I call him Master because he teaches me to do so.
I hope Yahweh understands.
I have to keep my family together. It’s what’s required of me. I’m not Carly—beautiful and successful, with more admirers in one day than I’ll have in my lifetime. This baby is all I have. Maybe all I’ll ever have.
He asks me to kiss his feet, and I do. He asks me to lie supine on the floor, and I do. He places his foot on me, and this is submission. But there are more ways to submit. I think this is Yahweh’s will.
He unzips his pants and takes his foot off me. He tells me to get back on my knees. And I do. I do everything he asks. I tell myself it’s God’s will to submit to my husband. I know I’m lying to myself, but I try to make myself believe. Sin, shame, and a little knowledge of God can be dangerous things.
I don’t know how long the memory captivated me, but when I open my eyes, Jazz is studying my face.
“What is it?” He takes my hand and cradles it as if it were a delicate, wondrous thing.
“I need to take a break.”
He nods and keeps holding my hand, but I don’t protest.
Jazz doesn’t force me to do anything.
Chapter
Fifteen
JAZZ AND I SPENT the next two hours enjoying the kind of warmth and sunshine that will elude Detroiters by the end of October. We strolled past Comerica Park, with its stone tigers looking ready to pounce.
Jazz treated me to lunch—a mountain of corned beef on rye—after which we made our way to Hart Plaza. We were blessed to stumble upon Detroit’s annual jazz festival, which takes place every year on Labor Day weekend. True to his name, Jazz knew every headliner and most of the local bands.
I gave him bonus points for extraordinary sensitivity and a really cool diversion. Of course, a complete respite from the turmoil in my mind would have been too good to be true.
“Are you feeling better?” Jazz asked. He walked us over to the Dodge Fountain—the centerpiece of Hart Plaza. Isamu Noguchi’s architectural wonder rises out of the concrete, with arms of stainless steel lifting a circle of metal that sprays a fine, cool mist to the ground. Children were running in and out of the water with such infectious joy that I was about ready to take the plunge myself.
“Yes,” I said. I fished in my purse for a penny to toss in the water, but Jazz beat me to it and chucked a coin into the fountain.
Men. Pockets are so much more efficient than purses.
“So tell me what you were thinking about at the house,” Jazz said.
“My penny wish was going to be that you wouldn’t ask me about that.”
“Too late. I already wished for you to tell me about it.”
“I should have been trying to figure out why Vogel and Crawford were killed.”
“Nice try, but I’m a skilled interrogator. Were you thinking about the freak you lived with?”
“Please don’t tell me Carly told you about that, too.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it?”
I sighed and looked wistfully at the fountain. “We were having such a good date.”
“Date?”
“I didn’t say ‘date’; I said ‘day.’”
“Ha,” Jazz said, his smile competing with the sun. “You had another slip.”
“No, I didn’t. You slipped, imagining I said that.”
“You want me, don’t you?”
Who wouldn’t want him, other than the dumb cow he’d married?
Did I call that woman a dumb cow? Lord, have mercy on my soul.
“If I did, as you said, have another slip, I was merely thinking about how nice dating you would be.”
“Really?” He grinned at me.
“What I meant is that you’d be a good date, if you weren’t unavailable.” I frowned. “You are a skilled interrogator.”
He stepped up to me, invading the two feet designated to be my personal space. He took one of my hands in his. “Nice work,” he said. “You almost distracted me. Now, tell me about the nutcase you lived with.”
“Tell me about your marriage.”
“You’re a formidable opponent in a standoff, but you already know about my marriage. For the record, I will say I was adversely affected by Kate’s infidelity with my former, and her current, partner. Now it’s your turn.”
“It would seem that, thanks to Carly, you already know about the nutcase I lived with, but I will say that I was out of my mind to allow him to do even a fraction of what he did to me. I’m not a psychologist now for naught. And the only people I ever talk about him with are Rocky and Mason May, and those discussions are, thankfully, rare.”
He stepped closer. “Maybe you need to let it go.”
