I've read, in some of my science books, that men are better at visual-spatial tasks such as locating things using a map, but women are better suited to remembering where specific objects are found. I draw a map in my mind and place a mental X where the sexy books are, but Julie would probably remember without having to make the effort. Some people find it politically incorrect to note the differences between the way men and women think, but I find it fascinating. I'm not saying all men think the same and all women too, or that one way is any better than the other, just different, like how some people are more natural at singing, or dancing. I'm a pretty epic dancer, but my moves make Julie giggle.
The twins haven't come in the book store, so they must have gone home. It's been a long day, with the big drive from the lake, plus the funeral, so I can't blame them. I, however, feel invigorated, as though I might never sleep again. Maybe it's the little gold ring in my pocket, or this book of naked ladies demonstrating how to crochet. The beginning chapter is a lot better, before they don their crocheted garments. I slide the book back between some others before I embarrass myself.
I take a step higher, where the dust is even thicker, but the books are less interesting. The top row holds Economics textbooks, which promise little in the way of nudity.
Below me, a stack of books moves autonomously. How can that be? Actually, the stack is attached to a young boy cradling the books in his arms, but he's wavering and the whole stack's about to fall over.
Without forethought, I pop up and move my feet to the outside edges of the ladder's sides, skimming down by sliding, just like a tap-dancing guy in a musical, or some of the old pro house painters James and Julie worked for over the summer.
At the bottom, I reach out and catch the kid's stack before it topples over.
“Thanks, Mister,” he says, which is not something I've been called before, not without some sarcasm. I'm a Mister? I guess I can thank my dapper black vintage suit.
“You must be a real speed reader,” I say to the kid. He's wearing a jaunty woolen cap, like an English school boy from a Charles Dickens story.
He looks up at me with what I first interpret as extreme surprise, but seconds later realize is a completely hairless face—no eyelashes and no eyebrows. “I'm not buying these, Mister. I'm organizing. Sorting.”
“Ah, you work here.”
“No.”
“You don't work here?”
“I'm ten. They don't give jobs to ten-year-olds.”
“Of course not. Not in this country. So why are you organizing?”
“I find the process relaxing,” he says. “They let me organize whenever I want. Which is often.”
“So ... you probably know where they keep the occult books.”
The boy's eyes bulge, and even though I know he has no eyebrows to be raised, I can't shake the feeling he's EXTREMELY SURPRISED.
“All over,” he says, blowing up his little pink cheeks with air then letting the air out audibly. “What a nightmare.”
“If you could point me to any books on magic, I'd appreciate it. Or bees. And if it's not too much to ask, magic bees.” I reach for my wallet, pull out a ten, then push it back in and give the kid a twenty.
“Wow!” he says, sounding as surprised as he looks. He dashes off at top speed, down the aisle, and straight out the front door with a bang.
Understatement: that was not the most effective manner in which to spend twenty dollars.
I ask my heart what to do, and my heart suggests chasing down the little bald kid and giving him the noogie of a lifetime.
The front door chimes again, and the kid's running in toward me, probably to steal my whole wallet this time.
My noogie-primed fist relaxes when I see he's got a book in his hands, which he thrusts at me. “This was in the dollar bin out front,” he says, puffing. “It's really old, like with weird writing and spells and stuff.”
I read the cover. The Care of Bees, Real and Unreal.
“Hey, not bad,” I say. “Still, I was sorta hoping for one of those books that are really accessible. You know, Magical Beekeeping for Dummies.”
The boy's smooth forehead furrows. “Never heard of it.”
I tell him I'm joking and pull out my wallet, giving him another five bucks. A good detective pays his sources. For a moment, I see myself as an outside observer might: a sharp-minded young man in a smart suit, throwing a little cash around to grease the wheels of the universe. Generosity looks good on me.
Up at the front counter, which seems to be made of stacks of books and twine, and moves as though alive, I pay Moira for my one-dollar book. She hands it back to me in a bright pink recycled shopping bag, still crinkly from the drawer where she had many others that were decidedly not pink.
