Murder, Mayhem & a Fine Man

by Claudia Mair Burney

  “Why are women so difficult?”

  That did it. “Let me make this easier. Bye. Don’t bother opening the door for me.” I snatched my hand away and reached for the door handle.

  “Wait.”

  “What? Are you going to say your mother would never forgive you if you weren’t gentleman enough to open the car door for me? Pick a new strategy. That one is played.”

  “I don’t want you to leave like this.”

  “You act like you don’t want me to leave at all. You poor, gorgeous, unavailable detective. You want to kiss and make up, baby?”

  “Yes I do. How’s that for honest?”

  “You know what’s sad, Jazz? As irate as I am with you, I’d actually like to kiss you, too. Forgive me for being a woman.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Who says I’m hurt?”

  “I’m sorry, Bell.”

  “I’m Amanda. Dr. Brown to you. May I go?”

  “Just one more thing.” He offered a sheepish grin.

  “Oh. It’s your turn to play Columbo, Jazz?”

  “It worked for you and Peter Falk.”

  “What do you want to say to me?”

  “I’m not the only person Mason spoke God’s heart to today, am I?”

  He’s the one all right.

  I lifted my chin in defiance. So what if I didn’t know whether I was defying God or Jazz? I could figure that out on my own time. “Good-bye, Lieutenant Brown.”

  “I’ll see you later, Dr. Brown.”

  He opened the car door for me anyway.

  Chapter

  Eight

  IF IT HAD BEEN MY DAY to work at the county jail, I could have gotten away with calling in sick again. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get away with calling in sick to my private practice. I had made a gross error when I hired my mother’s best friend, Maggie Harold, to be the office manager. If I had said I was sick and Maggie even vaguely suspected I wasn’t, she and my mother would descend on my apartment like a couple of vultures. They would pick me apart until I spilled the whole sordid story and then haul my carcass to church before the presence of God could arrive.

  I dragged myself into the tiny office space I’d rented on State Street. We’d made a comfortable reception area across from Maggie’s desk in the front room, which gave way to a warm, inviting space with a “come and rest a spell, but don’t get too comfortable, because you’ll only be here a moment” feel that served as my office. The combination of Maggie’s fine European taste, the cast-off furniture, and my “ethnic” flair made for a lovely, completely inoffensive space for us—a functional respite from a wearying world. We made our expensive coffee in an impossibly small kitchenette. I could have used a cup at that moment.

  Maggie looked up from her desk and took in my appearance. “You look like death warmed over.” She scowled. “Where on earth is your hair?”

  “I had it cut. This is my TWA, or teeny-weeny Afro. It’s chic and fabulous like I’m supposed to be.”

  “You look like a truck driver.”

  “You’ve been talking to Ma, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, I have. She wants to know who JB is.”

  I sat myself down in a chair opposite her desk and stared at Maggie. She is the picture of sophistication. A tiny woman, her once blond hair curled at the ends in an elegant gray bob. And she wore the best clothes. Today: a sky blue cashmere pantsuit. “JB?”

  “Yes, Amanda Bell. JB of the massive floral arrangement that has wreaked havoc on my allergies all morning.”

  “Maggie, you don’t have allergies.”

  “Look at that thing on your desk. It’s a flower shop in a vase. I developed allergies just taking it into your office.”

  My cheeks flushed and my stomach did a few flips. I couldn’t stop grinning. My internal Ringling Bros. Circus had returned. “Go away,” I said.

  Maggie stood and placed a hand on her hip. “Pardon me?”

  “I was talking to the circus.”

  “Good heavens, you’ve lost your mind. You need your own services as a psychologist.”

  “I haven’t lost my mind. I’m…”

  Falling in love?

  I sighed. “You’re right, Maggie. I’ve lost my mind.”

  “Then get up and go into your office and have a peek at your flowers. Nothing like fresh flowers to perk a woman up.” She walked from behind her desk as if she were going to shove me into my office.

  “Maggie, I don’t want to perk up. The circus is back, and I’m the clown.”

