a Touch of TNT (An Everly Gray Adventure)

by Charles, L. j.

  My jaw dropped when I entered the kitchen. Sunlight danced over the floor, bounced off the surface of the sparkling white appliances, and highlighted the gold lines in the granite counter tops. There was a vase of fresh cut Hydrangeas on the table, a mix of pink, blue, and that wonderful shade of purple. Gorgeous.

  But what really threw me were the place settings. My mother’s tea service sat on a crisply pressed, white tablecloth next to a plate of fresh baked cinnamon cookies. The warmth from the oven filled the room, and the smell of spice hung in the air. I reached for one, knowing it would be warm, gooey, and delicious.

  Millie’s voice had me snatching my hand back. “Good morning, Miz Everly. I wanted a few minutes to speak with you and thought we could both do with a spot of tea. Earl Grey it is.”

  She’d come up behind me, and I spun to face her. She didn’t look dangerous, so why was I spooked about a pot of tea, my favorite cookies, and a lovely table? Millie was maybe five feet tall with a gentle nature, premature white hair, and an impossible-to-guess heritage. Both Harlan and Millie had warm skin tones and facial features that would blend into most any environment.

  Movement in the back yard caught my eye, and I glanced out the window to see Harlan passing by with a bag of pine straw. Millie giggled. “That man. He’s done gone and torn another hole in his overalls. Keeps me busy with the mending, and that’s a fact. Please sit, help yourself to some tea and cookies.”

  I sat. Millie ran the house, had since I was little. Sure I owned it, but it was her domain. I nibbled on a cookie. “You’re not going to quit are you?”

  “Oh no, darlin’. Harlan and I are here until the day we die, or until the arthritis or Alzheimer’s sets in, whichever comes first.

  I breathed a sigh of relief, and slurped down some tea to help bring things back into focus. They weren’t leaving. Okay. Fine. I could deal with anything else.

  I relaxed into my chair, and smiled at Millie. “What would you like to talk about?”

  She shifted in her chair.

  Not a good sign.

  “Well, dear, since you’ve been making some changes in the garden I thought we should discuss some changes inside the house too.”

  I choked on my cookie and swallowed another mouthful of tea. “Changes?”

  “You know nothing has been done, other than routine maintenance, since your parents were killed. Harlan and I, we’ve watched you over the years, and it seems like you’re finally ready to begin making this house your own.”

  “Mine? It is mine.”

  “No, dear. Everything is as your parents left it. I know for a fact you haven’t set foot into the study. There are papers there that haven’t been touched since before their funeral.”

  I must have looked stunned because Millie poured me more tea and passed the cookies. Then she continued. “I haven’t wanted to say anything because it’s been so difficult for you, but some of those papers could be important. A look see is long overdue.”

  My breathing stalled. Another sip of tea. “You’re right Millie. I have been hiding—pretending they’ll come back. I know they won’t, and I’ve built my life without them, but sorting their things…it seemed so intrusive right after they were killed. And then I just never got around to it.”

  “Why don’t you take a fresh cup of tea and the rest of these cookies right on into the study and get started? I have some tomato basil soup simmering on the stove for your supper, and I’ll make up a nice plate of fruit and cheese to go with the soup. Harlan and I, we’ll get on home and leave you to it.”

  When I didn’t respond, Millie continued. “We’ll be back tomorrow. Harlan’s here every day what with the garden needing tending and all, and I’ll come around to see if you need any help with the cleaning, tidying, and tossing out as you sort through things.”

  Knowing Millie was going to hold me accountable helped me get moving. I flashed her a shaky smile, pushed back my chair, and with my hands full of tea and cookies, headed toward my parents’ study.

  “Thanks, Millie. The cookies are awesome, and I appreciate you prodding me to get on with it.” Damn but that sweet grandmother persona hid one strong woman.

  “Your mama would be mighty upset if I didn’t look out for her little girl, Miz Everly.”

  How had I been talked into this? There went my meditation time…maybe. Sorting could be a kind of meditation, especially if it meant letting go of the past. Then again, maybe being a whisper away from becoming pink mist had messed with my psyche as well as my sense of touch.

  The study was upstairs, part of the reason it was so easy for me to ignore. Most of my time was spent downstairs in the living room and kitchen. Two hallways extended from the central area, one leading to my bedroom and one leading to my parent’s bedroom. When I was in residence (how’s that for sounding snooty?) I spent most of my time in my tree house, the garden, the kitchen, living room, and my bedroom. No need to wander around much more than that. Those were all my favorite places and held the best memories.

