Death A La Mode

by Tawdra Kandle

  “I guess. That’s what my father says, too.”

  “Do you have someone who can—” I began, but Lucas suddenly jumped to his feet and caught my eye.

  “Uh, Jackie, cantaloupe.”

  Realization swept over me. “Okay, I got this.”

  He turned and left the room, disappearing into the kitchen, where in a matter of seconds, he would, in fact, disappear for real, transported to yet another death scene for a Reckoning. Months ago, when we’d first ventured into public as a couple, we’d come up with this safe word that alerted me when he felt a transportation coming on. It meant I had to cover for him while he high-tailed it to a men’s room or a back alley or a different room in a house to vanish in relative privacy.

  I turned to Crissy. “Sorry about that. Lucas has a—a condition, and sometimes he needs to be alone. He had to go lie down. It comes on him very suddenly.” I smiled and tried to look like I wasn’t rattled at being left alone abruptly with a distraught young woman who happened to be someone I fan-girled over.

  She stood up, too. “I’m sorry, again. I might’ve upset him, talking about Maddy, when I guess they were old friends?” She looked at me as though she expected me to have the answers.

  “As I understand it. Maybe not so much friends as acquaintances. I don’t know much, though. I think stopping in to see her yesterday was kind of an impulsive thing.” I forced my lips to stretch further and prayed she didn’t ask me for any details. “But I don’t think you upset him. This—his, uh, situation—it doesn’t have anything to do with being upset. Or you. It’s just a . . . thing.”

  “Thanks for saying that. And you’ve both been very kind to me today. I’ll get going now—my parents are waiting for me to come home. They’re a little freaked, too, even though they try to hide it from me.” She headed for the foyer, and I trailed her.

  Just before she opened the door, Crissy paused with her hand on the knob. “Will you be at the Pecan Festival? I think I remember you from there. And I know it’s a big deal here in Palm Dunes.” The corners of her lips turned up a little. “It’s the first place I performed in public.”

  “I know, I was there.” I blurted it out, and yeah, I sounded gushy. I tried to find some of my lost composure. “You were amazing.”

  “Thank you. I was scared shitless.” She winked at me. “I hope I’ve improved since then.”

  “If you need any help, anything at all, I’d be happy to be there for you. I’m going to be at the Triple P, entering my pecan pie in the contest. At least, I hope I am. I haven’t found the right recipe yet.”

  Now her smile was genuine. “Oh, my favorite entry always came from Leone’s! I loved Al. He used to make sure I got a big old slice delivered to me backstage.” Her eyes dimmed a little. “And now he’s gone, too.”

  “I actually bought Leone’s from Al’s family. I had no idea Al did that for you, with the pie. He never mentioned it.”

  “He was a sweet man. I’m going to miss him this year.”

  A thought occurred to me. “Hey, did you know that before he died, Al and I put together a cookbook of his favorite recipes? I have a copy of it at my house, if you’d like one. It’s just next door.”

  Her face lit up. “Oh, definitely! Thanks. Will you sign it for me?”

  “Sure. Just let me run over and grab it.” I hesitated, remembering that Lucas had no control of which room in the house he’d re-appear in when the Reckoning was over. It would really send poor Crissy over the edge if Lucas popped back into the living room while she stood there waiting for me. “On second thought, why don’t you just walk over with me?”

  We made our way through the dimming light, with Makani wandering between us. Crissy elected to wait on the front porch petting the dog while I dashed inside and found one of the glossy hardback books. Seeing the cookbook always made me a little sad; Al had been so excited about it. Making it real had helped get me through my initial grief after he’d been killed; my editors at Food, International had been more than happy to publish it, and the small royalty payments I’d received—Al’s family rightfully got most of it—had helped me make the transition after I’d left my columnist job. It was my last link to a man who’d been a dear friend and surrogate grandfather.

  I handed the book to Crissy. “Everything in here is his. We were able to go over all the recipes before he died.” I sighed. “I only wish I’d thought to convince him to hand over his pecan pie recipe. My entry is going to represent Leone’s this year, and I’m worried I won’t be able to do it justice.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Crissy opened the book and smiled at Al’s face on the title page. “You’ll make it your own, right? So you’ll have just as much chance as Al always did. And he’d be proud of you for keeping up the tradition.” She lifted the book. “Thank you for this. It means a lot.”