“I don't need a bag,” I say.
She snaps her fingers as lightning flashes outside. “Rain on the forecast.”
A woman behind me says, “Just in time for the school week, right, Zan?”
I turn to find Ms. Mikado. Her arms are behind her back, as though she's hiding her book purchases from me.
“Hi, Ms. Mikado. You must be figuring out Spiritdell just fine, since you found this place.”
“I confess, this bookstore has become my second home,” she says. “Well, third, after the school.”
Ms. Mikado is so pretty. I want to say something to impress her, perhaps using my knowledge of the town. I've learned a few tidbits during my murder investigation, combing through the town's newspapers.
I say, “We've had two murders downtown this year so far.”
She shudders and tucks her chin against her shoulder, as though repressing a gag.
Moira, behind the wiggling counter, whacks my hand with a ruler. “Why would you say such a thing? Horrible boy.” She points to a sign on the wall above her: No discussion of horrible things.
I mutter an apology to both of them and scurry out, into the rain.
* * *
I don't have an umbrella, so by the time I get home, my dapper black suit smells like wet animal. Must be the wool. I hang the jacket and pants separately to dry and change into my warmest sweatpants before I settle down to read the book.
The first page has tiny type that makes my head spin and my eyes hurt. Taking a break, I go to the kitchen, investigating an aroma drifting through the house. Gran's not around, but she's left a note next to the slow cooker, saying my dinner's in there and she'll be home late.
I lift off the lid, wondering what the heavenly aroma might be. It smells like parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme, like that song. Coq au vin!
I don't know if you've ever had coq au vin, but it's magnificent, and you should try it at once. The chicken is slow-cooked in wine, and it's sweet and savory and unbelievable.
I load up a bowl, chow down over the sink, then load up another bowl. Two course meal.
I turn on the lamps in the living room and try again with my one-dollar book, The Care of Bees, Real and Unreal. This old thing reads like someone who doesn't speak English wrote it. Crazy. And I thought our textbooks at school were dry.
This is on the third page:
The bee bread is akin to food resources that are typically not like bread one normally eats by mouth as a human person, for it is of the nourishment of the animus, leading from the origin of what is the sky inasmuch as the soul leads from heaven and the ground calls up for life returning as a constant.
Partaking of the bee bread; that is the breaking of the bread of the bees, the honey of wisdom; is to take a contract not unlike that of a marriage or a child to its mother's bosom, or the fire to a field of wheat dried by three summer suns.
It is this power that corrupts, for there is no man alive who can withstand her regal majesty and her domain over all that is living and all that has lived, though the spirits of the young and the naively ignorant do not know the sins they commit and shall not be held responsible inasmuch as the beetle does not love to fly, but does because to not fly he cannot.
&nb
sp; The objects of control shall seek the user, the controller, as though having wings ...
I slam the book shut. This stuff is worse than Shakespeare! At least Shakespeare has a few dirty jokes thrown about, if you know where to look.
I toss the book across the room in disgust. What a waste of a dollar plus twenty-five dollars. Twenty-six dollars! I grab the book and chuck it in the kitchen trash, on top of the coffee grounds and chicken bones. Good riddance.
My hands are restless. I'd love to be punching or kicking something, but my karate class isn't until Tuesday, so I put on my running shoes to go for an early evening jog.
The rain has stopped, and the grass is still glistening with moisture, but it's black outside, completely dark. Are my eyes no longer working at all? It's only half-past five.
I stretch my calves on the front porch and try to make sense of the universe. Oh, right, Daylight Savings Time ended today, so a whole hour vanished.
With the sun down, the air is chilly, yet the weather's still warm for November. I should probably go inside and put on something reflective for safety, but I feel cool and ninja-like in my dark tracksuit.
