Angel Angst

by Abby L. Vandiver

  Sunny had read those stories in the Bible that he mentioned. And it was true, man would get messages from God through His angels and then go ahead and do whatever it was they wanted. But, she had already understood that and didn’t know why he repeated it.

  “And that’s why you bring destruction to man? Smote them? They don’t listen?” Sunny asked.

  A smiled curled up his face.

  “So what’s my message?” Sunny said. “Seeing that’s why you came, because I don’t want to be a victim of your fire and brimstone smiting.”

  “Wait. Be strong, and let your heart take courage.” He backed up into the wall, his light fading. “Wait. It will surely come.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sunny woke the next morning and was unsure if she had dreamt that conversation with Ramiel or not, but she was sure he was somewhere close because Duke was back playing sentinel, staring at the daisies.

  And if he had come and visited her, Sunny decided, his “message” was as clear as the murderer’s face in those pictures that she had taken.

  Sunny hung around her apartment most of the day, not venturing down to the studio letting the “Closed” sign remain dangling in the window. And she steered clear of the radio.

  What about if that’s how he’s been sending me messages? Sunny thought. Hope not, because I’m always turning it off.

  Divit popped up early. Even with the shorter days of winter, it would be hours before it would be dark enough for candlelight to have any meaningful effect.

  “You hungry?” Sunny asked Divit as came in. “We may as well eat some lunch and pass the time.” She looked at her watch. “It’ll be a while before it’s time to leave.”

  “What’cha got?”

  “I don’t know,” Sunny said and beckoned him to follow her to the kitchen. “Let’s see. I’m sure I have something to make a sandwich out of.”

  Sunny pulled out the bread and deli ham and held them up to Divit. “Is this good?” He nodded. “Mustard or mayonnaise,” she asked.

  “Mustard,” he said and sat down at her small kitchen table.

  “Soo,” Sunny said and looked out the side of her eyes at Divit. “I think Ramiel came and visited me last night.”

  “You think?” Divit chuckled. “You don’t know?”

  Sunny hunched a shoulder. “It could have been a dream. I’m really not sure.” She got the mustard out of the cabinet and stood at the counter to make the sandwich.

  “Well do you know what he said?” Divit asked. “You’re always confused when he talks.”

  “He said since you weren’t here to interpret, he wouldn’t speak in an unknown tongue.”

  “He doesn’t speak in an unknown tongue.”

  “It is definitely unknown to me,” Sunny said.

  “True,” Divit said. “What he said sounds like a verse in the Book of Corinthians.”

  “I figured it was somewhere in the Bible, because he said it like it was a rule or something.” Sunny grabbed a plate out the cabinet, put the sandwich on it and placed it on the table in front of Divit along with a paper towel. “Anyway, he said he wasn’t here to ‘help’ me in the way I thought. He was here to deliver me a message and protect me.” She sat down across from him.

  “So what is the message?” Divit took a big bite out of the sandwich.

  “Yeah, that part is a little fuzzy to me,” Sunny said. “I think he just said for me to wait for the message. Like he would tell me later. Or, it could have been that he meant my message was to ‘wait.’ Not do anything. I’m not exactly sure.”

  “Wait for what?” Divit said, his mouth full of food.

  “I just told you, I don’t know.” Sunny looked at Divit. “But meanwhile, we’re going to go to this vigil. Maybe I’ll get a message then. Or somehow know what to do.”

  “And then what?” Divit asked and took another bit of his sandwich.

  “You mean after I get the message?” Divit nodded. “Then I’ll do what he says,” Sunny said. “Or he’ll smite me.”

  Divit nearly choked on the food in his mouth. “He said that? He’ll smite you.”

  “Not in so many words,” Sunny said and blew the curls off of her forehead. “But that’s what I’m thinking.”

  “But if our message is to ‘wait’ – don’t do anything – instead of ‘wait’ your message is forthcoming, and you do something anyway, then you go against what he said.”

  “I know.”

  “Then he’ll smite you,” Divit said a sick look on his face.

