by Bruhns, Nina
Ross opened the door, disentangled his long legs from under the Mini's dash and hopped out. “Bye, love.”
“Wait,” she called, stopping him. “How much for that book?”
“Two hundred.”
Mo swallowed hard. “Dollars?”
“No. Sardines. Of course it's dollars.” He stuck his head back into the car. “Do you need money for all this Christmas nonsense?”
Yes, she thought. Her checking account was practically at zero. But Mo refused to take money from Ross. She felt weird about even allowing him to contribute to the rent. But if he didn't, she and her brother, Leo, would be evicted. Ross had insisted that, because he was living there, he should pay.
“No, I don't need money,” she answered. “Just a kiss.”
“Not without mistletoe,” he teased, giving her a wink. With that he was off.
* * *
“Incredible Love,” the receptionist said, answering the phone.
When Mo walked in the door to the agency and heard the agency name, déjà vu struck her like a shot of spiked warm cider.
“No,” the receptionist said into the phone. “Not a dating service. We're a private investigation firm.”
Mo did a double take. The receptionist, a pretty, twenty-something black woman with high cheekbones and a wide smile, wore a headdress like that of a pharaoh. It was black and gold with a serpent head sprouting from the forehead.
Miss Pharaoh hung up the phone. When she spotted Mo, the young woman jumped up from her seat and came around the desk to tower over Mo by a good five inches. “You must be Mo Tuttle. I've heard about you. I'm Trayanne Jackson. Harry is expecting you.”
“Mo,” Harry called from behind her office door. “Thank goodness you're here. I'm desperate.”
After casting a wry smile at the receptionist, Mo hurried inside. “Harry, you haven't changed a bit.”
Harriet Hutson—a pretty, buxom red-head of about fifty-five, with a timeless quality—rose from her chair to wrap Mo in a hug. “Honey, it's so good to see you. If you weren't thirty, I'd say it was like the return of the prodigal daughter. But, obviously, I'm way too young to be your mother.”
“Great to see you too.” Mo was shocked to realize she meant the sentiment.
Harry held Mo at arms-length, her gaze traveling from head to toe over Mo's brown hair worn in an upsweep, simple black sheath dress and black sandals. “You look beautiful. Like a young Audrey Hepburn.”
With an arched eyebrow, Mo wagged a finger at her former boss. “Okay, Harry. You're slathering me with more butter than a cornbread biscuit. What's up?”
“You know me so well, dear.” Harry laughed as she offered Mo a seat with the sweep of an arm. After taking her own chair, Harry's expression turned serious. “I'm in a pickle. I've got an assignment from a big law firm in town. If I don't deliver a fast result, they won't use Incredible Love again.”
“What does that have to do with me?” Mo asked. She suspected what Harry was about to say. It might be petty, but Mo wanted Harry to admit she needed her. The fact that Harry would have fired her—if Mo hadn't quit—still hurt.
“I've got two operatives and they're both out with the beach flu. There's nobody but me to do this assignment. I've tried, but I'm just not gonna be able to get it done.”
“The beach flu?”
“Yeah,” Harry said with a disgusted huff. “The kind of flu young people get when they want to spend a couple weeks sunning themselves at Tybee Island.”
Mo laughed.
“Anyway, I'd like to re-hire you.”
“I don't know,” Mo replied, shaking her head.
“You aren't working full-time anywhere else, are you?”
“No, but… “ Aside from the caffeine-like jolt to her ego that coming back would provide, Mo really didn't want to return to the agency. Her dream was culinary school, and for many years she'd drifted along at Incredible Love without really pursuing her life goals. She didn't want to get trapped again. On the other hand, she needed the money.
“Honey.” Harry leaned forward in her chair, her eyes pleading. “I really am sorry about how we parted ways.”
“I know,” Mo said. “But it was probably for the best.”
After a few seconds of silent thinking, Harry said, “How about if I hire you as an independent contractor for just this one assignment? Five hundred for a successful completion.”
That kind of money could pay for the all the Christmas shitake, even that ludicrously expensive book gift for Ross's father. “I could agree to that—”
“Great!” Harry clapped her hands together.