  She stopped still. “You’re scaring me, Amanda Bell. Get in your office!”

  “Do I have to?”

  Honestly! Did he have to go and send flowers?

  Maggie frowned at me. “Flowers are a good thing,” she said, sitting on the edge of her desk. “The card says, ‘If only…’ How could you not want to see the flowers such a poetic man sent you?”

  “‘If only’ is not poetic; it’s cruel and unusual punishment. And you weren’t supposed to read my card.”

  “It wasn’t sealed; I couldn’t resist.”

  “How do you even know JB is a man?”

  “Because I’m sixty-three years old. I know a few things. Believe it or not, I’ve had a man before.”

  “Please don’t make me picture that, Maggie.”

  She perched her palms on her knees and leaned forward. “Who is he?”

  “He’s history, that’s who.”

  “Do I call your mother or Carly?”

  Honestly, if she wasn’t such a great office manager…

  “His name is Jazz Brown. He’s a detective. I met him on my birthday, and I’m never going to see him again. He’s not my type.”

  “And what is your type?”

  “Available. Don’t tell my mother.”

  Of course she would, and I’d get “the talk.”

  “On your birthday? Oh, you poor dear. He’s married?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  She sat back up. “The options are whittling down, dearie.”

  “Take your pick. He wouldn’t say.”

  “Maybe he’s one of those download guys who secretly likes men.”

  “Download? No, Maggie. It’s ‘downlow.’ And no, there’s no way that man is on the downlow.”

  “Well, how would I know? I don’t get to see Oprah anymore. I’m working at 4 P.M.”

  “Maggie, you only work two days a week, and I happen to know you have a handheld television in your desk drawer.”

  “You know about my TV?”

  “Ma told me.”

  Maggie huffed. “I’m going to get that woman—but this isn’t about me.”

  The people in my life are experts at making whatever they’re discussing about me.

  In a rare tender moment Maggie said, “If he’s playing games, he doesn’t deserve you.”

  I hadn’t expected her to say that. Nor had I expected what she did next. She came over and held my face in her hands. For a minute I had my Aunt Maggie back, the woman who used to kiss many boo-boos away, not my crotchety secretary. She gave me a little peck and released my face.

  “‘If only…’” she said, gliding like she was on a cloud back over to her desk. “You’ve got to admit it’s kind of sweet.” She pulled her little television out of her desk drawer and put the earbuds into her ears.

  “I’ll admit no such thing. I hate men this morning.”

  She spoke a little louder than usual. “Then I’m sorry to tell you Rocky has been phone stalking you since yesterday. Why isn’t your cell phone on?”

  “I forgot to charge it.”

  “What?” Maggie yelled.

  “Take those earbuds out until I get into my office, Maggie.”

  She did not. More yelling: “What?”

  “What about Rocky?” I yelled back.

  Rocky is my pastor and my former boyfriend. It sounds worse than it actually is. We’
ve been friends for seven years and were in love for one of them. He wanted lots of children, and I knew I’d be fortunate if I could have even one. Rocky said he loved me enough to give up his dream of having a brood of little Rocks. I said I loved him too much to allow him to do that. We parted amicably, but with sorrow.

  She must have felt sympathy after my close encounter with Mr. If Only, because Maggie stopped watching Maury long enough to get me a cup of coffee before she called my mother. A short time later, coffee in hand, I listened to Maggie tell my mother about that cad JB, aka Jazz Brown. I smiled, daydreaming that Jazz, realizing how wrong he’d been, was begging for my hand in marriage. Just then Rocky walked in looking like he could be one of my clients.

  “What in the world is the matter with you?”

  Rocky ran a hand through his spiky blond hair, now in need of a haircut. Rocky is a hip, tattooed, passionate, emergent-church pastor, seven years my junior. He’s got brown puppy eyes that make him look childlike. I’d learned not to let those eyes fool me. He’s passionate about more than just Christ. But the eyes make him look sweet. He’s actually downright adorable. Everyone loved him—the notable exceptions being my mother, Maggie, and Carly.

