Cold Snap

by J. Clayton Rogers

  "Continue," said Ari briskly.

  "I needed some...well, some papers..."

  "What kind of papers?"

  "Some Green Card stuff for a friend living in the States. Nothing that would interest you."

  "I see..."

  "I had to meet the gang's document manager—"

  "Ha!"

  "He's based in Detroit, but he was in Milwaukee the other day. That's the beer place."

  "Yes."

  "He had some guys with him, Arabs."

  "From here or from home?"

  Abu Jasim understood he was asking if they were born in America or newly emigrated from the Middle East.

  "Both. They all came to stare at me...you know how that goes."

  "Maybe plastic surgery isn't such a bad idea."

  "When I saw your picture, I remembered seeing Sayid Mohammed Al-Rafa'ee with the document guy. And Colonel…this was just last week."

  "You're saying he's part of the gang?" Ari said incredulously. "They're letting Shia join their group?"

  "Maybe they've all converted to the Chaldean Catholic Church," Abu Jasim suggested breezily.

  "I'm sure he knew who you were," Ari said disconsolately. His friend was digging himself into deeper trouble, with not a little help from Ari.

  "Colonel..."

  "Yes?"

  "You just saw these guys in the video, right? You haven't seen them in your neighborhood? Or anywhere else in Virginia?"

  "No. So far as I know, there's nothing to connect them to me."

  "Good, you won't be needing me then."

  "Not at the moment. But be prepared to move, soon."

  "I'm already moving."

  "I mean to come here." Ari ran his tongue over a doubt, then shrugged. "And find out what your idiot nephew is up to these days. I might need his assistance, too."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Mumfords had been bustling around Ari's house for several hours when the first guests arrived.

  "Deputies Fred and Karen!" Ari greeted at the front door. "I am so pleased you could attend. Come in quickly. It's as cold as a witch's bosom outside."

  Taking their coats, he hooked them on to his new rack with grand theatrical sweeps of his arms.

  "Yes, it's very nice, Ari," Karen smiled, rolling her eyes. "Gee, what nice furniture you have."

  She was very fetching in a crisscross sheath dress. This was the first time he had seen a hint of cleavage, or even her calves. Meanwhile, Fred betrayed some fashion sense in a suede blazer and dark pants.

  "You make a stunning couple," Ari nodded in admiration.

  "Not," Karen amended, holding up a bottle of wine.

  "But I have much to drink already," Ari said.

  "I hope you don't mean you've drunk too much already," said Karen, continuing to press the bottle towards him. "Here, take it. That's what guests do. But you already knew that. You have impeccable manners. Remember?"

  "I was distracted by your radiance," he said, graciously accepting the bottle.

  "What's cooking?" Fred sniffed warily.

  "One of your Eastern specialties?" Karen chimed in.

  "Alas, I think you are aware that my culinary ability is..."

  "Limited. Right. You wouldn't be testing out some weird dish off the internet on us, would you, Ari?" She froze when she heard the clatter of pans in the kitchen. "Who is that?"

  "Madame Mumford and her husband, Bill."

  "You let strangers in the house? Didn’t I warn you last week—"

  "A good cook is never a stranger."

  "Give me that bottle back so I can hit you with it!" As usual, Karen's wrath arrived with damaging alacrity. "You let a goddamn stranger in your house!"

  "She's perfectly safe. A wonderful Frenchwoman—"

  "You let a goddamn alien into your house!" She brushed past Ari and stormed through the dining room. Fred offered a qualified smile of apology.

  "There she goes. But she's right, you know. Even if it didn't go against the rules, it's sort of on the unsafe side. This is supposed to be a safe house."

  Ari shrugged helplessly, as though the dinner had been arranged by someone else. A stranger, in fact.

  "I can't help but notice that your table is set for more than three people." He touched his hand to his hidden holster when Bill came up the hallway bearing silverware. "Who the—"

  "May I introduce you to Bill Mumford. A true gentleman and a citizen of your wonderful country."

  "Born and bred," said Bill, knocking his heels together and producing a rather Teutonic bow. "I'd shake your hand but..."

