Cupid

by Jade Eby

  I have to figure out who she is, and talk to her. I bet one of the madams on the island would know who she was. Someone will point me in the right direction, whether they know it or not. I have to find out why the girl never came back down and her body wasn’t found. She has to be a live, right?

  At least, that was what Diana intended to find out. And when she did, she'd be able to piece everything else together.

  Who was Jackson Mirabelli in trouble with? How did he get that gaping hole in his chest? And more importantly—how did this girl manage to get away from it all?

  Diana glanced at her watch and realized two whole hours had passed. It was almost three in the morning and she still hadn't heard from Neil.

  Tingles shook through her. Neil wasn't a good husband, but he was attached to his phone as if it were a synthetic limb. He would have called back by now.

  Something is wrong.

  Three

  Cupid

  “Asher! You are a fool!” His mother snatched the Ovid Island newspaper from his hands and threw it to the ground. “Fool!”

  “Good morning, Mother.” Asher didn’t even try to pick the paper up. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and returned to his breakfast.

  The chef peeked her head in and looked at him. That day, her thick braids were pulled up in a ponytail that showed off her lovely chocolate skin.

  “Sir, is everything okay?” the chef asked.

  “Yes, Grace,” Asher said. “We’re fine.”

  “Tell her to go!” His mother paced back and forth, back and forth. “We need to talk, and right now!”

  “Calm down and eat, please.” He gestured to the table. “Grace made a lovely assortment of goodies today. The eggs are sunny side up, bacon crisp, croissants flaky and buttery.”

  “You like your eggs sunny side up. I like them scrambled.” His mother passed by Grace and stomped over to her side of the table. “And the damn woman has forgot to set my place again.” His mother hit the empty surface in front of where she always sat and frowned. “More and more she forgets to set my place at the table. We need to replace her.”

  Asher gazed awkwardly at Grace and shifted in his chair. “We’re not replacing anyone.”

  Grace widened her eyes and opened her mouth, but no words came out.

  “Grace, don’t listen to my mother.” He shook his head. “Please, just make her a place.”

  “With proper eggs,” Mother interrupted.

  “Sir?” Grace asked.

  “I’m sorry. Mother wants the eggs scrambled.” He leaned down and picked up the newspaper.

  “You want me to make a place for your mother?” Grace asked.

  “See! She’s an imbecile!” His mother covered her face. “All night I had to repeat myself. Still, she didn’t follow any of my orders. None of the dishes presented were from the menu I gave her. Who does this?”

  “Mother!” He hit the table hard, which startled both women. Water shook in his glass.

  “Is everything okay, sir?” Grace asked.

  His mother imitated the chef in a whiny voice, “Is everything okay, sir? Can she not hear us arguing about her lack of ability to do her job?”

  “Mother, let’s move on.” Asher did his best to calm her down. “The party has already happened. Let’s just get through breakfast this morning. Grace, please make proper eggs for Mother as usual.”

  “Okay, sir.” Grace nodded and turned around.

  “And Grace,” Asher added.

  “Yes, sir.” She glanced over her shoulder.

  “I don’t know what occurred between you and my mother last night, but that is never to happen again. And could you please apologize to my mother?”

  Grace looked around the room, not seeing anyone else, but Asher. These moments tended to be the hardest part of her job. She always had to make sure she turned to whatever direction Asher was talking to his dead mother, and then try to address her.

  Grace turned to the empty space at the table, years ago, where his mother would sit for all of her meals. “Mrs. Bishop, I’m so sorry about last night.”

  Asher checked with his mother. “Is that better?”

  The old woman crossed her arms over her chest and pouted. “Fine. Now tell her to leave. I can’t deal with Grace today, and do you know why?”

  “Why?” Asher sighed.

  “Because my son is a fool.”

  Asher forced himself not to roll his eyes. “Thank you, Grace.”

  Grace nodded, rushed back into the kitchen, and hoped that she could guess the right dish the ghost would love to eat this morning. Half the time it was luck. Other times she guessed wrong and got a stern look from Mr. Bishop. Yet, she stayed with him for all these years because he paid three times as much as most did for a private chef, mainly due to the confidentiality agreement his lawyer made her sign.

  The other reason. . . she felt bad for him. After all, he was only hurting himself. What was left of his poor mother now sat in a private gravesite in Miami.

  Meanwhile, in the dining area, Asher Bishop argued with his mother.

  “And why am I a fool?” he asked.

  “There’s a dead man in the newspaper this morning.” His mother pointed to the newspaper.

  “There are always dead men in the newspaper.”

  “Not ones that you’re responsible for.”

  Asher raised a blonde eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Well, apparently, you go off now on your own and do whatever you want. So no, I’m not sure about that. Since when do you kill without my approval?” She held her hands in the air and let them fall to her sides. “No matter how many times I tell you to be careful, think things through, and stop your. . .activities. You keep going.”

  Asher folded the newspaper up and placed it next to him. “The paper said Neil was found with his mistress. All of the stations are focusing more on the scandal, then who actually did it.”