  “I know.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I just told you. We’re going to the vigil and try to find the killer. Whatever my message is, I do think if I’m going to clear my name by solving the murder, I’m pretty much on my own. And I’m pretty sure he said, he’d protect me.”

  “Okay,” Divit said. “I’m in on the solving the murder part, but as far as getting smote, you’re on your own.”

  So Sunny and Divit devised a plan – a cover – used to ‘infiltrate,’ per Divit, and root out the murderer.

  Divit insisted that there’d be a lot of people attending, too many, he thought, to get to in the two hours that was scheduled for the vigil, so they had decided to divide and conquer. Divit would be grief counselor, one he felt wouldn’t be too far of a stretch for him to pull off or from the truth. Evidently a requirement for a soon-to-be servant of the Most High, it actually was part of a priest’s job, even though he admitted to not yet fully being one.

  Sunny was going to be a photographer and blogger. She’d armed herself with one of her less expensive cameras – a Canon PowerShot, a 16.0-megapixel digital – good for taking shots in low light and for appearing “amateurish.” She thrown her satchel over her shoulder with a few accessories stuffed inside, and recited her cover story to herself several times, and had tried on Duke. She was satisfied in the end, and so was her dog.

  The picture taking part of course would be easy for her to pull off, plus anyone that knew Fleming Bennett knew she liked to be in front of the camera. Even if someone hadn’t known her, her social media accounts was proof of that. The blogger part? Not so much. Sunny could write a complete a sentence, but that was as far as any truth to that part of the cover story went.

  ⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷

  The An Cladach Pub, Sunny thought, looked more like a modernist spa than an Irish bar. In fitting with the name – the Irish words for “the shore,” the front of the building was covered in fossil rustic sandstone and huge glass windows. Pulling open the large glass double doors, and once inside, Sunny’s eyes scanned the yards of granite that covered the bar and table tops, the slate covered center-set fireplace, and the shiny aluminum and glass accents that filled the room. Stranded bamboo stretch across the interior floors ending against a full-wall fountain made of river rock.

  “We’re not opened yet,” the bartender spoke to Sunny and Divit as they came in. Working behind the long, multi-colored reclaimed wood bar he barely looked up when he spoke.

  “We’re here for the vigil,” Divit said and held up a box of tapered candles.

  “Still too early,” the bartender said and glanced up at them. “We’re not using real ones.” He used a movement of his to head to point to the end of the bar where boxes of SafeFlame candles with plastic holders were stacked. “And we’ve got plenty of them.”

  “We wanted to get here early,” Divit said to the bartender, “so we could talk to the owners. Maybe the family. You know, like her sister.”

  “Did you know Fleming?” the bartender asked.

  “Yeah. I-I mean no.” Divit looked at Sunny. “We don’t know her,” he said. “You know other than being friends on Instagram and Facebook.”

  “Oh,” the bartender said. “She was the social media hound. Well, the bosses are down the basement getting some supplies. We’re delaying the opening until after the vigil, but still gotta have everything read
y.” He gave a nod toward Sunny. “What’s with the camera?”

  “Oh,” Sunny said and lifted the camera up off her chest where she had it hanging. “I just wanted to get a few pictures. I’m a photographer.”

  “Oh yeah? Cool. What kind of pictures do you take?’

  The bartender had deep set, hooded eyes that boasted flecks of brown and black. He ran his finger through his long black hair, and tucked a piece of his behind his ear. A good face for her work, Sunny’s keen eye determined.

  “You know, just whatever,” Sunny said and shrugged.

  “And I’m guessing that the ‘whatever’ you’ll be taking pictures of tonight is all the sadness and tears,” the bartender said. Sunny was unsure if he was being sarcastic. “Then what are you going to do with them?”

  “I write a blog.” Sunny closed her eyes. It was harder to lie than she thought and he had her a bit rattled. She was the one that was supposed to be asking the questions. “I’m starting a blog,” she said opening her eyes. “I’m going to write about the declining socioeconomic structure of the city and climbing murder rate.” She’d gotten the idea from her recent assignment. “I thought pictures of the vigil would be a stark, eye-opening way to start the piece.”

