by Valley Sams
For the first time she looked at Brenda with something like understanding.
“Yes. I have an idea how that feels.”
It seemed like all Brenda needed was a little tenderness and her taut face suddenly slackened. She came close to Mac and softly patted her hair, running her thumb along her cheekbones.
“Of course you do, pretty little thing like yourself. Even gals as lovely as you gotta put up with boy’s nonsense. Isn’t it just like that?”
Mac couldn’t help but stiffen when she touched her but it was thankfully short lived. Brenda moved unsteadily back to the table to pour herself another drink. She pulled a slim cigarette from what looked like her last pack and lit it dramatically.
“I’ll tell you what though,” she said. She gestured with the cigarette, sending more blue grey stench up to the ceiling. “I loved that man and I would never murder him. I felt like I could. Oh yes. Many, many times. I even planned it after he kicked me out of his bed. But I am not a murderer.”
“Neither is my friend. She hadn’t even met the man before, let alone have reason to murder him. Forgive me…” Mac walked over, tossing pieces of lingerie out of the way with the pointy toe of her kitten heel. “But as far as I know, you’re the only one with a real motive so far.”
Mac was expecting Brenda to fly into another drunken rage at this, maybe even throw her drink against the hearth in full Tennessee Williams fashion. She was surprised when the only thing she threw was her head back and burst into riotous laughter.
“Oh my god, Honey. Sweet child.” She giggled. She reached out again and played with a strand of Mac’s hair. “Sweet baby. He had a list of people who wanted him dead a mile long.”
Even though her skin was practically crawling, Mac allowed the drunken, bereaved woman to toy with her hair like a girl with a doll.
“I think we have the opportunity to make quite an arrangement here.” Mac said, steadying her breathing so she didn’t duck away from the woman’s caresses.
Brenda raised her eyebrows over her glass as she took another sip.
“My, my, my, I love arrangements. What did you have in mind?”
“I’ll keep your affair with the late Mr. Bevacqua to myself if you help me out with that mile long list.”
Brenda took her time swallowing her last mouthful. Mac watched as her throat bobbed. Apparently her surgeon had forgotten about the neck being one of the best indicators of a woman’s age. Brenda’s was ringed and dappled with sunspots and freckles.
“I like you, sweetheart.” She said, “You’re my kind of hustler.”
Brenda put the empty glass on the table.
“No magazine interviews. No blog posts. No tweets. No social media.”
Mac nodded
“None of that.”
“Well then, get your pen and paper out, Sherlock Junior.”
CHAPTER TEN
It wasn’t surprising that Brenda’s ‘mile long list’ turned out to be one name. She was obviously a woman prone to excessive drama and Mac was sure to her, it seemed a mile long. Particularly with what ended up being a bottle and a half of hard liquor in her. Steel magnolia indeed.
It wasn’t quantity she was after however, but quality and she was more than happy to copy down the hotel name and room number of a certain Samuel Campbell. If the condition of his face had anything to do with Benson Bevacqua, there was plenty of reason to pay him a social call…of sorts.
Unlike Brenda’s romantic little spot, Campbell had chosen to stay at one of the many roadside motels that lined the rough coastline just outside of town.
It seemed an odd choice for a man of his stature, but when she saw the stickers of housekeeping excellence on the lobby window, she began to better understand his choice.
By now the storm clouds were plump and more than a little threatening. As soon as she stepped out of the van she could hear the constant crash of the waves as they hit the rocks the motel perched on. The flags that stood like sentinels at the entranceway snapped loudly as they were assaulted by the almost continual gusts.
Wishing she’d had the sense to have grabbed her pea coat, Mac hugged herself for warmth as she made her way to his room. She counted in her head as she passed them…101, 102, 103…. 104. This was it. She took a deep breath, hoping that she wouldn’t have to use her body as a doorstop this time. Her foot still ached from when she had shoved it in Brenda’s room.
Her knock was answered almost immediately. Was he waiting for someone?
She steeled herself as she heard him unlocking the door. She had to keep her face as neutral as possible, if she flinched in any way when she was inches from his scarring…she’d lose any kind of trust he might give her.
Suddenly she was standing before him, his gaunt face close enough to hers to smell his breath. Of course, she smelled nothing. In fact, the only thing she could detect were the faint odors of mint and lemon.
“You’re the young lady from the competition this morning.” He said, “A friend of the girl in the booth that…”
His voice was calm and smooth – a stark contrast to the twisted, pulpy mass that was the left side of his face. This close up Mac found herself tempted to stroke it as Brenda had caressed her half an hour ago. It wasn’t as horrid as she’d believed. In fact, it seemed soft – like a newborn baby. His eyes searched hers, unable to bring himself to recount the distasteful events of the morning.
“May I come in?” Mac asked. “I won’t keep you long. I was given your details by Miss Brenda Davies, your fellow judge, and I think a friend of yours?”