  “Oh really?” His mother pointed to the paper. “Read some more.”

  “I was reading until you rudely took it out of my hand.”

  She frowned and refused to look away.

  “Fine. I’ll read some more.” For the rest of the breakfast, he checked out the front-page story that continued on page nine and took up the whole section in the back. The detail of the arrow wound had been concealed, which meant that the police probably had connected Neil’s death to the other men he’d killed last year.

  “If you are going to murder again, at least use a knife or gun,” his mother suggested.

  Asher noticed Grace walking back in with his mother’s plate.

  “Quiet, please,” Asher said.

  “Me, sir?” Grace asked.

  “No, I’m talking to Mother.”

  “Okay.” Grace offered him a weak smile, held the plate, and looked around the table. “And Mrs. Bishop, where would you like to eat your food?”

  “Right where I’m sitting,” she snapped.

  Grace stared at Asher as if pleading with him for something.

  He shrugged.

  Maybe, she’s afraid of Mother. Most are.

  “Umm.” He stood up and grabbed the plate. “Thank you so much, Grace. I’ll take it over to her.”

  Grace’s face brightened. “Oh thank you so much! Not many people that I’ve worked for with your status would get up and serve the plate.”

  “Well, I wasn’t always rich. I’m not one from money.” Asher winked at her and took his Mother her breakfast. “Mother and I have been very lucky.”

  “I see.” Grace checked the table and took away his empty bowl where he’d been munching on fresh strawberries and yogurt.

  “Yes, Mother married very well. . .a few times.” He sat back down.

  Sighing, his mother picked up her fork. “Why you must converse with these people as if they’re on our level, boggles me. These eggs look runny.”

  “The eggs look fine.” He forced a smile.

  Grace stared at the untouched plate in fron
t of the empty seat. “Does she not like the eggs, sir?”

  “Mother doesn’t really like anything this morning.” He took a sip of his orange juice. “You’re excused, Grace.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Asher returned to the paper. Although the details on the front seemed like the normal things—mystery behind the murder, dim-witted speculation, and broad details. The continuance of the story caught his attention. Out of no where, the news article shifted into an editorial commentary, and Asher didn’t at all like the reporter’s observations.

  Asher reread the passage again.

  . . .there is something going on in Auden City, something that we, the citizens of this area, are blind to. This is the third affluent man that has been found on the island and mysteriously killed.

  Thomas Nickelson, owner of Lenwood Oil, was discovered by his wife with a gaping hole in his chest. His head was also face down at the foot of his daughter’s bed. His daughter claimed to not see anything that happened that evening due to being asleep.

  Jackson Mirabelli, son of leading entrepreneur Richard Mirabelli was found two days ago in his first floor apartment with a similar hole in his chest. The concierge told police that he’d arrived with a woman. However, the identity of that woman still has not been discovered.

  Although, the police have not confirmed if Neil Carson died with a hole in his chest, any logical citizen can surmise that if the wound is similar to the other two murdered, wealthy men, then Ovid Island has a serial killer among us.

  Asher stiffened in his chair. “Interesting.”

  “You’re getting lazy.” His mother pushed her plate away as if she didn’t see anything on there that she’d enjoy eating. “You’re leaving the bodies out in the open now. You’ve never done that before.”

  “It’s more fun that way.” He grabbed a strawberry from his bowl and plopped it in his mouth. “I like to let the people in their lives know what they’ve done.”

  “Or do you want everyone to know what you’ve done?”

  “Meaning?”

  “You want some notoriety for ridding the world of scum.”

  “You’re wrong.” He flipped the page around to check out the name of the reporter who wrote the article. “Very interesting, indeed.”

  “What?”

  “Diane Carson wrote the article. If I remember correctly, that’s Neil’s wife. I hadn’t realized she was a reporter.”

  “Didn’t you do your investigation before the kill?”

  “I previewed Neil’s history, but—”

  “Fool!” His mother hit the table.

  “I needed one more kill before the end of the year.”

  “You killed the druggie guy three days ago. Was that not enough?”

  “His name was Jackson and yes. . .that wasn’t a fulfilling hunt.” He pulled out his phone and did a search of Diane Carson.

  In a few seconds, her picture came up on his screen. The fragrance of roses seemed to radiate from the phone.

  That’s her. It has to be.

  Like he guessed, she was a black woman with a lush color of skin, more rich earth than copper. Her skin looked soft. Asher’s fingers itched to touch it. In the picture, long black hair ran past her shoulders.

  He scanned through more results for a full body picture. A few came up. She’d been photographed with Neil at a few charity events. No matter what dress or gown she wore, those lush curves peaked out under expensive fabric.

  “Why are you staring at your phone like that?” His mother interrupted his search.

  “I’m wondering what type of woman does a news article on her dead husband hours after he’d been discovered murdered.”

  “Maybe she’s crazy.”

  “Or obsessed,” he muttered.

  “Obsessed with what?”

  “The story. The mystery of it all.”