“But you also have to come to a Christmas dinner I'm having on June 17th and bring a plus one.” Bertram would be fooled into thinking Mo had friends if she got enough people around the table.
“Christmas in June?”
“It's a long story,” Mo said. “Will you come?”
“Are you serving Turkey and stuffing?”
“You bet.”
Harry held out a hand. “You've got a deal.”
* * *
The assignment: personal service of a summons and injunction on Aristotle Kafakis.
Sitting in her parked car, Mo glanced again at the photo and bio of her quarry. Kafakis was a thirty-eight-year-old man with a swarthy complexion, stubbly beard, brown eyes, and greasy medium-length, dark hair.
Mo's gaze went to the single-story, cement block building across the street. According to the bio, Kafakis worked for the business in that building: Perfect Party. He had no known home address.
She took one last glance at the photo to memorize Kafakis's features before stuffing it into her messenger bag next to the manila envelope containing the service packet. Then Mo got out of the car.
The day was a typical ninety plus degrees, and by the time she'd crossed the street, Mo felt like a sugar cookie that had been left too long in the oven. The sun blazed above in a cloudless sky, glaring off the windows of the building and making it impossible to see inside.
“Ham hock!” Kafakis could be in there and I'd never know it from here.
According to Harry, the guy's ex-girlfriend wanted to keep him away from her and their kids. The judge in the case mandated personal service and Kafakis was being particularly slippery. At least her prey didn't know what she looked like. But Mo knew she had only one chance to surprise Kafakis.
Inside the shop, she found rows of assorted party supplies. A clerk with a shock of blue hair sat behind a counter running along the back wall. The clerk was hunched over a magazine spread out on the counter before him.
“Take a look around,” he called to her. “Let me know if I can help you.”
“Thanks,” she answered, her attention caught by the photos on the wall to the left of the entrance. Examining them more closely, she saw men and women in various costumes under the title Perfect Party Performers. Her gaze quickly scanned the wall and found a familiar face: Kafakis dressed as Uncle Sam. Under each photo was a compartment containing business cards.
She took a card from beneath Kafakis's photo and read, “Ari, the man of a thousand faces. How original,” she grumbled and kept reading. “Performance artist, actor, singer, tap dancer, juggler, fireworks expert and magician.” She shook her head. “He should be billing himself as 'the man of a thousand talents'.”
Turning away from the wall, she stuck the business card in her bag and walked to the counter. The space was neatly organized. Bags, gift boxes, ribbon, and a tape dispenser sat next to the cash register at one end of the counter. A crystal vase, with at least a dozen orange roses, was placed at the other end, next to the clerk and his magazine.
Flowers, Mo thought. I need to get some flowers to pretty up the house before Ross's father arrives. She wondered if the florist would have anything remotely Christmas-like at this time of year. Real poinsettias were probably out.
“I'm interested in your performers,” Mo said.
The clerk's head jerked up. Instead of the em
o-hipster she'd expected from the hair, this guy had white skin, a huge bulbous red nose, and a round mouth. Just under his chin was an Elizabethan, ruffled collar atop a cream colored silk tunic with big red buttons.
A clown.
Startled, Mo bit back a scream and coughed instead. “I'm having a… a… holiday party.”
“Anybody in particular you want to book?” His eyes blinked. The long, fake lashes he wore fanned down then up again.
“Umm,” she said. “The man of a thousand faces.”
“Oh yeah?” The clown grinned and she saw that the teeth behind those red lips were bright white. Were they actually sharp or was that just her warped imagination? “He's good,” the clown continued. “Ari can do anything you want. I have his portfolio right here.”
The clown reached beneath the counter and drew out a three-ring binder. After opening the binder, he placed it on the wood surface for her to inspect. The plastic protected sheets inside contained photos of Ari Kafakis in various costumes as well as newspaper clippings recounting his antics.
