Cold Flash

by Carrie H. Johnson

  It was ninety-three degrees at six in the morning when my age group jumped into the Schuylkill River for the half-mile swim. I wasn’t the first one out of the water, but I wasn’t the last one out either. By the time I got to the transition area, I could hear the twins squealing, “There she is. There’s Auntie.” They hung on the railing that enclosed the transition area, shouting, “Hurry up, Auntie. Hurry.” I dried my feet some, and struggled to pull socks on. Failing the attempt, I dropped them and stepped into my bike shoes. “Hurry, Auntie, Hurry!” I probably tied faster to get away from them, love them as I do. I lifted my bike off the railing and walked it out of the transition area to the street and got on.

  I sucked in the air that blew in my face and let the coolness of the wet triathlon suit spur me forward. An hour later, I turned the corner back to the transition area. My head swirled from the heat, touted as the hottest and most humid day ever for such an event.

  I jumped off the bike, lifted it onto the bike rack, changed into running shoes, and jogged out for the last leg of the event: a three-mile run. Everyone was seated along the road leading out. The twins jumped up and down, screaming, “Go, Auntie, go.” Nareece worked at wrangling them in, Dulcey and Hamp sat in folding chairs holding hands, and Travis waited on the corner of the first bend. When he saw me, he stepped out and ran along with me for a few hundred feet, then backed off. I looked for Laughton but couldn’t find him.

  All I could think was next time I would just donate money for research and leave the tree-athlon, as Dulcey says, to the very ones who plowed over me swimming, whizzed by me on their bikes, and were running past me now like I was standing still.

  I slowed at the first water table and grabbed two cups of water, gulping them down without stopping forward movement. My body felt like it would cave at any minute, my lungs screamed at the abuse. I breathed in the thick air as deep as I could and pushed forward.

  The sidewalks along the street for the last half mile were three and four deep with spectators cheering us, the triathletes, on. Something about knowing the finish line was just around the corner renewed my strength. I picked up the pace and rounded the corner like a pro, and stepped over the finish line. I wasn’t the first one to finish, but I wasn’t the last one either. As I crossed the line, a race volunteer placed a ribbon laced with a weightless medal around my neck.

  “My Auntie won a medal!” the twins screeched at anyone and everyone who stood around, listening or not. “You did it, Auntie. You won the race.” They each bent over and took a leg and lifted me up. Nareece yelled at them to put me down before they dropped me, as she, Dulcey, and Hamp rushed toward us.

  They were almost in full standing position, with me hanging out in the stratosphere above their heads and ’most everyone else’s who stood around us. Then a runner bumped Helen and the victory stance tumbled. I dropped. Laughton rushed in for the save. Thank you, Jesus.

  By the time we got home and I showered and fell out for a few hours, it was two o’clock. I had a three o’clock appointment at Dulcey’s. She was going to fix me up for a celebratory dinner at the hotel—celebrating that I lived through the triathlon.

  When I walked into the shop, the chatter and laughter was loud. I stopped at the doorway, taken aback by the display of bald heads—Dulcey’s and the other hairdressers, Marsha and Tracy.

  I became the focus of everyone’s attention as the door closed, before everyone burst into laughter.

  “If you could see the expression on your face, girl,” Dulcey said.

  I looked around at Dulcey, who sat behind the counter doing something on the computer. For weeks she had walked around looking like the crypt keeper from Tales from the Crypt, refusing to shave off the little bit of hair that stuck out of her head. She said it was hers and she wasn’t giving it up. Now she was smiling and bobbing a bald head. I went to her and rubbed my hand across her smooth head.

  “ ’Bout time you decided to be bald and beautiful.”

  “You can bet it won’t be my decision, at all,” she retorted, with a slight chuckle. “I came in this morning to these two looking like they husbands.” She stopped what she was doing and looked up at me, tears filling her eyes. “God’s way ain’t always what I want to hear, but I know I’m going to beat this thing, and grow some hair back.” Dulcey got up and went to her hair station. I followed her, but stopped at Tracy’s chair and then Marsha’s, both of whom had shaved their heads bald.