  “I’ve got a problem, babe. Where have you been? I can’t catch you at home, at work, or on your cell.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “When did you get too busy for me, babe?”

  No matter that we haven’t dated for a year. I can’t break this man of calling me “babe.” Not even at church. “Don’t call me babe. What’s the problem?”

  “It’s one of the women at church.”

  I hoped this wasn’t about a love interest. Even though we aren’t together, I still get jealous when someone shows an interest in him. “Who?”

  “Susan Hines.”

  “Who?”

  “If you came to church regularly, you’d know.”

  “I went to church recently.”

  “It was six weeks ago.”

  Had it been six weeks?

  Maggie, still on the phone with my mother, told her I hadn’t been to church in six weeks.

  I stood, careful not to spill my coffee, and motioned with my head for Rocky to follow me into my office. He trudged behind me and plopped rather dramatically onto the couch.

  Yes, I have a couch. Clients find it comforting.

  As soon as I walked in I noticed my desk buckling under the weight of a floral arrangement the size of a Volvo. I tried to ignore it, and sat behind my desk, partially obscured by it. “So, what’s going on with Susan Haynes?”

  “Hines. Babe, she’s freaking me out.”

  “Don’t call me babe. Is she one of your girlfriends, Rocky?”

  “You know I don’t date women at church anymore. Who sent you a meadow?”

  “Those?” I pointed to the burgeoning monstrosity that seemed to be growing before my eyes. “They’re a birthday thing. About Susan Highland…”

  “Hines. Are you seeing someone?”

  “They’re from some cop named Jazz Brown.”

  He stared at the flowers. “They’re kinda scary. Did he get them at the Little Shop of Horrors?”

  “I can remove them, Rocky.”

  With a forklift.

  “It must be serious,” he said, his brow furrowed. “Look at the size of that thing.”

  “It’s not serious. Now, what about Susan Hayward?”

  “Susan Hines! You’ve fallen in love, haven’t you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I couldn’t keep from smiling.

  Rocky scowled. “What a sucky day I’m having, and it’s not even nine o’clock. Hey, you want some hotcakes and sausages from McDonald’s?”

  “No, but you do. And since you’re leaving in two seconds, you’ll have plenty of time to make it over there before they stop serving them. Now, tell me about Susan Holland, fast.”

  “You can’t even remember her name, for heaven’s sake. Are you in any shape to work today?”

  “I can work. It’s not like I’m sick. What about Susan whoever?”

  “Now I know how you feel when you’re jealous.”

  “Don’t assume I get jealous of your women. Tell me why you’re here, or I’ll get you a prescription for Prozac.”

  “Don’t get salty with me because you’re in denial. What kind of name is Jazz?”

  “What kind of name is Rocky?”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “Rocky is a way cool name.”

  “This coming from a guy who pastors a church called the Rock House.”

  He pouted.

  I’d worn him out. I always won fights with Rocky.

  “Fine,” he said. “Susan Hines came to the church a few days ago—the day before your birthday. She’d left a bad situation.”

  “Bad situation” is code for “she left a toxic church or cult.” Rocky runs something like a safe house for people in bad situations. He began it by taking a few people in and allowing them to stay in the house the church owns. Rocky lives there along with some of the Rock House’s ministry leaders. We used to counsel people there together until our relationship became…complicated. I almost left the Rock House over it. Rocky would say that, based on attendance, I did leave. But I love my church. It’s way cool. Shoot. Now I sound like Rocky.

  I took a sip of coffee. “So, she’s been staying at the house?”

  “Yeah. Only, yesterday we’re all sittin’ around, watchin’ the evening news, and she goes all hysterical. ‘They’re dead? They can’t be dead.’ She’s screamin’ it, mutterin’ it, and then, totally silent. Like totally shocked. I guess two of the guys in the group she left got whacked in Detroit.”

  “You’ve been watching The Sopranos again, haven’t you?”

  “I’m trying to cut down, but listen, babe…”

  “Don’t call me babe.”