  “Stark? Eye-opening?” He grunted. “That sounds like a pretty deep blog post,” the bartender said, eyeing Sunny. He was using a white cloth to dry glasses. “Sounds like some kind of exposé they’d put on CNN.”

  Sunny laughed. “Believe me, my writing is not that good.” She shrugged. “I just like being an entrepreneur. Heard people can make a lot of money blogging.”

  “So you just trying to make a buck, huh?” he said.

  “Yep.” Then she realized what she said. “But not on this.” She waved her hand toward the candles. “I just think it is important to capture this moment.”

  “Well, good luck.” He saluted her with the glass he was polishing.

  “So.” Divit joined the conversation. “I was just wondering why they were having it here. I mean a bar is a . . . I don’t know . . . Different kind of place to hold a memorial.”

  “It’s not really a memorial,” he said. “You know, Fleming and Ian and Naomi were friends and they just kind of offered to have it here.” He sat down the glass and picked up another one. “Maybe they felt a little bad.”

  “Oh. I see,’ Sunny said looking around the room. I-” Divit hit her arm before she could finish and nodded toward a man that had just emerged from the back of the pub.

  “Is that the owner?” Divit asked the bartender, pointing.

  “Yeah, that’s Ian. Ian McCarter. He and his wife own the place.”

  “C’mon Sunny,” Divit said tugging on her sleeve. “Let’s go talk to him.”

  “Okay.” She looked at the bartender. “Excuse us.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Good luck on your blog.”

  “Thanks,” Sunny said and gave him a polite smile. Glad to get away from answering any more questions about writing, she decided not to tell the part about starting up a blog again.

  I’ll just say a pictorial blog, Sunny thought as they headed to meet the bar’s owner. I know about doing that.

  ‘Hi,” Divit said sticking out his hand. “My name is Divit Chowdary.”

  “Ian McCarter.” The man grasped his hand and they shook.

  “And this is my friend, Sunny Leibowitz. We wanted to speak to you for a moment.”

  “Leah Leibowitz,” Sunny said and smile, not sure why she gave her real name. “But everyone calls me, Sunny.”

  ‘Probably because of that beautiful smile of yours,” he said. “It just warms a man up.”

  His gaze meeting Sunny’s as he spoke, she noticed his striking electric blue eyes. They seemed to twinkle as he spoke. Ian was over six-feet tall, he had a slender build, brown hair and a charming smile.

  “Thank you,” Sunny said and blushed.

  “So what can I do you good folks for?” he asked. “We’re not opening up the bar until after the vigil we’re having here tonight.”

  “You’re the owner of the pub, right?” Divit asked.

  “Yep. That would be me.”

  “I’m a uhm . . . Grief counselor. And. Well. I wanted to let you know that I’d be around tonight if anyone needs someone to talk to. I know Fleming’s, uhm . . . Ms. Bennett’s death was not only sudden, but . . . uhm . . . Violent and so people might need to talk. Might wanna talk.”

  “To be a grief counselor, you sure do stumble over your words a lot,” Ian said and chuckled.

  “Just trying to choose my words carefully. I don’t want to offend people.” Divit said. “And Sunny . . . Leah, is going to take pictures.”

  “Pictures?” He looked at Sunny’s camera strung around her neck as if he hadn’t noticed it before. “I don’t know that that would be a good thing. To publicize people’s grief like that.”

  “Oh no. It’s nothing like that,” Sunny said. She cleared her throat. “We want to capture the thoughtfulness and beauty of the occasion. How that mirrors the person that Fleming was. Through my pictures I just want to show the love that is being shared for her. For Fleming and her life.”

  “Were you friends of Fleming’s?” Ian asked.

  “Not really,” Sunny said.

  “Facebook. Twitter friends,” Divit said, interjecting, practically cutting off Sunny’s words. It seemed he had an easier time of lying. “Sort of,” he added, he lowered his head down and fiddled with his fingers.