  “You have got to be kidding me.” I checked to make sure Tracy did not have on one of those caps they use in the movies to make someone look bald. Tracy tipped her head back to allow me full access.

  “It’s actually quite liberating, girl. I don’t have to think about it at all—no washing, blow drying, curling, perming, wrapping, nothing. Just shine this bad boy up with some tea tree oil and keep steppin’.”

  “Tea tree oil, my ass,” I said.

  “Girlfriend is on a roll now, rejuvenated, because she ain’t worried about her hair going away anymore. And look at her, she’s fine as she wants to be.”

  I looked over at Dulcey, who was putting on makeup in her mirror. She blushed. Dulcey blushed.

  I wasn’t the only one who noticed. “Miss Dulcey, is that you blushing over there?” Marsha said.

  Dulcey waved her hand in Marsha’s direction. “Girl, hush.”

  The client in Tracy’s chair shook her head and said, “No way I’m shaving my head. I love you to death, Dulcey, but my husband would sure enough kick my behind out of the house, and I would not blame him at all because I know I would scare myself to death with a bald head. And, Lord, Muriel, you got all that pretty hair women would die for.”

  A moment of stiff silence.

  “Don’t you worry, Miss Jordan. Tracy is going to make you your usual beautiful self,” Dulcey said.

  “C’mon, Muriel, you in or out?” Marsha piped in. She gestured for me to take a seat in her chair.

  “Girl, you better bring yourself over here and set your behind down,” Dulcey threatened.

  I sauntered over to Marsha’s chair.

  “For my girl? I’m all in.” I plopped down in her chair. “Buzz it,” I said.

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  COLD FLASH

  Carrie H. Johnson

  About this Guide

  The suggested questions are included to enhance your group’s reading of Carrie H. Johnson’s Cold Flash.

  Discussion Questions

  1. Nareece acts out because Travis does not refer to her as his mother, rather he continues to call her his aunt. Do you think her feelings are justified? Do you think Travis should be calling her Mom? Do you think Muriel was right in letting him make his own way with Nareece?

  2. Were you sympathetic toward Dulcey’s husband Hampton? Did his love for Dulcey feel authentic to you?

  3. Do the characters in the book remind you of people you know? Do you like them or disapprove of them? Who do you like? Who do you dislike? Why?

  4. Some mystery writers/readers do not like the idea of a mystery having a romantic subplot. Do you feel the love aspect—with Muriel, Calvin, and Laughton—enhanced or detracted from the story? Do you think Muriel and Laughton should be together?

  5. When Calvin confesses to Muriel that he is married she is mortified, but still sleeps with him. Does this change your perception of Calvin’s character? Muriel’s character? Should Muriel have walked out after learning Calvin lied?

  6. Muriel accepted Travis’s friend Elijah with open arms despite suspicions about him from the beginning. Should she have been more suspicious about him and his brother and their involvement in Berg Nation sooner?

  7. Muriel and Nareece’s relationship is strained, especially where Travis and the twins are concerned. Nareece is adamant about moving out and getting her own place. Do you think this is a wise choice for her? Do you think Muriel should stop “rescuing” Nareece and encourage her to go her own way?

  8. Muriel is about keeping her family together and saf
e under the same roof. Do you think she is masking her own insecurities with this desire? Why or why not? What insecurities do you see in Muriel’s character?

  9. Muriel is resistant to her new partner, Fran. Despite Muriel’s antagonistic attitude toward him, Fran has her back throughout the story. Do you think he earned Muriel’s trust?

  10. Are you satisfied with the book’s ending? Why or why not?

  DON’T MISS

  HOT FLASH

  In this thrilling debut novel from Carrie H. Johnson, one woman with a dangerous job and a volatile past is feeling the heat from all sides . . .

  Available wherever books are sold.

  Enjoy the following excerpt from Hot Flash . . .