  “These two dudes, Jonathan and David somebody…”

  I jumped up, moved around the flowers, and cleared a tiny bit of desk to sit on. “You mean Jonathan Vogel and Damon Crawford.”

  “Babe, you’re good.”

  “Don’t call me babe.” I got excited. “I happen to know about the case.”

  “Well, talk to her. She’s going all psycho on me.”

  “Can you describe ‘going all psycho,’ please?”

  He sat up on the couch. “Now she’s like,” he said, and did a dead-on imitation of flat-affect catatonic behavior.

  “That’s bad,” I said.

  He kept looking catatonic.

  “I said that’s bad, Rocky.”

  He continued.

  “Stop it.”

  He snapped out of it, reluctantly. “Whoa. That was trippy. It’s like centering prayer or something.”

  “I think not. Does she have a history of schizophrenia?”

  “How should I know? You’re the shrink.”

  “Don’t call me a shrink. I am a fully licensed psychologist.”

  “You gonna see her, babe?”

  I didn’t bother to correct him this time. “Of course I am. This is a remarkable opportunity, Rock. She could be a witness. She might know where the rest of the people in the group are.”

  “Yeah, only, she’s catatonic.”

  “When did she see the news broadcast?”

  “The day after your birthday—yesterday.”

  “And how was she before that?”

  “She seemed fine. A little quiet, a little distant. Stunned, off balance—like they all are—but mostly fine. She talked.”

  “And now she’s not?”

  “I told you, she’s like this.” He went catatonic for the longest thirty seconds ever.

  “Don’t do that again, Rocky.”

  He laughed. “That is so freaky,” he said, shuddering. “Come over to the house and at least check her out for yourself. Remember how fragile you were when you needed help? And nobody you know got killed the day after you left.”

  Rocky knew some painful things about my past, like the fact t
hat I happened to have been a Susan some years ago.

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Really, babe?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I don’t even have to give you the full puppy-eyes arsenal?”

  “Not today. Though I hope you are punished sorely for misusing such a charming facial feature.”

  “Are you kidding? God gave me these eyes like he gave skunks stink and porcupines…you know, those porcupine things that stick you.”

  “Quills.”

  “Yeah. See what a good team we make? You still want me, don’t you?”

  “Don’t get beside yourself, Rocky.”

  He grinned at me, and I had to smile because he’s just so darned sweet-looking.

  “I’ll stop by after my last client.”

  If he had a tail to go with those peepers, it’d be wagging with glee. We stood, and I walked him out of my office. Maggie rolled her eyes at him. Okay, she rolled them at us.

  Rocky smiled at her. “Hello, Miss Maggie. Please send Mrs. Brown my warmest regards.” Then he ran behind her desk and gave her a big, loud kiss on the cheek. She turned a deep shade of red and hung up on my mother.

  Rocky spun a twirly, tappy, Snoopy dance out the door. When he was a safe distance from Maggie, he yelled, “Thanks, babe. You’re one righteous God chick.”

  I laughed all the way into my office. And then my phone rang.

  “Dr. Amanda Brown,” I said, shifting to a crisp, professional tone.

  “Did you see the flowers?” a velvet voice on the line asked.

  I blushed, glad I was dark enough not to turn red like Maggie just had. The circus returned and got very busy inside my belly. “Stevie Wonder could see those flowers, Lieutenant Brown.”

  “Are you suggesting that I went a little overboard?”

  “No. I have plenty of space in my office for the enchanted forest.”

  “I’m glad you think they’re enchanted. I recently started believing in magic.”

  “Thank you for the flowers,” I said, softly. The thought of him made me feel a little melancholy. If only…“Can I help you?”

  “Don’t be so formal, Bell.”

  “You’re sending me flowers and calling me Bell again. Are you trying to tell me something?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about business.”

  “I may have a bit of business to talk to you about, too,” I said, feeling guilty that I’d agreed to see Susan Hines but was not quite ready to share that itsy-bitsy detail with Jazz. The psychologist part of me had taken over, and I didn’t want to share this fascinating patient with anyone—not just yet.