I lope out to the sidewalk and get started. My shins are finicky the first few blocks, as I alternate between a slow jog and a fast walk while warming up, but pretty soon they're functioning as they should and I'm enjoying the sounds of my shoes rhythmically striking the sidewalk, punctuating my breathing, which is strong and steady.
At the crossing of the busy street, I jog in place waiting for the light to change. People driving by stare. Yes, I'm that guy, who jogs in place waiting for the light to change. Yes, I know I look “like a tit,” as Rudy would say, but it's better than coming to a dead stop, cooling down, and having to start again. Speaking of calling people tit, what does that even mean? I don't look anything like a lady's breast. The light changes and I jog across while a woman runs my way. I don't know what she looks like—she could have a swirling ball of yellow energy for a face for all I know—because I can't take my eyes off her chest, which looks so nice in her jogging top.
Zan, don't be a creeper, I tell myself. I run faster, until my pulse is pounding in my temples. I think about the twins with the braids back at the lake, and what James did with them, and how badly I wish I could have traded bodies with James for one night. I think sadly of Austin. If I saw her more, and more of her, I wonder if I'd have these bothersome thoughts about breasts and the other women who have them. I miss my girlfriend. I guess I'm not one of those guys who wants his space. As an only child, I've spent way too much time on my own, enough for a lifetime, and now I prefer to be with my friends or Austin.
She won't be back in town until Tuesday, which feels like an eternity. Oh, Austin. When you're seventeen like me, four days is forever. Maybe it doesn't seem like as long for her. Maybe that's why our age difference might be a problem.
Where am I? I'm in unfamiliar surroundings, in front of a convenience store I've never seen. How far am I from home? I don't remember getting here.
Surprisingly, I'm not tired, even though I've jogged twice as far as I've ever gone. Bee bread. Those words just popped into my head. What is bee bread? Oh, I read about bee bread in that book. Stupid book.
I turn at the end of the block and head back for home, thinking about the still-hot leftover coq au vin waiting in the crock pot.
My breathing is smooth and easy, and it's only the stewed chicken luring me home, because I could run for days.
As I come around the corner for my street, a dark car with something unusual about its appearance passes by me. The car has a strange antenna, plus there are boxy things on the dash—police lights. This vehicle is an unmarked police cruiser. I slow down my jog, keeping my eyes on the car.
The dark car stops in front of my house, and ice water runs through my veins. Don't piss yourself, you haven't done anything wrong, I tell myself. I'm probably just feeling guilty from staring at that lady jogger's nice jogging-top fruit.
A diminutive black woman, Detective Wrong, steps out of the vehicle. By now, my pace has slowed so much, I'm practically jogging in place.
Detective Wrong walks across the front of her vehicle, away from my house (phew) and to my neighbor Crystal's house. She pounds on the door.
When I'm nearly in front of Crystal's house, I stop to re-tie first one shoe and then the other. I watch as Crystal opens the door and invites Detective Wrong inside.
I do the only logical thing for an amateur sleuth in this position. I jump the hedge and creep along the side of Crystal's house until I find an open window.
The two women are talking about something. I quiet my breath to hear better. Carpet cleaners. They're talking about carpet cleaners. For the next five minutes, I try to not keel over dead of boredom as I listen in.
Crystal's got a lot of weeds on her lawn, and the side of her house could use some repainting. Her next-door neighbor, Mr. Tang, is cooking cabbage and pork with something sweet-smelling, maybe even spicy. I can see him from where I'm crouching, as he walks back and forth past his kitchen window. It's dark where I am, not lit by street lamps or porch lights, so he'd have to look really hard to spot me, but every time he pauses, I worry he has. He opens his window wider, letting out the rich aroma. My stomach growls.
Finally, through the window above my head, I hear Detective Wrong asking Crystal about where she was between three and four in the afternoon on Halloween.
“At work,” Crystal says, her voice sounding shaky.
“Then you won't mind if we test the clothes you were wearing for gunshot residue?”
“Why would you ... um ... okay. Just a minute.”