  "Hey," said Fred, pushing a scowl in Ari's direction as Bill finished setting the table. "There's such a thing as procedure," he whispered.

  "Thank you for reminding me," Ari nodded, extending a hand towards the dining room. "As you can see, I am proceeding."

  Before Fred could criticize Ari's wordplay, there was a knock at the door.

  "My gracious, don't you look pipsqueak!" Ari declaimed on seeing Diane and her mother on his doorstep. Rebecca burst out in laughter, then nudged her daughter forward.

  "I'm not a pipsqueak!" Diane protested, standing firm. She was holding a bouquet of yellow roses. Ari's heart leapt and fell and leapt again. They were identical to the flowers he had presented to his wife at Richmond International Airport. Roses originally intended for Diane.

  "Get on in, my little pip," said Rebecca, giving Diane a firmer nudge. "We know that Mr. Ciminon is our friend now, don't we?"

  Inside, the girl was reluctant to give Ari her coat. She surveyed the living room.

  "You've got stuff, now."

  "Indeed I do," Ari said, shifting his attention to her mother and taking her coat, then reaching back to Diane and lifting the roses out of her arms.

  "They are immaculate."

  "Is that good?"

  "My house has interior heating. You might become too hot..."

  With some additional prodding from her mother, Diane handed over her coat with the air of a poor bystander being robbed of her last article of clothing.

  "I believe Madame Mumford has a special treat for you."

  "Madame Mumford!" Rebecca exclaimed. "You didn't tell me! This will be a treat!" She paused, then cast doubtful eyes on her daughter. "It will be a treat," she commanded.

  Having seen the main course at the Mackenzies (although the children had been mollified with cheeseburgers), Diane's face dropped in horror.

  "Is that what stinks? That's like when Marmaduke lived here and you didn't clean his box!"

  Fortunately, the arrival of Mangioni interrupted any further elaboration on this topic.

  "Your partner couldn't make it?" Ari asked, referring to Jackson.

  "He said something about kebabs making him fart firecrackers." Turning as he removed his coat, he saw Diane. "Oh...sorry. I didn't say that."

  "Yes you did," said Diane.

  "But I emphasized that it would be a French meal," Ari sighed. He had not specifically requested that Mangioni come in civilian clothes, but was glad he had. He believed at least one guest would be severely put out by a police uniform sharing the same table with him. As for Jackson's absence...it was probably for the best. His dyspeptic personality might have demolished a gathering that, due to Ari's heavy-handed arrangements, would already be strained.

  "Mr. Mangioni...these are my neighbors, Mrs. Wareness and her daughter, Diane."

  Rebecca stuck out her hand. "I believe we met last year, when your people were investigating..."

  "The murders in this house," said Diane brightly.

  The little ghoul, thought Ari, thinking someone should give her a good cuffing. He was grateful, though, that Rebecca had diplomatically refrained from mentioning her complaint against Ari.

  Fred and Mangioni shook hands. They had already met, too, in the woods of Cumberland. Mangioni wasn't supposed to know Fred was a U.S. Deputy Marshal keeping a protective eye on a safe house, and Fred was too courteous to ask how things were going at the p
recinct station, so they exchanged comments about golf.

  Ari was salivating. He wished he could grab his guests and throw them into their seats so that they could begin their meal immediately. But nothing was ready until Madame Mumford gave the say-so. Besides, not all of his guests had arrived.

  Another knock, and Ari opened the door to Pastor Grainger.

  "I thought I would be eating at a kitchen table," he said, nodding approvingly at the new furniture. He had visited the house once before, in the company of Howie Nottoway, when requesting Ari's services as a translator. Howie was one of his parishioners. Guessing what was on his mind when he saw Grainger surveying the other guests, Ari said:

  "I didn't call Howie. I don't think..."

  "No, he's not a connoisseur of fine cuisine. You might have called him, in any event. He's sure to take note of this assembly. He would have declined, of course. He would have told you he was sharpening his pitchfork or something."

  "You appear to know your people very well."