I closed the tiny space between us. “Maybe you need to give me some space.”
He rested his forehead on mine. “I’m thinking there’s something else I need to give you.”
“What’s that?” I whispered, trembling, and not because it was cool outside.
“A kiss.”
His hand that was not holding mine came to my cheek, caressed it, and lifted my chin.
Oh, no. I realized he was going to kiss me and that I’d been seized by some strange paralysis—except for my head, which was moving toward his—and I couldn’t stop myself.
Only I wasn’t paralyzed; I was in love.
I wish I could say I was saved by the Bell, but sadly, Bell was well on her way to bliss.
Just as Jazz zoomed in for the smooch, a voice sounding like a prophetess’s spoke. “Jazz Brown, what do you think you’re doing?”
At the sound of the voice, Jazz yanked away from me like I had thrown a pot of hot grits on him.
The woman wasn’t really a prophetess. She was more of a diva—a sixtyish, gorgeous, African-American woman. She held her short stature so well that she seemed tall in my mind. She was round in all the right places—big in a good way. Her hair was a tiny, honey blond halo of an Afro.
She wore a lightweight Kente cloth duster—real Kente cloth, not a cotton print. Beneath the duster she wore a cream-colored blouse and matching pants. She sported the best, boldest African-inspired jewelry I’d ever seen. I named and claimed her as my very own mother with such zeal that I’m sure Oral Roberts, wherever he was, heard me and said, “Amen.”
I want to be like her when I grow up.
“Mom?” Jazz said.
Apparently, she was the least of his concerns, because beside her stood a silver fox in the full, undiluted fineness that he’d clearly passed on to his son. He wasn’t dressed like Mother Africa beside him, but Daddy made a green silk shirt with matching, nubby, raw-silk pants look like the fabrics had been made for him. He wore a caramel-colored Kangol hat, turned backward. A bit of a scowl played about his mouth, like some serious correction was in order, but when he looked at me, he caved and gave me an amazing Jazzesque grin. I could see why Jazz’s mother fell in love with him.
“Dad?” Jazz said, looking like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “What are y’all doing here?”
Silver Fox did not mince words. His gruff voice bore the hint of a Bronx accent. “It’s a jazz festival, clown. Where else would we be?”
“Fancy finding you here, son, standing at the fountain with all kinds of wishful thinking going on.” His mother’s speech sounded Southern born and Northern bred.
Jazz looked at me helplessly. “My folks have got a thing about jazz. They went to a jazz festival, had a great time, and nine months later, had a bouncing baby.”
“Good thing we didn’t go to a soul-music festival,” Mr. Brown said. “Maybe we’d have named you James Brown.” Mr. Brown exploded with laughter. He removed his hat and extended his free hand to me. “Speaking of names, I’m Jack Brown, and this is my wife, Addie Lee.”
I shook his hand, but instead of meeting his green-eyed gaze, I gaped at Jazz’s mother. “Addie Lee?” Upon hearing her name, I instantly recognized her. Jazz’s mother is a famous folk artist. Her paintings
and jewelry are legendary in the arts community. I’d been to showings of her work and had paid big money to buy it, but I’d only ever seen a small publicity photo of her. “Addie Lee is your mother?” I nearly screamed.
“Sad but true,” she said. “And speaking of being his mother…boy”—she frowned at Jazz—“what were you doing?”
Papa Brown couldn’t hide his amusement. “Maybe he was about to give this pretty lady mouth-to-mouth. Maybe she’s got asthma.”
“If she’s got asthma, she needs an inhaler,” Addie Lee said, rebuking Jazz.
“He was about to inhale her,” Jack quipped. Addie Lee and Jack both laughed.
“Don’t mind us,” Addie said to me. “We have to make sure this one”—she gestured toward Jazz—“is in line with the Word of God. It looks like brother Jazz needs to hit Bible study.”