  CHAPTER 1

  Our bodies arched, both of us reaching for that place of ultimate release we knew was coming. Yes! We screamed at the same time . . . except I kept screaming long after his moment had passed.

  You’ve got to be kidding me, a cramp in my groin? The second time in the three times we had made love. Achieving pretzel positions these days came at a price, but man, how sweet the reward.

  “What’s the matter, baby? You cramping again?” he asked, looking down at me with genuine concern.

  I was pissed, embarrassed, and in pain all at the same time. “Yeah,” I answered meekly, grimacing.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay, sugar,” he said, sliding off me. He reached out and pulled me into the curvature of his body, leaving the wet spot to its own demise. I settled in. Gently, he massaged my thigh. His hands soothed me. Little by little, the cramp went away. Just as I dozed off, my cell phone rang.

  “Mph, mph, mph,” I muttered. “Never a moment’s peace.”

  Calvin stirred. “Huh?”

  “Nothin’, baby, shhhh,” I whispered, easing from his grasp and reaching for the phone from the bedside table. As quietly as I could, I answered the phone the same way I always did.

  “Muriel Mabley.”

  “Did I get you at a bad time, partner?” Laughton chuckled. He used the same line whenever he called. He never thought twice about waking me, no matter the hour. I worked to live and lived to work—at least that’s been my story for twenty years, the last seventeen as a firearms forensics expert for the Philadelphia Police Department. I had the dubious distinction of being the first woman in the unit and one of two minorities. The other was my partner, Laughton McNair.

  At forty-nine, I was beginning to think I was blocking the blessing God intended for me. I felt like I had blown past any hope of a true love in pursuit of a damn suspect.

  “You there?” Laughton said, laughing louder.

  “Hee hee, hell. I finally find someone and you runnin’ my ass ragged, like you don’t even want it to last. What now?” I said.

  “Speak up. I can hardly hear you.”

  “I said . . .”

  “I heard you.” More chuckles from Laughton. “You might want to rethink a relationship. Word is we’ve got another dead wife and again the husband swears he didn’t do it. Says she offed herself. That makes three dead wives in three weeks. Hell, must be the season or something in the water.”

  Not wanting to move much or turn the light on, I let my fingers search blindly through my bag on the nightstand until they landed on paper and a pen. Pulling my hand out of my bag with paper and pen was another story. I knocked over the half-filled champagne glass also on the nightstand. “Damn it!” I was like a freaking circus act, trying to save the paper, keep the bubbly from getting on the bed, stop the glass from breaking, and keep from dropping the phone.

  “Sounds like you’re fighting a war over there,” Laughton said.

  “Just give me the address.”

  “If you can’t get away . . .”

  “Laughton, just . . .”

  “You don’t have to yell.”

  He let a moment of silence pass before he said, “Thirteen ninety-one Berkhoff. I’ll meet you there.”

  “I’m coming,” I said and clicked off.

  “You okay?” Calvin reached out to recapture me. I let him and fell back into the warmth of his embrace. Then I caught myself, sat up, and clicked the light on—but not without a sigh of protest.

  Calvin rose. He rested his head in his palm and flashed that gorgeous smile at me. “Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he said.

  “It’s a pity I can’t do you any more lovin’ right now. I can’t sugarcoat it. This is my life,” I complained on my way to the bathroom.

  “So you keep telling me.”

  I felt uptight about leaving Calvin in the house alone. My son, Travis, would be home from college in the morning, his first spring break from Lincoln University. He and Calvin had not met. In all the years before this night, I had not brought a man home, except Laughton, and at least a decade had passed since I’d had any form of a romantic relationship. The memory chip filled with that information had almost disintegrated. Then along came Calvin.

  When I came out, Calvin was up and dressed. He was five foot ten, two hundred pounds of muscle, the kind of muscle that flexed at his slightest move. Pure lovely. He pulled me close and pressed his wet lips to mine. His breath, mixed with a hint of citrus from his cologne, made every nerve in my body pulsate.