Mo turned the pages and found photos of Kafakis as a pirate, a vampire, a mummy, a zombie, as Elvis and even as Marilyn Monroe—with his hairy chest, legs and arms on display, that was a sight she wished she could unsee. All the outfits were pretty standard Halloween fare and not very inventive.
“Ari is a real artist,” the clown said. “He's been featured in a number of actual galleries.” He turned to a page showing Kafakis dressed in a loincloth, covered head-to-toe in bronze paint, and crouched on a pedestal in the pose of The Thinker.
“He was in a gallery in this get-up?” Mo tried to keep the sarcastic disbelief out of her voice and stick to a tone of sincere inquiry. The results were mixed. Then she lost it totally and joked, “Did the gallery know he was going to be there or did he crash the place?”
“Of course they knew he would be there,” the clown said with a long-lashed glare.
She turned the page to a clipping with the headline: Controversial 'Cupid' Arrested. A photo showed Ari in costume and handcuffs.
“What's this?” she asked.
“Oh! That was fantastic.” The clown sat up straighter and bubbled with animation. “There was this bow and arrow… and all these suction darts were fired at the passersby from the upper window of a Broughton Street store… and—”
“Sounds dangerous.” Maybe this Ari guy was on the edge of crazy. Should she be concerned?
“Don't worry,” the clown said with a wave of his hand. “The police couldn't do anything. First Amendment right to free speech and all that. You see, the cupid was symbolic of love. Shooting darts into peoples' butts was symbolic of the failure of that love. And the whole thing was a metaphor for how the United States should stop waging war.”
“Brilliant,” Mo said. “How do I find him?”
Just then a female voice shouted from the back room, “This fabric is like tissue paper. You seriously need new bloomers for that clown suit, Ari. I've sewed up the tear the best I can but—”
Ari. She'd called the clown Ari.
Got him.
She reached under the flap of her messenger bag and grasped the envelope. “Ari Kafakis. You're—”
Before she could say, “served”, his lash-framed eyes widened with fear. Ari jumped up from the stool and backed away, showing that on his bottom half he wore only tighty whities and a lot of coarse black hair.
“No.” He held up a hand. “No, no, no.”
She whipped out the envelope and held it forward. “Ser—”
As she spoke, his frantic glance darted around, settling on the flowers. He grabbed the vase and thrust it at her. “Hold this,” he said, letting go.
Rather than allow it to fall, she caught the vase. Water sloshed over the rim, ran down her neck, and dampened her dress. Ari took off, rounding the counter. He shoved past Mo.
“Sugar plums,” she swore as he plowed toward the door.
By the time she set the vase on the counter, Ari had barreled out. He glanced back through the window and lifted a hand. He pointed at her as if holding a gun. Ari then mock fired his fingers before running off. Mo dashed after him, but when she got outside he'd already reached the end of the block. He turned right and disappeared.
The sandals she wore weren't exactly the best for sprinting, but it didn't take long for Mo to run to the corner and make the turn. She saw Ari was three-quarters of the way down the lane that ran behind the downtown buildings.
“Hey,” she called to Kafakis. “Stop.”
Just then he halted and turned toward her. His action shocked Mo. She slowed her pace to a walk.
What is he doing? For a second she was impressed with herself. My voice must carry more authority than I imagined, she thought.
Kafakis reached into a nearby Dumpster and pulled out garbage. Then, like a pitcher, he threw the first piece. The empty can of tuna sailed toward Mo.
Throwing up her right arm, she batted it away. “Watch it. That had sharp edges.”
“You're trying to ruin my life,” he shouted, tossing a partially eaten banana.
The mushy fruit struck Mo in the stomach. She screamed. The next pieces of garbage hit her: an apple core, a plastic carton of moldy strawberries, and an empty tomato sauce jar. “Quit that! Take your paperwork like a man.”
The word man had just emerged from her mouth when a half-full can of pork 'n' beans hit her in the shoulder, splattering the contents up her neck and onto her cheek. Her eyelids closed automatically.
After swiping at the mess, she opened her eyes and… he'd disappeared. She dashed down to the end of the block. Her head swiveled back and forth as she scanned each direction. No Kafakis.