  As I stood in the doorway to the study, I realized Millie was right. I had let things slide, and what better time to tackle the boxes of paperwork than when my fingers were on the fritz. No images would interfere with the task. Guess I missed my parents more than I realized. Right after the accident I didn’t need to do any of this because their attorney and an accountant took care of any pressing details. James and Loyria Gray always had their personal affairs in perfect order, so when they died there was nothing for me to do but grieve. And learn how to live without them.

  I spent three hours sorting through papers, dividing them into piles to be tossed, shredded, or sent to the attorney who administered my trust. There were only a few letters that I set aside to read after I’d finished the cleanup.

  While I ate supper, I jotted down a few ideas to share with Annie, and settled down with a glass of wine to give her a call.

  She answered in typical Annie fashion. “Took you long enough. It’s been hours and—”

  “I’m good, thanks, and you?”

  “Yeah, things are good. Sean will be here soon, and I think I managed to wrap up my case. Got the pictures my client needed to prove one of his employees was ripping him off. So, back to you. You don’t sound right.”

  I paused. Apparently long enough to make Annie edgy. “Okay El. What’s the matter with you?”

  “I made a list of things about losing my sense of touch, and I want to run them by you.”

  “Listening. Wait. Do I need to pour a glass of wine first?”

  “I did.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll just zip to the kitchen and pour while you’re talking.”

  “Well…”

  “You didn’t call me to say ‘well.’ Spill.”

  “Maybe I should just email the list. You can look it over when you have time.”

  The silence got loud. Then Annie’s voice through the fog of my thoughts. “Now, El.”

  “Right. Sorry. First thing, seeing my car explode brought back the trauma of losing my par—”

  Annie interrupted. “That makes sense since they were killed in an automobile accident.”

  “Exactly. Right after they were killed, I hardly touched anything unless I knew there weren’t going to be any surprise images. I managed to stay in school, but I was reclusive. Withdrawn. Still am in many ways.” My voice trailed off.

  “Not so much anymore. And that’s only one thing. You said you had a list.”

  “Right. Next on the list: Mitch left without letting me touch him. We knew this was going to be an issue if he had an assignment with political overtones. I just didn’t expect it to be so hard on me.”

  “And you think that triggered something to make you turn off your ESP fingers?”

  “If I don’t see things, there’s no reason I can’t touch Mitch no matter what he’s working on.”

  “Hmm. I’m thinking there’s a better way to work this out than to shut down your gift. No offense, but Mitch isn’t worth it. No one
is worth shutting off part of yourself.”

  “Yeah. I know and agree with you completely. If I stop being me, we don’t have any possibility of a future together. But that’s my rational mind. My heart seems to have taken over since the explosion. Then there’s the other thing.”

  “And that would be?”

  “I’m afraid I’ll fail the chief, as well as you and Adam. What if I misinterpret the images I get? Do something to mess things up?”

  “You know, El, even though Chief Hayes asked you to consult, he’s going to depend on established investigative techniques to solve a crime. It’s not that he doesn’t value your input, but the man is way too skeptical and too political to put this entire case in a basket labeled Everly Gray.”

  “I know. My ego isn’t that out of control. But I’ve never actually worked for anyone, answered to anyone but my clients. It’s different with them because I get immediate feedback through their words and body language. What do I know about construction? Nothing. Not to mention the issue of Jacobson’s murder.”

  “Which you’re not consulting on. So let me get this straight. There are three things on your list. Not that I’m a psychologist, but it sounds like the parent thing is related to some kind of post traumatic stress, and I think the Mitch thing and the Chief thing are both different aspects of the parent issue. So there’s only one problem.” She stopped to swallow what I guessed was a fortifying sip of wine. “Also Adam and I are your friends, and we’re both very good at our jobs. We have faith in your abilities and value your input. We’ve seen the results of what you can do.”

  “What results? So far I’ve only given Adam corroboration of what he already knew.”

  “You found Jacobson.”

  “Dead bodies smell, so someone would have found him eventually. It’ didn’t require a heightened sense of touch for that.”

  “I’m just saying. You were following your instincts and they’re good, solid instincts.”

  I sighed, hopefully not loud enough for Annie to hear.