  “That’s not very romantic. She’s in shock, probably keeping busy to get over her husband’s death. That’s what some new widows do, we all mourn differently.”

  “That’s not what you did when your three husbands died.”

  She’d really been married four times, but neither Asher nor her, counted the monster.

  “No. I didn’t mourn by keeping myself busy. I mourned in style.” She beamed for this was her most favorite topic of all. “I simply got dressed, wore that lovely black veil—”

  “Yes, the one from Tiffany’s.”

  “Oh I’m so mad that you burned it. What a lovely veil.”

  Burned it? I never did that.

  The image of his mother on fire hit him for a moment. He shook his head and that horrific sight left.

  His mother laughed. “Each time my husbands died, remember, we would have a big breakfast, just you and I?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. Sadness slipped over his heart. Suddenly, he didn’t want to sit and eat with his mother anymore. He got up as she continued to talk as if he was no longer there.

  “Oh you loved those huge chocolate waffles with all of that whip cream. Oh my boy and his sweets. You would do anything for them.”

  “And I did,” he sighed. “I did plenty for those chocolate waffles on those mornings.”

  “Yes, you did, my lovely little boy.” She gestured around them, pointing at the crystal chandelier hanging above them and the huge table adorned in china plates and elegant silverware. “Together we made sure we would never have to work again. You saved us.”

  Inside of Asher’s chest, a storm brewed. A gloom untangled and wound around over and over as if a tornado was threatening to uncoil within a down pour.

  “I’ll see you later, Mother.”

  “Busy day?”

  “Yes.” He kept his back to her, not wanting to deal with his mother, the memories of the husbands, or even that odd flash of her on fire. “I’m going somewhere.”

  “Can I come?”

  He paused and then thought better of it. “No.”

  “What are your plans?” she asked.

  “I have a reporter to meet.”

  “Tell me you’re not serious.”

  He didn’t even turn around as he smiled. “You know what reporter I’m going to talk to.”

  “Please, for the love of God, say it is not Diana Carson.”

  “Who else would I be meeting?”

  “Fool!” His mother called after him, right as he rushed up the stairs.

  Four

  Diana

  Ovid Island’s police headquarters sat in a turquoise and pink castle with glittery sea shells outlining the roof and windows. Old man Libbey, the longest living resident on the island, had donated the small castle to the force. Due to him being such a power guy in the community, the police chief couldn’t refuse.

  And so all official police business happened within the candy-colored space. Most newcomers mistakenly thought the police building was a children’s museum or art center. Others joked that the facility’s décor was fitting because the police represented the biggest jokes on the island.

  Most considered them clowns.

  Many found them useless.

  A few island residents voted to change their turquoise and white uniforms to ones more representative of their true occupations—big red clown purple, squeaky red noses, polka dot parachute pants, glowing suspenders, and flowers tucked in their shirt pockets that squirted out water.

  What could these men really do anyway? The police, themselves, barely made enough to pay their mortgage and fund their boat commutes back and forth from their homes in Miami to their jobs on the island. They held no real authority against the rich. Half the time they argued with the residents’ lawyers about what they could and could not investigate.

  Smart Ovid cops had a plan. They saw the island as a vacation from the mean, dirty streets of Miami where prostitutes strolled, parents abused children, and men shot down each other just for several feet of block space to sell drugs. The clever police took bribes from the residents, kept their pockets heavy, mouths closed, and eyes
blind.

  The dumb cops sought justice. They peered where others said to turn away. They combed the island, hoping to maintain harmony among the madness that came with people with too much money and time. The dumb ones usually were transferred to somewhere else within months.

  As Diana sat in the police interrogation room, she wondered which cop Officer Slattery was, smart or stupid. Could he be trusted or did he have his hand in someone else’s pocket, was he another’s puppet?

  Why am I here? Is Neil in jail? Is that why he hasn’t been answering my calls?

  The officer plopped down in the seat in front of her, his belling jiggling a little with the movement. The shirt stretched tight over him. Five more pounds and he’d need a new uniform shirt. Another drop of ketchup and whatever else was on the front of his top, and he’d need to go home and change.

  “Here you go, Mrs. Carson.” Officer Slattery placed a cup of coffee down in front of Diana.

  “Why am I here?”

  “I just want you to be comfortable before I—

  “Just tell me what’s going on. Where’s Neil?”

  “Well, you see Mrs. Carson. I have. . .”

  “Just tell me,” she said with more force than she intended.

  The officer rested his hands on the table between them and knitted his fingers together. “The condo building’s maid, a Mrs. Garcia, discovered your husband’s body this morning in the kitchen.”

  Shocked, Diana didn’t even grab the cup or look at it. “Neil is dead?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Carson.”

  “Do you know who did this?” she asked.

  “I was wondering if you had any information.” He wouldn’t look at her. The officer glanced at the wall behind her, the cup of coffee in front of her, and even his fumbling fingers as he twisted them around his watch.

  “You’re nervous,” she said. “Why?”

  “I have some more news, and I’m afraid I’m not comfortable with giving it to you.”