  “Next time we’ll do my place. You can sing to me while I make you dinner,” he whispered. “Soft, slow melodies.” He crooned, “You Must Be a Special Lady,” as he rocked me back and forth, slow and steady. His gooey caramel voice touched my every nerve ending, head to toe. Calvin is a singer and owns a nightclub, which is how we met. I was at his club with friends and Calvin and I—or rather, Calvin and my alter ego, spurred on by my friends, of course—entertained the crowd with duets all night.

  He held me snugly against his chest and buried his face in the hollow of my neck while brushing his fingertips down the length of my body.

  “Mmm . . . sounds luscious,” was all I could muster.

  The interstate was deserted, unusual no matter what time, day or night.

  In the darkness, I could easily picture Calvin’s face, bright with a satisfied smile. I could still feel his hot breath on my neck, the soft strumming of his fingers on my back. I had it bad. Butterflies reached down to my navel and made me shiver. I felt like I was nineteen again, first love or some such foolishness.

  Flashing lights from an oncoming police car brought my thoughts around to what was ahead, a possible suicide. How anyone could think life was so bad that they would kill themselves never settled with me. Life’s stuff enters pit territory sometimes, but then tomorrow comes and anything is possible again. Of course, the idea that the husband could be the killer could take one even deeper into pit territory. The man you once loved, who made you scream during lovemaking, now not only wants you gone, moved out, but dead.

  When I rounded the corner to Berkhoff Street, the scene was chaotic, like the trappings of a major crime. I pulled curbside and rolled to a stop behind a news truck. After I turned off Bertha, my 2000 Saab gray convertible, she rattled in protest for a few moments before going quiet. As I got out, local news anchor Sheridan Meriwether hustled from the front of the news truck and shoved a microphone in my face before I could shut the car door.

  “Back off, Sheridan. You’ll know when we know,” I told her.

  “True, it’s a suicide?” Sheridan persisted.

  “If you know that, then why the attack? You know we don’t give out information in suicides.”

  “Confirmation. Especially since two other wives have been killed in the past few weeks.”

  “Won’t be for a while. Not tonight anyway.”

  “Thanks, Muriel.” She nodded toward Bertha. “Time you gave the old gray lady a permanent rest, don’t you think?”

  “Hey, she’s dependable.”

  She chuckled her way back to the front of the news truck. Sheridan was the only newsperson I would give the time of day. We went back two decades, to rookie days when my mom and dad were killed in a car crash. Sheridan and several other newspeople had
accompanied the police to inform me. She returned the next day, too, after the buzz had faded. A drunk driver sped through a red light and rammed my parents’ car head-on. That was the story the police told the papers. The driver of the other car cooked to a crisp when his car exploded after hitting my parents’ car, then a brick wall. My parents were on their way home from an Earth, Wind & Fire concert at the Tower Theater.

  Sheridan produced a series on drunk drivers in Philadelphia, how their indiscretions affected families and children on both sides of the equation, which led to a national broadcast. Philadelphia police cracked down on drunk drivers and legislation passed with compulsory loss of licenses. Several other cities and states followed suit.

  I showed my badge to the young cop guarding the front door and entered the small foyer. In front of me was a white-carpeted staircase. To the left was the living room. Laughton, his expression stonier than I expected, stood next to the detective questioning who I supposed was the husband. He sat on the couch, leaned forward with his elbows resting on his thighs, his head hanging down. Two girls clad in Frozen pajamas huddled next to him on the couch, one on either side.

  The detective glanced at me, then back at the man. “Where were you?”

  “I just got here, man,” the man said. “Went upstairs and found her on the floor.”

  “And the kids?”

  “My daughter spent the night with me. She had a sleepover at my house. This is Jeanne, lives a few blocks over. She got homesick and wouldn’t stop crying, so I was bringing them back here. Marcy and I separated, but we’re trying to work things out.” He choked up, unable to speak anymore.