Hex on the Ex

by Rochelle Staab

  “Not unless you want to. I’m used to the heat.” She pulled a small notebook from her jacket pocket. “It’s private here, easier for us to talk. Nice place.”

  We eased in with small talk, and then she told me about her transfer from Northeast to the West Valley station. An opportunity, she explained as she handed me her new business card, for advancement to Detective II.

  “Have you seen Dave recently?” she said.

  “We were together last night at the Dodger game.”

  “Ah.” Her brows shot up. “And are you still close to your friend the professor?”

  “Nick? Yes. He told me he saw you today.”

  “He did.” She opened her notebook. “As I mentioned on the phone, your name came up this morning in the homicide investigation I’m working on.”

  “At Jarret’s house.”

  “Yes, Mr. Cooper’s home. I understand he’s your…” She tilted her head, waiting for me to finish.

  “Ex-husband. We’ve been divorced for four years. What would you like to know? Ask away.”

  Carla clicked her pen. “Actually, I prefer for you to do the talking. Would you tell me in your own words where you were this morning?”

  “Where do you want me to begin?”

  “Wherever’s comfortable. Take your time.”

  I stopped, considering how to verify my whereabouts, and decided to begin with the gym. “I went to work out this morning, early, around seven. After exercising I took a shower…” I rambled out details with nervous tension knotting my shoulders—hesitant to place myself at the scene of Laycee’s murder. Carla jotted notes while she listened to my insignificant details with more patience than I would have had. I explained my decision to drive to Jarret’s to pick up the last box of books waiting in his kitchen. “I left the gym and drove to the house—”

  “What time was that?”

  “I left Game On at seven fifty-five,” I said. “I remember thinking I would miss Jarret when he left for his morning run at eight.”

  “Did anyone at the gym see you leave?”

  I paused. “Earl Good, one of the trainers. A few members, but I don’t have their last names. Earl saw me. He’ll know me by name.”

  She made a note and gestured for me to continue.

  “When I got to Royal Oaks, I pulled into Jarret’s drive, opened the garage, entered the kitchen, got the box, and then went home.”

  “What time were you at the house?” Carla said.

  “Traffic along Ventura Boulevard jammed on the way there. I’d say I arrived at his house a little past eight-thirty or so, picked up the box off the kitchen counter, turned around, and left. I didn’t see or hear anything.”

  “Did anyone witness your arrival or your exit?”

  “No one. It’s a quiet—” I held up my finger. “Wait. I passed one of the neighbors walking her dog when I pulled out of the driveway. I didn’t stop to talk to her. I was already late to meet the plumber at my place.”

  “How often do you visit your ex-husband’s home?”

  “Aside from yesterday and today? Never. And yesterday I didn’t go inside at all. Jarret waited for me in the driveway, put some boxes in my trunk, then I left.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual about the house?”

  “Unusual? No. No cars in the driveway. The garage door was closed when I arrived. Jarret leaves his kitchen door unlocked, so I opened the garage—”

  She looked up, questioning. “How did you open it?”

  “I have the combination. I used to live there.”

  “You knew the combination was the same or Mr. Cooper told you it was?”

  “Both. He’s been using the same combination for years.” The sides of my dress stuck to my ribs and a bead of sweat trickled down my back. I excused myself and went to the condiment station for a pile of napkins to blot my face and neck.

  Carla waited, composed. If she sweltered in her suit, she didn’t show it. When I got back to the table she said, “Who else has the combination to Mr. Cooper’s garage?”

  “He never changes the code, so the list is likely long. You should ask him.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “When we moved in, we gave the combination to the housekeeper, his trainer, and contractors. It’s been years. I have no idea who else has it now.”

  “Let’s go back to what you saw after you entered the house.”

  I shifted to unstick my sweaty thighs. Her repetitive questions were annoying but I understood her goal: get me to tell my story, and then ask again to see if the facts change.

  “I saw nothing,” I said. “I picked up the box and left.”

  “Humor me. Describe the room.”