He blinked. Mac could see that he was a man who had a habit of being very careful, both with his words and in his daily habits. He had removed his bowtie from this morning and the flesh exposed under his open collar looked just as glowing and clean as his perfectly pressed pants and soft cardigan.
“I’ve already made my statement once, but I’d be happy to chat if it won’t take too long. I’m afraid I’m waiting for my laundry to finish and I’d like to get to it right away.” He sneered slightly in a friendly manner, “Public laundry rooms, you know…please come in.”
He moved aside with dancer’s grace and ushered her in.
To the extent that Brenda’s room had been chaotic, Samuel’s room was practically monastic. The coverlet on the king-sized bed was stretched flawlessly across the mattress upon which lay four neatly folded shirts and three boxes arranged equidistance apart.
Samuel noticed her looking at the boxes and moved seamlessly to pick one up.
“My bowtie collection.” He said, he moved closer to Mac and opened the box. Nestled in velvet was the red velvet brocade bowtie he had been wearing earlier.
“How lovely. Do you have many of them?” This close she could hear that Samuel’s breathing was slightly labored. There was a distinct whistle as each breath emerged from his partial nose and almost lipless mouth.
She looked up at him and was tempted once again to touch the map of scarring that was only inches from her. He smiled and it was eerie.
“You are interested in my face, I see.”
“I’m sorry, yes,” Mac said, flushing. “How did it happen?”
Samuel snapped his bowtie box shut and placed it noiselessly back in the exact position it came from.
“I’m afraid that has to do, once again, with our friend Mr. Bevacqua. I feel like I’ve spent most of the morning speaking of him, dear fellow. Such an unexpected loss. I assume you’re with the police, as well? I’m a touch tired, but I'm happy to answer any questions you might have.”
When Mac had knocked at Brenda’s door she knew she was at the point of no return. What point was she at if she pretended to be with the police department? At the point where you can actually get things done…. that snippy little voice was back.
“I won’t take much of your time, Mr. Campbell. It’s been a long morning for all of us.”
“It certainly has,” Samuel said. “Please have a seat.” He moved one of the motel chairs toward
her. He took a tissue from a nearby box and wiped the seat for her. In what was obviously a practiced motion, he tossed the tissue into a full wastepaper basket, removed hand sanitizer from his pocket and rubbed it furiously over his hands. So that was the lemon smell.
“Forgive me,” he said. “You must think of me very odd.” That cat-like smile again. “I have what they refer to a compulsive nature due to my heightened senses. You see, it’s what makes me my living, but it’s also a bit of a curse.”
Mac sat down, suddenly keenly aware that she hadn’t removed her shoes. Was he going to spend a half an hour cleaning the carpet after she left?
“I can taste and smell the subtlest of flavors. I could tell you where a cocoa bean was harvested, what was used in the processing.” He chuckled to himself as he pulled another chair out. He performed the exact same ritual before sitting down. “I’ve even been able to tell what kind of metal the blade was that cut the cocoa pods down.”
He smoothed out his trousers as he sat and crossed and uncrossed his legs.
“It must be terrible when you come across something unpleasant,” Mac offered.
It was hard to detect emotion on his face, but there was a sigh that indicated a sudden sadness. Regret even.
“I am accustomed to unpleasant things. Mine hasn’t been an easy life.”
There was a pause. Mac had a feeling she needed to tread carefully. Although he was immaculately polite, she had a feeling that he would toss her from the room as efficiently as a dirty tissue, should she push him too far. He had the look of a man that had seen enough for one day. She was here out of the goodness of his heart.
“Benson Bevacqua and I were quite close when we were younger. We were both up and coming stars of the food critic industry and I was on the way to becoming the most celebrated chocolatier in the world. Restauranteurs, bakers, and bartenders…they used to quake when we walked through the doors. He, of course was known for his harshness, his uncompromising devotion to perfection. Me, well…I was a kinder sort. My senses though…” He tapped his nose, “My senses allowed me to write the kind of critique that brought food tourists to their doors and made the difference between sending their children to local public school or overseas to Westminster.” He laughed a little and wiped a stray strand of spittle from his chin with another tissue. “I made kings in those days, not to mention chocolates that made grown men cry.”
“May I ask what happened?” Mac watched patiently as Samuel performed his cleansing ritual again. The room smelled once again of sharp, medicinal lemon.
He seemed to take a little longer to finish his hands this time. His fingers swirled around each other like graceful serpents.
“I had an accident one night. Completely my fault. I was overtired; I’d had a touch too much wine at dinner and found myself in a ditch…missing half my face and with limited use of my limbs for quite some time. After that, my public appearances obviously waned, while Benson’s continued to grow. It took years of physiotherapy to even be able to stir something, let alone create anything worthwhile or even type.”
He stood up, wearily. He smoothed down his shirt and buttoned the front of his very expensive looking cardigan.