  “You’re very welcome. I guess I’ll see you next week at the Festival?”

  “Absolutely.” She leaned forward and gave me a quick hug. “I’ll dedicate a song to you.”

  I walked Crissy to her car and waved as she pulled away. Picking up Makani, I made my way back to Lucas’s house, lost in thoughts of Al, Maddy, poisoned Kung Pao shrimp and perfect pecan pie.

  I WAS SUFFOCATING. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream, couldn’t beg for help or mercy. Paralyzed, I could almost feel my heartbeat slowing, its rhythm at odds with the panic clutching at me. I was trying to hold on, trying not to be pushed into oblivion, but then there was nothing, only darkness, and nothing to grasp. Awareness dimmed to nothing . . . until it came roaring back, accompanied by the most horrendous, heart-breaking scream I’d ever heard. She cried piteously as she pleaded not to be sent back, not to be forced to the gray place. And then there was a most exquisite pain, as though a huge scab was being ripped from a wound I didn’t know I had. I curled against the hurt, struggling to hold on when—

  “Jackie! Wake up. Come on, honey. Babe, open your eyes. You’re all right. You’re here, you’re with me. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you. Jackie, baby, look at me.”

  My eyelids fluttered, and I saw Lucas leaning over me, his eyes filled with worry and anguish. It brought me back to his expression that afternoon after Delia, and for a moment, I was afraid I was there again, somehow taken away in time.

  But no. I was in my own bed, back in Palm Dunes, and Lucas was with me. I let him draw me against him, the skin on his bare chest warm where my cheek rested against it. He stroked my hair and murmured words I couldn’t understand until my breathing had nearly returned to normal.

  “Are you okay?” His words were muffled against my hair.

  “Yeah.” I burrowed my face deeper into his neck. “Just a dream. A nightmare.”

  “Baby, was it Delia? Was that what you were dreaming about? The possession?”

  I briefly considered lying, but I was too shaken to do it. “Yeah. It was like it was happening again. Like I was back there. And I couldn’t—I couldn’t get away. I thought I was lost.”

  “You’ll never be lost, Jackie. I promise you. I’d never let you be. I’d follow you down the darkest path, and I’d risk anything to bring you back.” He kissed my forehead and then each cheek. “I own your soul, baby. And I’ll never let you go.”

  Tears wet my face, but I wasn’t sure if they were left over from my dream or springing from the words Lucas spoke. I closed my eyes again and plastered my body as close to him as I could get.

  “Hold me?” It was all I could manage.

  “Forever. And then some.” He wrapped his arms tighter around me, and after a few minutes, I slid into a dreamless sleep.

  I slept later the next morning than I had in a long time, waking up only when Lucas brought me a tray of coffee and muffins he’d gotten from Lurlene’s. I pushed to sit up.

  “Wow. So is this a bribe for information, like Mrs. Mac?”

  “Ha.” He settled the tray and sat down next to me, snagging a muffin. “No.” He took a huge bite and then cocked his head, w
atching me as he swallowed. “Or then again, maybe it is.” He brushed back the hair from my face. “I want to talk with you about last night.”

  I stiffened and stared into my coffee mug. “It was just a nightmare.”

  “Yes, it was. I get that. But it was more than that, too. If you’re still having such disturbing dreams, I don’t think you’ve dealt with this yet. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but maybe you need to.”

  I brushed the crumbs from my muffin into a tiny pile. “I don’t want to talk to Zoe. I know you like her, and I guess she’s okay, but I don’t want her picking through my brain.”

  “Okay. But I don’t think a regular counselor’s going to work, either. When you explain you were possessed, you may find yourself in the nearest mental hospital.”

  “No, I know.” I lifted my shoulder. “I’ll think about it, okay? Will that do for now? I promise. I’m not going to sweep this under the rug.”