“Fudge!”
She'd just blown five hundred bucks and her favorite dress was covered with smelly stains.
* * *
When Mo returned to Perfect Party the female employee was pointedly un-cooperative about divulging Kafakis's home address. “His ex is crazy,” the young woman had said, arms crossed over her chest. “I'm not helping her hurt poor Ari.”
Mo returned home to find her brother, Leo, decorating a Christmas tree in the parlor. Talley, her fluffy, black Maine Coon cat batted at the tinsel hanging from the bottom branch. Music played softly from the stereo speakers: I'm dreaming of a white Christmas… Unless it was an apocalypse, there was no chance of that happening here in the South, not even in winter.
“Where did you get that tree?” she asked. “Is it real?”
“Yes. I couldn't find anything fake at this time of year with such short notice. This one came from the back garden,” Leo said with a smile. “But be careful of this thing. With the drought it's as dry as a the last turkey you roasted.”
“Hey,” she joked holding up a warning finger. “I can take a lot, but insults about my cooking really hurt.”
She collapsed onto the white leather sofa and dropped her keys onto the coffee table, followed by her bag. Ari's business card fell out onto the floor.
“What is that stuff you're covered in?” Leo asked.
“Pork 'n' beans.”
“How—”
“Long story.” She waved away the question as she glanced down at her dress.” I guess I'd better get cleaned up and then do some grocery shopping. I don't think Ross's father would appreciate left over lasagna for Christmas dinner.”
Her brother chuckled. He stepped onto a stool and reached up to place the star on top of the tree. “By the way, I got that book you wanted from the Old Book Lady. You owe me two hundred bucks.”
Mo groaned. “I know. I'll pay you back as soon as I get this job done.” Mo picked Ari Kafakis's business card up from the floor. How was she going to get this guy? She tossed the card onto the coffee table. Oh, well. An idea would come.
She gazed around and then back at Leo. “What? No girlfriend is helping you decorate?”
Her brother—twenty-five years old, tall, handsome, and athletic—usually had a regular line-up scrambling to do hi
s laundry, wash his dishes, cook his dinner and generally do his chores. Good for him and convenient for Mo because Leo lived with her.
“I'm between girlfriends. But now that you mention it… “
As he spoke, someone walked out of the kitchen: Incredible Love's receptionist. Only now she wore reindeer antlers. “I made iced tea—Oh. Hi, Mo.”
“Trayanne?”
“Harry said I could leave early for the day to help you. And I'm glad I did.” The receptionist smiled at Leo. “I had no idea you had such a cutie pie brother.”
Leo smiled back at Trayanne.
He wouldn't be between girlfriends for long.
“Did you get Ari Kafakis served?” Trayanne asked.
“No.” Mo frowned. But after glancing at the card on the coffee table, a slow smile spread across her lips. She jumped up from the sofa and grabbed Leo's arm. “Bro. Do me a favor and make a call? I'll tell you exactly what you have to say.”
* * *
The next day, Mo drove Ross's Mercedes to his film location. The guard at the barricade waved and pulled it aside to let her pass. Ross was just coming out of the make-up trailer when she inched the car to a stop. His Armani suit was torn as if he'd been in a fight. One jacket arm, shredded from sleeve to elbow, hung open, revealing a nasty looking gash that oozed blood.
After switching off the car engine, she jumped out and ran to him.
“You're early,” he said with a smile. He gave her a quick kiss, touching her only with his lips, and then held up his arm. “We don't have the take on this scene yet and my fake wound was melting off. I've just had a refresher.”
“Don't tell me you can't go with me to the airport to pick up your father,” Mo pleaded. “Anything but that. He scares me.”
“He's really harmless… Once you get to know him.”
“Ughhhhh.”
“Don't worry. I'm coming with you.” Ross kissed her forehead “We just need to finish this scene and then production is shutting down to accommodate the June Christmas Holiday.”
He was about to head off toward the director and camera set-up when the guard called to him from the barricade. “Mr. Grant. There's someone here to see you. He says he's auditioning for a role.”