“It’s a common occurrence, friends separating, but it doesn’t make it any less painful. Of course when you lose them forever…well….”
Mac noticed a slight tremble on the good side of Samuel’s chin. A bright pang of guilt caused her to get to her feet and offer her hand, something she wouldn’t have dreamed of doing with Brenda.
“I’m so sorry to keep you,” she said. “I know you have your laundry to do.”
He willingly took her hands in his. They were smooth and cool. He held her hands for a tad longer than necessary, looking down at her with the kindness of a beloved uncle.
“I do hope you have everything you need,” he said.
“Thank you so much.” Mac moved to walk to the door but stopped. She hadn’t noticed it when she initially came in, but lying beside the mini fridge was a silver bottle opener. The ‘arms’ were flung wide and the spiraling corkscrew was exposed. It looked to Mac like a little dead body and she found herself strangely appalled. With the care he had taken with everything else in his personal space, a haphazardly dropped bottle opener seemed almost shocking.
She bent down to pick it up. She held it out to Samuel who rapidly lost the benign smile he had worn seconds prior.
“A place for everything,” she said, keeping her smile as bland and a pleasant as he had been.
“And everything in its place. Good day, Miss…”
“Mackenzie.” Mac said. “And thanks again for your time.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The house was dark and damp with the cold when Mac finally made it home. She remembered how when her Grandfather was alive, he had kept a staff of at least three loyal servants at a time to maintain the polished warmth that the home was known for. It had always made Mac uncomfortable. She had tried to re-train her grandfather to refer to them by another, more politically correct title but he had refused. Even on his deathbed he still summoned his ‘servants’ with a list of tasks they were expected to complete even after he had passed. He would have been horrified to know that Mac dismissed them all with hearty severance packages the week after his passing. She had hugged them all, thanked them profusely and ensured that she called them by their names as they made their way out of the time warp her grandfather had created and back into the real world.
Standing in the cathedral-like entranceway of the mansion however, Mac couldn’t help but feel just a twinge of regret. It would’ve been nice, especially after a day like today, to be met with a warm meal and softly glowing lights. One of her best friends was locked up in a cell downtown and the other…well, it was best not to think of where he was. Those kinds of thoughts would only wear her already weakening emotional foundation down further.
There was the sound of rattling claws pounding down the right side of the stairwell that curled up to the first floor landing. Toby the Giant, his jowls flopping like wings beside his massive head, was practically flying down the dusty wood to jump into her arms.
It drove Louis crazy when he did that. He was always doing his best to tame this beast but Toby had no intention of listening to him. After the dog’s long years obeying every command barked to him when he was on the force, he was finally free – liberated and ready to indulge in the pleasure of knocking his owner over with kisses.
Mac steeled herself for his leap. The massive dog jumped up and put his paws on her shoulders, lapping at her face with his warm tongue. Mac welcomed it. She even found herself squeezing her arms around his velvety shoulders.
“Let’s get something to eat, shall we?” She cooed in his ears, ruffling the silver folds that comprised his giant, toad like face. “Are you hungry? What should we make?”
She remembered again how her grandfather’s ‘servants’ were always so prompt with their meals. After spending the day caring for a dying man, she looked forward to the traditional meals of meat pies and mushy peas in the warm kitchen the way an alcoholic looked forward to the first drink of the day. Those times in the kitchen, sopping up brown gravy with a piece of soft white bread were the closest thing to home she had known in quite some time.
Toby on her heels, she walked through the series of great rooms, studies, arboretums and libraries until she got to the farthest, dustiest corner of the main floor. She was dwarfed in every room she walked through, suddenly tiny and young looking with her drooling protector at her side.
There was nowhere she looked smaller however, than in the kitchen. She turned on the light and the institutional sized room flickered to life. There were multiple gas ranges (she only used one), a marble island in the middle the size of a compact car and a refrigerator built into the other wall which was probably bigger than the cell that Brie was currently sleeping in.
I’ll get her out, Mac thought. Of course I’ll get her out.
She pulled back t
he latch on the refrigerator door and swung it open. Inside was a series of empty shelves that back in the day had been constantly stocked with enough food to entertain the entire town. Now all it contained was a few cans of dog food which looked suspiciously like the tuna that sat beside it and a bag of spinach Mac had promised herself she’d eat.
“Looks exciting, doesn’t it?” she mumbled to Toby. The dog looked at her and his mouth fell open, his lolling tongue rolling out like a red carpet. He was just happy to be, lucky thing.
Mac took the cans and spinach to the main island and began the halfhearted process of making herself an uninspired dinner.
Perched at the island on a stool, Mac flipped open her laptop. Absently eating her salad, she began to sift through the Internet for information. The report had said cyanide was in the chocolate, but how could she be sure that was what had actually killed Benson? He had been obviously under the influence of something long before he had even started the judging. How certain was everyone that it was alcohol that had made him wobbly and ill looking?