  Lucas studied me for a few seconds, staring into my eyes until I dropped my gaze. “Okay. If you promise.” He tipped up my chin with two of his fingers. “Hey. You know I’m just worried, right? And I want you to be . . . peaceful. I don’t want this to torment you.”

  I nodded. “I know.”

  “I love you, Jacks.”

  I nodded again. “I know that, too.”

  I moved through the rest of my day in a haze, feeling slightly drugged and slightly hung over at the same time. I worked half-heartedly on another pecan pie recipe—this time, with the addition of walnuts and maple syrup. Lucas, being the unselfish giving type, tried a piece and pronounced it delicious.

  “But is it the best pecan pie you’ve ever had?” I stood across from him, my hands folded over my chest.

  He hesitated, and I nodded. “Yep. See, I’m glad you like it, but if it doesn’t absolutely blow your mind, I can’t enter it in the contest. I need to know I have a reasonable chance of beating Bitsy.”

  Lucas finished his last bite of crust. “I get it.” His forehead drew together, and he shook his head. “No, I guess I don’t. You’ve been working so hard to come up some spectacular pecan pie recipe, but why? Is it the end of the world if this Bitsy wins one year?”

  I snorted. “Clearly you forget that the end of the world is starting with that old guy in the nursing home on the West Coast. And no, of course it wouldn’t be. But I want to win. I want to win for Al, for everyone at Leone’s and for me. It’s like a way to remember Al, to pay tribute to him, you know? Like a tip of the hat. A twenty-one-gun salute. It’s something I need to do.”

  He grinned. “All right then. As long as you’re clear on the whys, I’m more than happy to support this worthy cause.”

  “Good.” I patted his cheek. “Because I need to run to the grocery store for more supplies, and it would be super if you’d walk Makani and give him dinner while I’m gone.”

  Lucas sighed. “Of course. You know what they say. A man’s work is never done.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Dude, that is so wrong, I’m not even going to acknowledge it. I’ll be back in about half an hour. We’ll heat up some of that chicken pot pie from Mrs. Gent.” Grabbing my keys from the hook by the door, I sent both my boys an airy wave as I left fast, before they could change their minds about letting me go.

  I’d said I was going to the grocery store, but my first stop was actually the farmers’ market, which this month was bringing in an extra-large supply of pecans from Georgia in preparation for the Festival. I invested in a few pounds, chatted with the woman who ran the stand, and then headed for my favorite Palm Dunes food market.

  Hardy Brothers was not the closest store to Golden Rays, so when I needed something quick, like milk or bread, I tended to run to the Shop and Save on the corner, just outside the community. But Hardy Brothers was a store with history, established in the late 1950’s, before Golden Rays was even conceived. The store stocked plenty of local favorites, along with some specialty items from the Northeast that I could only get there. I loved it, since it felt like a little piece of home down here in the Sunshine State.

  Today I wasn’t at Hardy Brothers looking for any particular item; instead, I was searching for inspiration. I’d run out of variations of pecan pie, and my mind, a little numb from my interrupted sleep, needed some help.

  Pushing the basket—or the buggy, as the locals referred to it—I wandered the aisles, stopping now and then to examine one thing or another.

  “Why, if it isn’t the runner up to the Perfect Pecan Pie Festival! Jackie O’Brien, as I live and breathe.”

  I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. Of all the people in all the world, what was the chance that I’d run into Bitsy Ray at Hardy Brothers?

  “Hello, Bitsy.” I turned, pasting a huge phony smile on my face. “I wasn’t aware the judging for the pie contest had happened yet.” I leaned toward her, lowering my voice. “Have you been indulging a little early, honey? Tippling some of the cooking wine?”

  Her plump face went red. “You’re the one who’s going to want to get drunk at the Festival, when I walk away with the ribbon that’s rightfully mine. All those years of Al Leone rubbing it in my face . . . well, those days are over. This year, it’s mine. This is Bitsy’s year!”

  More than a few people had stopped to gawk as Bitsy’s voice got shriller and louder. I saw a couple exchange significant looks.

