades. “I guess that means it’s also against departmental policy for me to watch the autopsy, isn’t it?”
“Yep. Besides, George would kill me,” Bessie says with a laugh. “The fact I respect his opinion is between us, though.”
“You’re such a tease, Detective Caine.” I stifle a groan, fanning my face with my hand as I climb out of the car. Until she said I’d be sitting outside, I hadn’t noticed the sticky, wet patches under my armpits. Bessie walks me as far as the bench then leaves me to go inside. I sit down. The metal seat burns right through the lightweight fabric of my dress, and I hop back up with a hiss.
Rubbing my bottom, I kick off my heels and move deeper into the garden. A magnolia tree offers a secluded spot. Shiny, dark green leaves of a camellia bush form a private nook around a grassy knoll. I curl up with my back against the tree, smoothing my dress over my legs and closing my eyes. Tension flows from my body as I breathe in the mingled sweet scents that drag me into a low doze.
Lainey stands barefoot on a carpet of red rose petals. Her glorious, shiny black hair, without a stitch of curl to mar its smooth perfection, hangs past her waist. Her robin’s-egg blue dress blows in the wind. She stares at me with her black brows furrowed and her jaw tense. I can’t make out the expression in her eyes, worry or anger, maybe both. She holds out her right hand, gesturing for me to follow, then points at the morgue with the other. When I don’t move, her expression tightens. This time I know what she feels—rage. It rolls off her and settles on me, a heavy weight sitting on my chest, pressing me down so I can’t breathe.
Choking, I wake up with a gasp. The sun shines through a break in the leaves overhead, and a beam stabs into my eyes. I roll onto my knees, sucking in great gulps of humid air. The dream lingers in my mind, but the details drift on the breeze until only the feelings the dream inspired remain. Anger, fear, and despair roll through me, and I huddle in a ball with my arms around my legs. Mama always threatens to “give me something to cry about” when I act like an idiot. Why am I so emotional over a stupid dream? Exhaustion and stress play a part, but I don’t have any excuse to keep feeling sorry for myself.
I clench my teeth and sit up, brushing tears from my cheeks. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own pain that I’ve ignored the yelling coming from the cab of a black truck in the parking lot. It continues on for about a minute, but I can’t hear individual words. The tinted side windows make it difficult to see inside the cab, but it looks like the passenger slaps the driver in the face—once, twice…I duck behind a bush when the passenger door flies open. A tiny, middle-age woman with a mussed, black bob haircut hops to the ground. She sprints for the entrance to the Coroner’s Office before the driver gets his door open.
“Momma, wait for Dad!” Landry Prince yells, and I grab onto a branch so I don’t fall when my legs wobble. I press my hand to my racing heart. His black
hair blows in the breeze. His lips are pinched into a thin, stern line as he runs to grab his mother’s arm. She throws her elbow back into his stomach. With a wheeze, he doubles over. His mother twists out of his hand, pulls open the front doors, and runs inside.
“Damn it,” he curses, following ten strides behind her.
I rock from one foot to the other, but, really, there’s no decision to be made. Curiosity propels me to follow them into the dark, gray-walled corridor, and then it’s simply a matter of following the screams.
The doors to the morgue swing open with the slightest push, and I step inside. The floor feels like ice beneath my bare feet. The stench hits at once—a sickening sweet, rotting-gas smell like wet dog fur fills my nose. I spare a single glance for the hysterical woman and her son surrounded by Bessie, Dr. Rathbone, and a couple of lab technicians and deputies, arguing in the corner on the far side of the room. Then my gaze turns to the corpse on the metal slab.
Lainey’s chest has been sliced open, and her heart rests on a scale beside the table. My stomach bucks and tries to crawl out of my throat. All the peace and grace Lainey radiated in the water has been ripped from her, leaving her exposed and vulnerable to the stares of those observing the official autopsy.
My eyelids flutter, and my knees buckle. A hard shoulder slams into mine, and I grab onto the door to catch my balance as someone shoves past me. I stare at the ground, unable to focus my blurry vision.
“Oh, Mother Mary,” I whisper, backing out of the room. The images replay in my mind. Over and over. The heart. The body. The wail from the woman—Lainey’s mother. The poor woman. To see her daughter cut…
My stomach turns over, and I run for the front door as wobbly and blind as a day-old kitten. I need fresh air. If I stay trapped within these walls, I’ll lose it. My eyes burn. I can barely see where I’m going, but the scent of roses replaces the rot of decomposition. I drop to my knees in the grass and breathe in deeply, try to settle my stomach.
I’m not alone. The prickle of awareness spins me around.