  So maybe he did feel a little bad about lying.

  “Fleming was beautiful,” Ian said. “And she loved taking pictures. She wanted to be a model, did you know that? And it was easy to see she was going to get the things she wanted. She was outgoing. Friendly. A person that everyone liked, and someone that no one wanted to see end up like she did. But the things she did.” He bit on the inside of his cheek. “The way she lived her life.” He blew out a breath, it seemed to keep from getting emotional. “Well. To me, she was asking for an intrusion into it. And I don’t know if anyone wants any keepsakes of that, you know?” He pointed to Sunny’s camera.

  “Asking for an intrusion into her life?” Sunny eyebrows wrinkled together, and she pursed her lips. “Are you saying she asked to be murdered?” Sunny asked.

  Ian frowned. “Of course not. I didn’t mean that. But I supposed I did mean she was asking for trouble.”

  “You said she was well liked,” Divit said. “So no thoughts on who may have killed her?”

  “Maybe one of the many men she dated.” He stared past them momentarily, then focused on Divit. “I really don’t know. We’ll just have to wait to see what the police come up with.”

  “I heard that already had some people in mind,” Divit said and looked over at Sunny. “Maybe it won’t be long before they solve it.”

  Ian made a fist and punched his other hand with it. “She shouldn’t have ever gone out there. Then maybe it wouldn’t have happened. It wouldn’t have been so easy to kill her around other people. In a crowded place.” He tightened his jaw. “That’s exactly what I mean about her.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “This is really too much, you know?”

  “We understand,” Divit said. “And it’s okay to be upset or mad about it. Sometimes people get angry with their loved ones for dying.” Divit moved in closer and placed his hand on Ian’s shoulder. “I don’t know how close you were, but it’s okay to have those feelings and to let them out.”

  Ian looked at Divit’s hand and then over at him. “I’m not angry with her,” he said. “How could I be? She didn’t kill herself.”

  “It’s just part of the grieving process.”

  He moved out of Divit’s reach. “Yeah, well that’s not me.”

  “Are you angry about anything else?” Divit asked. “Because that’s part of my job, too. To help people move past things that are bothering them.”

  “Look,” Ian said. “I know you mean well. But I am okay. Really.” He narrowed his eyes and studied the tw
o of them. “You know I can’t say anything about what you do outside the bar, but I don’t want you taking pictures in here if it’s moved inside because of the weather. I do have a say about my own place of business.” He shook his shoulders as if a chill had ran down his spine. “Just doesn’t seem right.”

  “Okay, I won’t,” Sunny said and smiled. “But why did they decide to have it here? Even outside of here. Seems kind of strange to have a memorial at a bar.”

  Divit had asked that question to the bartender. Sunny thought it might be a good reason to ask again. Perhaps, she thought, it could have been done out of guilt.

  “It’s an Irish pub. Long tradition of the Irish that family and friends gather in one for the wake. It’s a tradition to help the family through their difficult time, smothering it in drink and distraction. We remember the dead fondly, toast them and tell stories about their lives. Only the good ones, though. No bad words are spoken against them.”

  “Was Fleming Irish?” Sunny asked.

  “No.” Ian chucked. He was calmer, his anger, rather real or misinterpreted by Divit, had subsided. “And we’re not having it in here either, unless of course it gets bad out there,” Ian glanced out of one of the large windows at the front of the bar. “Hopefully, it won’t snow. But Fleming was me and my wife’s friend, and we wanted to do something. We’ll probably have the repast here, too. March’s place isn’t all that big.”

  “Her sister?” Divit confirmed.

  “Yep. Do you know her?”

  “No we don’t,” Divit said. “We were hoping to talk to her tonight, though.”

  “Well, here’s your chance.” Ian pointed behind them. “That’s March Bennett coming in the door.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  When Sunny turned around her knees buckled and she had to catch hold of the bar to keep from falling. March looked just like Fleming. They could have been twins.