  “Bitsy, Al never rubbed it in your face. He was the kindest man who ever lived, and he would’ve done anything for any of us. He tried to help you when you started up your business. He wanted to be a friend. But you threw it back at him every single time. I can’t imagine anyone would’ve been as gracious as Al was for as long as he was.”

  Something passed through Bitsy’s eyes. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but I would’ve sworn I saw a flash of regret before the hatefulness took over again. “Think what you will. Think whatever makes you feel better. Because next week, when they’re announcing winners, you can bet your sweet ass it’s going to be my name winning first prize.”

  With a grand sweep of her head, Bitsy stomped down the aisle, toward the check-out counter. I sighed, rubbing my temples and wishing I could transport like Lucas did. Only not to death scenes. I’d just transport home.

  “Well, that woman seems a trifle unhappy, doesn’t she?”

  I turned to find a diminutive older lady standing with her hand on her buggy, watching me with raised eyebrows.

  “I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sure why it was me apologizing for Bitsy’s bad manners, but somehow I was. “I guess she’s just very passionate about, uh, pecans.”

  “Oh, honey!” The woman waved her hand at me, laughing. “Honey, I grew up in a family of people consumed by pecans. We ate them, we slept them, we talked about them ad naseum . . . and I can tell you for sure and certain, none of us ever behaved like that.” She dropped her honeyed voice to just above a whisper. “She was not acting like a lady at all. I don’t like that.”

  I smiled, anger seeping away a bit. “I don’t blame you. But I should’ve just walked away, I guess.”

  “Oh, no, you were just standing up for yourself. And for your friend. You knew Al Leone, did you? Now there was a gentleman. He knew how to make a lady feel special, didn’t he?”

  “He did.” My eyes blurred with tears. Bitsy’s nastiness had upset me more than I’d realized. “He was a special man.”

  “Yes, he was. Have you been by Leone’s since he passed? I heard the new owner’s kept it very much the same. I’ve dragged my feet over going back, just because I dread seeing the place without Al there to greet me.”

  I wanted to hug this lady. “I’m actually the new owner, and I’m glad you’ve heard that. We’ve worked hard to keep it exactly as Al would like. I hope you’ll come back, and soon. I’ll make sure you’re our guest of honor.”

  “Oh, honey, aren’t you sweet.” She paused, scrutinizing me up and down. “Are you entering a pie in the Festival this year? Is that what that wretched woman was going on about?�
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  “It was. And yes, I am. Bitsy thinks it’s her turn to win, though. That’s why she’s, uh, so wretched.”

  “Well, that’s a real shame. Because this kind of nastiness is not what the General intended when he created the Festival.” Her lips curved into a smile and her light blue eyes twinkled. “I should know. The General was my grandfather.”

  “No!” I couldn’t believe it. I’d heard rumors that General Casey still had some family around here, but I’d never actually met any of them. “But you . . . how can you be . . . wasn’t General Casey in the Civil War?”

  “The General did serve in the War of Northern Aggression, yes.” She inclined her head. “And you’re very kind, my dear, but I assure you, I’m quite old enough to be his granddaughter. Although I’ll admit, both the General and Colonel—the Colonel was my father, you understand—both of them married rather late in life. The General was ninety when I was born. I don’t remember a great deal about him, but I do know that he loved his pecans and he loved Palm Dunes. He used to tell us he wanted it to be the best of Florida and the best of Georgia, combined in one perfect community. That’s why he called his Festival the Perfect Pecan Pie.”

  “That’s such a sweet story, it really does capture the . . .” My voice trailed off as an idea took hold and unfolded in brilliant clarity. “Oh! Oh, Mrs. . . . dang, I don’t know your name, I’m sorry. But you’ve given me a wonderful idea!”

  “It’s Belinda Casey Colby.” She offered me her hand, and I shook it gently. “And I don’t know quite what I said, but if I helped, I’m glad.”

  “I’m very happy to meet you, Mrs. Colby. I’m Jackie O’Brien. And trust me, what you just said made all the difference in the world. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to make a quick trip to the produce section.”

  “SERIOUSLY. YOU’RE NOT going to tell me about the recipe you came up with? The one that’s going to win you the blue ribbon?”