  "Sometimes I think so, too."

  "Is this the result of confession?"

  "Ummm...Methodists don't do confessions. Well, we don't have confessionals."

  As Ari removed the pastor's coat, he noted the clerical collar. He supposed it was inevitable. Had he invited an imam into his home, he would have fully expected him to wear his robe and turban.

  "I'll smooth things over with Howie for you," said the minister. "I'll tell him you had snails. Are we having snails?"

  "In fact..."

  "All the more for me, then," said Grainger, rubbing his hands together. "That makes me sound like a glutton, doesn't it?"

  "About that promise I made to Ben..."

  "I hope it wasn't made under duress."

  "He wasn't holding a gun to my head, if that is what you mean," Ari said seriously. "I'm wondering...can I convert it to something else?"

  "You want to convert?"

  Wrong word.

  "I mean, would it be possible to join your harriers, instead?"

  "You mean the Christ Church Jogging Club?"

  "Yes, indeed."

  "I don't deliver sermons while I'm jogging, I'm afraid," Grainger said with amused regret. After a brief and mildly sadistic pause, he continued: "But that will do, I think. We're meeting at Reedy Creek in a couple of days. That's just up the road from you."

  "Thank you," said Ari, making a mental note not to smoke and drink too much the day before.

  The pastor turned to greet Mangioni.

  "We know each other from the Prison Ministry."

  An attempt to win hearts and minds, Ari thought bitterly. Just like the Coalition back home, unwilling or unable to learn that good will in the sectarian mayhem of Iraq was permanently temporary. Why hadn't they learned in Vietnam? Or had they forgotten?

  When Ari next answered the door, he found Ben and Becky Torson on his stoup. On seeing Grainger in the hallway behind Ari, Ben grinned broadly.

  "So you're coming to church next Sunday?"

  "I have come to an accommodation with your holy man."

  With a wide if skeptical smile that held no hint of events two days earlier, Ben made a scoffing noise. Grainger interpreted the sound at the door and ducked sheepishly.

  "I knew you would wriggle out of it. What's the compromise?"

  When Ari told him, he seemed delighted. "But don't let our Reverend DI push you too hard. The course isn't for old guys."

  Ari hid his affronted face behind Becky's coat as he lifted it off and raised it onto the rack.

  With two exceptions, the guests mingled fruitfully, with evident enjoyment. Rebecca was speaking earnestly to Mangioni, her fluid eyes searching him closely for clues in his responses. How much would she tell him of Ari's involvement in the search for her missing husband? And how dismayed would she be when she found out he had not yet approached the police about it? She would be even more upset when the final guest arrived—if he arrived at all. But Ari thought he knew his man. He had seen Bristol Turnbridge's expression of ecstasy when he delved into the serving platter at the Mackenzies.

  Diane was sulking on Ari's new ottoman, no doubt astonished at the absence of children for her to play with—not to mention the fact that her mother had dragged her to the house of an ogre. Seeing that things were going well among the adults, Ari sidled over to the girl. With a grunt that only confirmed Ben's 'old man' assessment, he crouched next to her. The same way he had crouched next to his own boys when they were Diane's age, though the position had been far easier to maintain in his twenties.

  "Are you dismayed, child?"

  "I don't want to be here," she scowled churlishly.

  "I mean you no harm."

  "You want to kill me."

  "How can you say such a thing?"

  "You want Marmaduke back."

  Ari sighed. Children had a knack for baring bones of contention. "I won't deny it."

  "You don't love him."

  "I find it hard to understand the concept of loving a cat," Ari conceded.

  "Then why do you want him so much?"

  "It is a demanding necessity."

  "A what?"

  Ari struggled to find the right words, as he always did when confronted by children. That boy in Fallujah, not much older than Diane...in such dire situations one realizes children are the only true believers. And what they believe in is simple. And true. And sometimes, in a world of demented adults, completely devastating.

  I have shot a child, he thought. He could not afford to weep.

  "For me...Marmaduke is a little package of life," he said.

  "You don't make sense."