There's a silence, and I imagine Crystal is going to her laundry hamper. Crystal could have shot Newt, I suppose, though I can't imagine why. She's so pretty—not that being pretty precludes you from committing crimes, but I'm sure she could bat her eyelashes and get whatever she wanted. No need to shoot someone.
My legs are cramping up from crouching, so I put my fingers on the windowsill and stand slowly, to the side, hoping to get a glimpse inside.
“FREEZE!” someone yells. That would be Detective Wrong, spotting me from inside the house. The woman has yelled freeze at me before, but I was in the back of a store, with her blocking the exit. I'm in the wide open out here. Instinctively, I do the exact opposite of freezing and run as though my life depends on it, across Crystal's back yard and over the fence in one leap, into Mr. Tang's yard.
Chapter Twelve
Mr. Tang's elderly mother, who is sitting on a lawn chair behind the house smoking a cigarette, doesn't even twitch as I clear the fence and land in her back yard.
“FREEZE!” yells Detective Wrong again. She's so fast, already outside Crystal's house.
Mr. Tang's back fence is higher, and I have to scale it, scraping my elbows and knees, to get over. I'm in the alley now, where Detective Wrong will have a clear shot at me.
That won't do, so I pick a fence three yards over and run at it. I don't scale it so much as I sail right over, as though my legs were made of springs.
I pause, listening to Detective Wrong as she crosses the alley. My senses are so awake right now, I swear I can hear the rustle of the fabric of her clothing and the squeak of her boots.
Even my eyes are working decently, considering how dark this backyard is. I get moving again, running across neat rows of something—a garden, grabbing at my shoes with vines and white lengths of twine tied between stakes.
“Stop right there!” she yells again, sounding close behind me. I keep my head down, hoping she can't recognize me from the back of my head as I leap over another fence. Man, why do these yards have so many fences? Why can't we all share our backyards and be friendly?
I trip over a lawn chair and hit the grass, face first, my chin hitting something hard, a ceramic pig.
“Sorry,” I mutter to the pig as I jump up and keep going. I can hear Detective Wrong puffing and grunting, so I know she can't be far behind me. They're n
ot allowed to shoot people for eavesdropping are they? Though now that I'm running, I'm resisting arrest. Man, you just can't win.
I imagine what bullets might feel like in my back, and the fear makes me go faster, over fences and through backyards, like a gold-medal Olympic athlete, if they made the 500-meter backyard-dash a recognized sport.
Ahead of me is a low fence, easy to jump over, with a flower bed at the base making it even shorter. The easy fence would be the obvious direction for someone fleeing to take. Think, Zan.
I change course and go to the right, straight for a ten-foot high fence. Jumping up, my fingertips barely grasp the top of the fence. It's just a chin-up, I tell myself. The fibers of my muscles snap and strain as I pull myself up and over.
Below me, something sparkles invitingly.
I push away from the fence, preparing to land on wet grass. My feet encounter no resistance, my ankles register no shock.
My mouth and nostrils fill with water.
Of course. The last fence was extra-high because of local fencing regulations for the surrounding of swimming pools.
Down I go, in the deep end.
I open my eyes underwater and see the gold ring on my pinkie finger, sparkling in the murky water.
It's peaceful down here. I open my mouth and three bees come out, in bubbles of air. I reach out my finger in amazement, trying to touch them.
Careful to not splash, I swim up and surface, where I exhale calmly, in case of bees. I'm fine, though, my throat clear and open.
There are footfalls nearby, and the sounds of Detective Wrong cursing the darkness. Save for some softly-glowing lanterns placed in the landscaping beyond this pool, I'm in the dark.
I sink down, treading water slowly and submerging until the water line is just under my mouth. Using my hands as paddles, I back up to the edge of the pool, listening. Seeking a darker corner, I move along the edge, but there are no corners, so I settle under the diving board.
Witches and Ghosts Supernatural Mysteries Page 135