“That means you’ll have to go to Mass with me on Sunday,” Jack Brown said. “And to church with your mother on Sunday night, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, and to YPWW on Saturday.” He smiled at me. “Now, we Catholics can have Mass every day, but somehow, when the you-know-what hits the fan, we always end up at Addie’s church, and I still don’t know what YPWW stands for.”
Addie smacked his shoulder. “Oh, Jack, you know that stands for…Young People…”
Jack gave her a hearty laugh. “Oh, what does it matter? I have to go to it.” Papa Brown turned to me. “What’s your name, sweetie?”
Without giving it a second thought I said, “Bell Brown.”
Jazz shot me a dirty look. “I have to call her Amanda,” he said, as sullen as a teenager. “Actually, she makes me call her Dr. Brown.”
“Brown?” his father said. “Boy, don’t tell me you went and got married without telling us, like you did with the nightmare.”
“Dad,” Jazz said in a slow staccato, “there are other Browns in the world besides our family.” Then like a normal person—almost—he said, “You know I’m never going to get married again, because of the nightmare. And I’m a little unclear about what Scripture says I can do after being married to her. But if anything changes and I get a green light, I’ll be sure to bring Bell home before she and I get hitched.”
“Hypothetically speaking,” I said. “And you can call me Dr. Brown, Jazz.”
His mother approved of me with a hearty “Good. You can handle him.” She paused. “Did you say ‘doctor’?”
“I’m a psychologist,” I said.
“Jazz needs one. He’s a little confused, as you can see,” his dad said.
“Apparently he is, Mr. and Mrs. Brown, but I’m definitely not trying to see him or handle him.”
“Looks like he’s trying to handle you.” Papa Brown waved his arms about like he was pretending to be touchy-feely.
“Chill out, Dad. We’re just trying to work on a case.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Kissing always helped me solve crimes. Lock lips with me, Addie, and maybe I’ll be able to tell ya where Jimmy Hoffa is buried.”
“You’re assuming he’s dead,” Jazz said with mock seriousness. At least I hoped it was mock.
“For Pete’s sake, Jazzy. I was a cop before you were even born. I think I can reasonably assume Hoffa is dead.”
He decided to give his folks the left foot of fellowship. “Dr. Brown and I are going to get back to work. Have a great time at the festival.”
His mother embraced him. “Give Mama a kiss, but otherwise keep your lips to yourself.”
Jazz kissed his mother like a good son.
She winked at me when she released him. “At least, no kissing until your confusion on matters of love and remarriage are clearer.”
“And be careful,” his father admonished me. “I took Addie to a jazz festival back in ’66 and the next thing I knew, we were buying cloth diapers.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.
Jazz clearly got embarrassed easily. “We’re not planning on reproducing today, Dad. However, I’ll keep you posted on our progress.”
“You two stop by the house tonight.” His dad chuckled. “We can talk about the case.” He started making smooching sounds, which Jazz tried to ignore. Finally, he stopped torturing his son and put his arm at the small of his wife’s back in that maddening way that Jazz did to me.
“We’ll be busy,” Jazz said.
“I’m sure we’ll see you later, Bell,” Mr. Brown said and escorted Addie toward the music.
We watched them saunter away past the children and what looked to be an indigent man rolling in the waters of the fountain.
“Nice folks,” I said.
“Can we sit for a minute?” He ran a hand through his short brown curls.
“Sure.”
We walked away from the main stage toward the grassy waterfront where you can see Canada across the Detroit River. Jazz found a comfy spot under a small oak, and we sat, the sun clinging to us like a hug, even in the shade of the tree.
“I apologize, Amanda.”
He looked so serious, his brown eyes mournful and cast down. I touched his knee. “Hey, you don’t have anything to apologize for. Your parents are great.”
“I’m apologizing for almost kissing you.”
“Perhaps I should apologize for almost letting you.”
“This is all your fault, you know.”
I stared at him and leaned back against the tree. “It’s my fault?”
“First you wore that red dress, then you kissed me. Twice. Next thing I know, I’m all in love.”
“Now don’t start using four-letter words,” I said.