  Carla knew exactly what was in Jarret’s kitchen. She probably had an inventoried list in her notebook.

  “I saw appliances and dirty dishes,” I said.

  “What kind of dirty dishes?”

  “A blender pitcher in the sink, some glasses on the counter. Empty bottles,” I said. “I went in and out of there so fast it’s difficult to remember. As I said, I picked up the box and left.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Home, to meet my plumber.”

  “I need his name and contact information.” She wrote as I recited Stan’s number then she said, “Where’s the box now?”

  “At my house.”

  “I’d like to see it.” She flipped her notebook closed.

  I had the right to demand she get a warrant, making an old carton of books appear far more meaningful than it was. Or I could grant her permission. I had nothing to hide. The sooner our interview ended, the better I would feel.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’m parked on Tujunga. Do you want to follow me home?”

  “I’ll meet you there. I have your new address.”

  The streetlights flickered on at twilight as I made the right turn into my driveway. Carla parked her steel blue, four-door Chevy Caprice across the street. She came up the brick path, waiting under the porch light while I used my key to open the front door.

  Switching on the lamp on the small table by the living room sofa, I pointed at the brown carton on the floor in front of the fireplace. “There it is.”

  Carla snapped on a pair of latex gloves and crouched next to the quarter-folded box. “Did you open it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Anyone aside from you touch it today?”

  “Jarret, obviously. My plumber’s assistant carried it in here from my car,” I said. “Why the curiosity about the box? A bunch of old books are inside.”

  “If strangers entered Mr. Cooper’s house, they may have touched it. Any foreign prints may be a clue. With your permission, I want to take the box in and have it checked for prints.”

  Made sense. The knot of tension at the back of my neck eased. Good. Carla sought suspects aside from Jarret. “You have my permission, as long as my literary taste won’t be judged by the contents. The books have been in that box since our move from Atlanta.”

  With a half-grin on her face, she pulled a square of plastic from her purse and unfolded it into a large evidence bag. She covered the carton, sealed the edges, then took off her gloves and wrote out a receipt. “I’ll need a set of prints from you for elimination since you touched it.”

  “I’m on file. The DOJ and FBI ran my prints when I applied for my license to practice psychology.” I walked her to the vestibule.

  As I opened the door, she stopped. “I’m curious about something, Liz.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You didn’t ask for the identity of the victim.”

  I flinched. If I didn’t know, or if the victim was a stranger to me, of course I would have inquired. Anyone would. Damn it.

  “I already knew,” I said lowering my eyes. “Ira Ryback told me when I called Jarret’s house this morning after I saw the news reports. I didn’t ask you because I assumed you couldn’t say much.”

  Carla lifted her chin, squinting, and then she nodded sl
owly. I followed her outside to the porch. She stopped and turned. “One more thing. Did you know Mrs. Huber?”

  What was she doing? Playing Columbo? Wasn’t the damn box heavy? If Carla did her homework she already knew the answer.

  “I used to,” I said. “We were neighbors in Atlanta.”

  She started toward her car. “I’ll be in touch.”

  I went inside, wondering if “in touch” meant a second interview. According to Dave, Carla wasn’t likely to contact me again unless she doubted my story. I told her the truth, yet as she drove off my heart pounded in my throat.

  Erzulie perched on the top of the sofa, watching me turn on lights from room to room. The cool air inside the house dried the sticky hair at the nape of my neck. My dress, wrinkled and wilted, was a lost cause. Too hungry to change, I pulled out my phone.

  “Hey,” Nick answered with the sound of computer keys clicking and soulful music playing in the background.

  “Are you working?”

  “If you can call going in circles working, yes. I—damn, it’s already dark outside. What time is it?” When Nick focused on a mission, his preoccupation usurped even basic needs. Like food. Rest. Or me.

  “Eight-thirty. Did you eat today?” I said.

  “Eat?” He continued clicking on his keyboard. “I don’t remember. I don’t think so.”

  “Me either. I can fix that. I’ll be over in a few.”