  "I wish I did." He looked around at the clutter of grownups. "I also wish I had thought to have children here for you. Alas, I don't know any."

  She smiled.

  "Is that amusing?"

  "The way you say 'alas'. It's funny. Like an old movie."

  "My English has many subversives."

  Her smiled disappeared in a cloud of puzzlement.

  "Many things have happened to me, lately, and they have caused me to miss my cues. Once my mind has settled, I will speak properly, again. I am very good at languages, by the way. Do they teach you any foreign languages at school?"

  "I learned 'bon jour' and 'oui'."

  "French! An excellent language. I have a love for other languages. Each develops its own special beauty. I hope you have the opportunity to learn more. French is a most excellent beginning."

  "OK," said Diane. "Tres bien, merci."

  Ari smiled. "C'est bien."

  Where Diane was stand-offish, Karen had disappeared completely. He was wary of entering kitchen, not a little afraid of being caught in a crossfire between the deputy and the cook. But if Karen was harassing Madame Mumford the entire evening would be jeopardized. Then he saw Bill bringing up trays from the back and rushed over to him.

  "Are things going well in the kitchen?"

  "Of course," said Bill, surprised by the question.

  "I noticed the deputy marshal going in."

  "She's not in the way at all," came the reassuring answer. But Ari was not reassured. Bill struck him as someone born to shower oil on troubled waters, even in the midst of a hurricane. In Ari's experience, attempting to placate opposites made a fool of the man in the middle. Bill did not seem to be a fool, but Ari could not believe there was room for complacency.

  "There's no call to be stressed," said Bill emphatically. "My wife is her own severest critic."

  "She's never had a party that failed?"

  "Oh...she only provides the food. As for the party...that depends on the chemistry between the guests."

  "Yes, of course. Then you don't think she would mind—?"

  "Go right on in."

  Such confidence should have been infectious. Certainly, the confidence of the man who had predicted total victory in the Mother of All Battles filled his people with pride and keen anticipation—for a day or so. It had been the kind of object lesson that
forever tainted rosy futures.

  "Thank you," Ari said in a quiet voice, like a man given permission to jump off a high bridge. Three steps to the right carried him into the kitchen.

  He was flatfooted by what he saw. Madame Mumford and Karen were speaking in low voices, with Karen occasionally nodding and smiling. She glanced at him and grinned.

  "Well, didn't you hit the mother lode?" she said.

  "Mmmm?"

  But Madame Mumford plucked at her sleeve to draw her attention back to the frying pan in front of her.

  "You see, the frying pan is almost hot enough now..."

  "I thought it was hot enough five minutes ago," Karen said, a little alarmed by the fiery red coils under the pan.

  "The rule of thumb is, if you're thinking of calling the Sapeurs-pompiers, then it is hot enough."

  "The who?"

  "The fire department," Ari translated.

  "Excuse me, but that doesn't sound very safe," said Karen.

  "It is only unsafe if you don't pay attention."

  "But I notice...please don't mind, but you seem to have a few burn scars..."

  "That's nothing," Madame Mumford chuckled a little lewdly, as though speaking of a lover with kisses of fire. "Naturally, this only applies when sautéing vegetables or if you want a good crust on your meat. If you are making caramel, fling what I have said out the window. Once it begins to cook, sugar creates its own heat..."

  Her soft accent seasoned her admonishments. Karen's tension had faded completely.

  Ari scarcely recognized his kitchen. His counters and new dual drop leaf table were heavily laden with food that had already been prepared, or was half-prepared, or was awaiting the first delicate ministrations. The stove on which he had destroyed so many culinary dreams was now an organized clutter of dreamy aromas and subjugated rawness. Madame Mumford barely noted the occasional passage of Bill Mumford through the kitchen, limiting her words to a few quiet instructions. He might be her husband, but he was also her factotum. He looked wise enough to be content.

  Ari understood he was re-learning a very old lesson: architecture was meaningless without occupants. And the class of occupant made all the difference. A beautiful woman could make a hovel glow with grace and charm. If a hole in the ground held a deposed president, it became a castle.