“You started that, too.” His expression sobered. “Let’s be honest, Bell, we are falling in love, but it’s not going to work. And speaking of work, we need to find Gabriel.”
“I know.”
“You know we’re falling in love, or you know we need to find Gabriel?”
I looked at him and decided I would be honest. “I know both of those things.”
He tried to hide the grin that was threatening to spread across his face. “Okay, now that we have that straight, let’s lay down some ground rules.”
“Like ‘no touching’ and ‘don’t call me Bell’?” I said. “I’m glad you thought of that.”
“Okay, you thought of it first, but I agree.”
“You’re such a guy.” I gazed at him. Dear Lord, he was pathologically fine—so good-looking it was just wrong. I picked up a stray leaf and traced patterns in the grass with it, my mind still lingering on him telling me he was falling in love.
“So,” he said, “no touching and no praying together.”
That got my attention. “No praying? What’s wrong with praying together?”
“Every time we’ve prayed together, we’ve touched. I don’t know about you, but I was thinking about more than agreeing in prayer.”
I had to agree—I mean concede. “I suppose for two people with a powerful attraction to each other, praying together becomes an intimate act.”
“Prayer between two people in love should be an intimate act, both between the lovers and the God who loves them.”
“You’re using that four-letter word again.”
“You know, I never prayed with Kate.” He shot a look at me. “She was kinda New Agey. Always praying to the universe or the higher power. Now me, I don’t pray like that. I’m afraid I’ll get an answer from Neptune or the president.”
“And you wouldn’t want that, would you?”
“With all due respect, I prefer my answers to come from God.”
I lay back on the grass, facing the sky and watching the clouds. I felt both winsome and a little melancholy. “We shouldn’t talk about how we feel about each other.”
“You think if we ignore it, it will go away, Doctor?”
“I didn’t say that; I said we shouldn’t talk about it.”
“A part of me doesn’t want it to go away,” Jazz said. “I wish God could bless it.”
“But you’re not prepared to do what He requir
es to have a relationship.”
“I think being honest about how much I want you is a start.”
“We’re moving toward dangerous waters, Jazz.”
“You know what the Bible says: ‘Many waters cannot quench love.’”
“The same book also tells us not to stir up love before it’s time; and the truth is, we may never have that time—not with your closed and conflicted heart.”
“Obviously my heart isn’t so closed. If it were, I’d be able to stop thinking about you. Look, I know I’m giving you mixed messages. I’m as surprised as you by how I feel.”
I couldn’t speak. His words made me feel vulnerable and only stirred my love for him even more.
He turned to me as if he was offended by my silence. “Did you hear me? I can’t break the habit of you, Bell. My walls come tumbling down like Jericho whenever I look at you, but I don’t want to sin. I don’t want to cause you or Kate to live in adultery.”
“Jazz, it was Kate who chose adultery, not you. I think God will see to her.”
“Oh, I believe He will, but I’m not sure if that means I can get married while she’s alive.”
I didn’t want to continue this conversation. “Let’s talk some more about the rules.”
“Fine. What rules do you want?”
“Just one.”
“Spill it,” he said.
“Don’t call me Bell. It’s like you’re saying ‘I love you’ every time you do it.”
He sighed. “Anything else, Bell?”
I bolted up. “See, that’s what I mean, Jazz. You’re stoking a fire you say you don’t want.”
He bowed his head and hugged his knees to his chest. “How about we talk about something else?”
Strains of mellow jazz swirled about the skyscrapers surrounding the twisting spires of Hart Plaza while lively scents of ethnic cuisine sweetened the air.
“Let’s talk about this wonderful music I’m hearing. Who is this band?” I asked with the false hope that we’d actually talk about that.
“Tell me about Adam.” He cocked his head and sheepishly peered at me—the Jazz version of puppy eyes.
He called him Adam, like Carly would. He didn’t pronounce his name “Awdawm,” as Adam had required of his wives.
Murder, Mayhem & a Fine Man Page 11