  I grabbed my keys and made a stop at Henry’s, the taco stand on the corner of Moorpark and Tujunga serving the best homemade tacos in the Valley. Henry’s wasn’t the reason I moved to Studio City, although living near the walk-up stand under the yellow, green, and red “TACOS” canopy was a bonus. I bought five hard-shell tacos and hopped in my car to North Hollywood.

  When I opened the front door of Nick’s brown-shingled, one-story bungalow I saw him sitting shirtless on the paprika twill sofa in his living room. His legs stretched out with his feet resting on the coffee table and his laptop open on his knees. Books scattered over the Aztec rug on his hardwood floor. A mess of strewn papers covered the desk in front of the window.

  As his fingers danced on the keyboard, Nick bobbed his head to Al Green’s “Love and Happiness” playing through the corner speakers.

  “Memphis soul tonight? What’s the occasion?” I said, aware that Nick’s taste leaned more toward Chicago blues and jazz standards.

  He moved his laptop to the sofa cushion. “Felt right. Old Reverend Al’s music got me through a lot of study nights in grad school. I can’t say what made me think of him today, just an inclination. I’m having a hell of a time remembering where I saw that symbol. What’s in the bag?”

  “I made dinner.”

  “You? Made food?”

  “Kind of. I made the drive to Henry’s Tacos.”

  “You’re unbelievable.” Nick reached out his hand. “Come here. I need to ravage you right now.”

  So much for his usurped basic needs. I dropped the bag on the coffee table. He pulled me onto his lap with a kiss that shot goose bumps over my body. His hands stroked my bare arms and shoulders. Brushing his lips down to my collarbone, he slid the straps of my dress off my shoulders.

  “I should forget perfume and wear hot sauce instead.” I kissed the back of his neck, tasting the salt of his skin.

  “You shouldn’t be wearing anything at all.” He began to unzip my dress. I walked my fingers down his chest to his belt. As his lips moved down from my throat, a ping sounded an incoming e-mail on his laptop. He turned his head slightly at the machine.

  With his left hand still fumbling at my zipper, Nick moved his right hand to the computer beside him and touched the mouse to bring up the screen. He clicked the e-mail icon and opened his inbox.

  I admired multitasking but not if I was one of the multiple tasks. I stopped unbuckling his belt to read the screen with him. The header on the lone e-mail read: Con&grådülatons! Spam.

  “Where were we?” he said, fumbling at my zipper again.

  “Distracted.” I sat up and ruffled his hair. “Let’s eat. You can tell me about the e-mail you’re expecting over dinner.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Well? E-mail?” I set two plates on the eating counter separating Nick’s jade green kitchen from his living room and then opened the bag of tacos. My mouth watered at the first spicy scent billowing from the bag. I put out three for Nick and two for me.

  Nick pulled on his T-shirt on his way to the stainless-steel refrigerator. “I’m hoping for news from Eagleton. I wasted the afternoon flipping through books on Wiccan symbols and hex signs. Useless. I didn’t find anything replicating the specific position of the elements in the symbol left on Laycee’s body. Yet I still have this hazy impression I’ve seen the combination before.”

  “What about the work you did at the library yesterday? Do you think you ran across the symbol in passing?”

  He twisted the caps off two longneck bottles of beer and sat next to me on a stool. “I wish it were that simple. Of all the symbolism I’ve studied, the mark Laycee’s killer left is too simplistic to be remarkable, yet the combination stuck in my memory. I just don’t know why or from where.”

  “What about one of your research trips?”

  “Not overseas or South America. It’s not Southern voodoo or Native American spiritualism.” He scratched his head. “The East Coast? The Midwest?”

  “You’re certain it’s not a gang or cult sign? Or the rendering of a madman scribbling a nonsensical sign only he understands?”

  He raised a brow. “A cult is a possibility, that’s why I’m determined to shake my memory. Eagleton would have recognized a gang tag. Gangs mark their territory with symbolism their enemies would understand, nothing cryptic or complicated. For example, they slash letters to disrespect their rivals. If my Nick gang wanted to disrespect your Liz gang, I would slash through the letter I in my name because of the I in your name. Or if I tagged the word Lincoln, I would slash through the L and the I to disrespect you.”

  “Is the inverted pentagram common in cults?” I crunched into my taco. Heaps of shredded cheese burst from the sides and onto my plate.

  “In devil worship cults, yes, but the devil cults are random, disorganized, and not geographically exclusive. The inverted Petrine crosses add a twisted religious tone. The five, however—”

  “The five might be part of a series. Could Laycee have been the fifth victim of a serial killer?” I said.

  “Eagleton will notify me if the FBI recognizes a pattern.” Nick finished his first taco and bit into his second.

  “So you’re thinking religious fanatic?”

  “I don’t have an opinion yet. I’m preoccupied by this exasperating sense of familiarity.” He took a long draw of beer, his face lost in thought. “Pennsylvania?”

  “Pennsylvania?”

  “A flash of intuition. I took a car trip east one summer to study the Amish and Mennonites, an unlikely group to practice devil worship. The trip crossed my mind earlier.”

  I popped the last bite of taco into my mouth and wiped my hands. “Your subconscious is working for you. Maybe talking about your trip to Pennsylvania will jar a specific memory. Try to relax. Talk free form. I’ll listen.”

  His face lit up. “Like therapy? Let you delve into my psyche? I always wanted to observe you at work. Should I lie on the couch?”

  “My clients don’t…Oh, what the hell. Sure. Whatever helps you to remember.”

  “Should I turn off the lights?” Nick hopped off his stool and was flat on his back on the sofa in a minute. “Ready? How do we do this?”

  I didn’t want to get that far into his psyche. Laughing, I shut off the music then rolled the desk chair to the side of the sofa and sat down. “Begin wherever you like.”

  “Are you going to make me cry?”

  “Only if you don’t start talking.”

  He folded his hands on his stomach and closed his eyes. “I made the Pennsylvania trip during the summer betwe
en my first and second years at Oxford. I flew home to Chicago to visit my parents during an intense heat wave. My dad and I went to a couple of White Sex games, I mean White Sox—” He opened an eye and grinned.

  “Nick—Pennsylvania?”

  “Right. After a week at home with my parents, I went stir-crazy and decided to take a road trip.”

  As he talked, I glanced around the room at souvenirs he collected on his travels. The rug from South America, figurines and masks from Mexico and Africa, a cloisonné enamel incense burner from China. Intriguing. Even in his youth, after months spent away at school, Nick couldn’t tolerate more than a week of being at home. Maybe I should explore his psyche in depth.

  “This was the summer after I studied the Protestant Christian Radical Reformation of sixteenth-century Europe. I thought it might be interesting to view firsthand how Anabaptism evolved into the twentieth century through its Amish and Mennonite descendants.”

  Reformation evolution as a road trip? How did I fall in love with this guy?

  “I drove twelve hours from Illinois to Pennsylvania and rented a room at an Amish dairy farm on the outskirts of Lancaster.” He smiled. “I felt like Harrison Ford in Witness—the outsider in a closed society. I had the only room in the house with electricity. The Zooks. Nice family, a couple and their two kids. The daughter Ruth was in Rumspringa and she offered to be my guide.”

  “Rumspringa?” I said.

  Nick opened an eye. “The years Amish adolescents explore the outside world before committing to the faith. Ruth turned eighteen that summer. Rumspringa gave her license to hang with me, a stranger, and ride in my car without being punished.” Nick talked about the people Ruth introduced him to, places they visited in the hills of Pennsylvania Dutch country. “Simple, innocent, nonviolent people. Nothing related to the devil. Not a mention. I’m sure it wasn’t—”

  “Follow your intuition, not your mind. You’re connecting to a memory. Don’t force your thoughts. Relax. Let your feelings guide you. You came home this afternoon, and…?”

  “Remembered Ruth used to intern at the Lancaster Public Library. I took a chance and e-mailed the library, hoping to locate her. Hex signs are common in Pennsylvania. Then I put on an old Al Green album and began working,” he said.