  “Take another day or so, but then we expect you to get your butt back to work. We want you involved in the case with or without your ability with the weird and spooky.”

  “Weird and spooky?”

  “Well you gotta admit, it’s not normal to follow your fingers.”

  “Yeah. Weird and spooky. I’ll feel a whole lot better when weird and spooky are back in working order.”

  “Umm, can’t believe I almost forgot to tell you. I talked with the Dean at Calverton College, and he gave me the scoop on the TNT group.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Yes and no. It’s Latin and stands for tollo nunc tacitus which translates: To educate in the present time, silently, without speaking. It offers an explanation. Sort of.”

  “Not an overwhelming clue, but at least it’s progress of sorts.”

  “Adam’s going to check it out through his cop contacts. Maybe we’ll get something. Oops, gotta run. Sean just pulled in the driveway.”

  “Enjoy. Later.”

  I clicked the phone off and smiled to myself. I knew exactly what I was going to do with tollo nunc tacitus.

  TWELVE

  I wrote the words tollo nunc tacitus on a blank sheet of paper, and with a philosophical shrug, slipped the page into a plain, white envelope. Then I dropped it on top of a stack of letters my parents had received during the week following their funeral—when I was still too numb to open them.

  I planned to use the sealed envelopes in a version of the exercise I’d given to Katelan. It couldn’t hurt to include the Latin words, see if I picked up any vibes from them.

  My emotional balance was hovering somewhere between iffy and completely nutso, but I’d made progress. It’d been tough going through the stuff from the past, and I’d never get used to having nonfunctioning fingertips, but there was a new sense of peace warming my heart.

  I picked up the envelopes, thumbing through them as I padded down the hall to my bedroom, hope running strong through my veins. After slipping into a pair of comfy flannel pajamas, I washed up, arranged a nest of pillows in my bed, and settled in.

  The stack of letters rested on my lap. I inhaled a deep breath, and then another before I picked up the top envelope and held it between my hands.

  No images. But this wasn’t about seeing through my fingertips, it was about retraining my mind. I worked my way through all of the envelopes, listened to my non-ESP sense of touch, and made notes about my reactions before I turned off the light and slipped into my first peaceful sleep since the explosion.

  Morning made its presence known with a clap of thunder that shook the house and had me heading to the kitchen for a cinnamon cappuccino. Movement was easier, and my headache was gone. Good thing I heal quickly considering my new line of work.

  The scent of freshly brewed espresso filled the kitchen, and not for the first time, I appreciated my parent’s fascination with kitchen gadgetry. I curled up on the window seat in the great room, and made some notes on what I wanted to accomplish with the cleaning-out project.

  My final goal was to have both the master bedroom and the study empty by the end of the day. I glanced over the list and decided there was only one way to do this: put on The Stones, crank the sound up loud enough to shake the house, and dig in.

  By the time I’d belted out I Can’t Get No Satisfaction and You Can’t Always Get What You Want (several times over) everything was sorted and bundled up to either donate to charity, or toss in the trash. I knew better than to exacerbate my injuries by hauling the plastic bags downstairs, but worked out a slide-them-down-the-staircase routine that didn’t involve any lifting.

  When I was finished, I turned off the iPod and strolled through the rooms, touching the walls, open to whatever the house had to tell me. It didn’t talk. Disappointment curled through my belly, but there was a sense of “right” about the rooms that I couldn’t deny. I’d made space for my parents to rest in peace.

  A clunking sound against the kitchen door jarred me from my melancholy, and I hustled downstairs to see what the heck was going on. The door flew open just as I entered the kitchen, and Millie stood there, her arms full of paper bags. She balanced a fresh-baked pie on her palm, steam curling from the slits in the crust. The aroma of warm peaches and cinnamon wafted toward me as I ran to help her.

  “Morning, child.” She set the pie and a palette of paint swatches on the counter, then shook her finger at me. “You didn’t do too much now, did you? Shouldn’t have carried those bags down here.”

  “I didn’t. Rolled them down the stairs. That pie smells—”

  “Let it cool a bit more first. Soon as me and Harlan get those bags loaded in the SUV, we can have a little something for lunch, and decide what color of paint my Harlan should pick up at the Sherwin Williams store.”

  I leaned over the pie and took a deep breath. “I’m on it.”

  Lunch—and a trip to the thrift store—gave Harlan and two of his friends time to load the furniture into a couple of battered pick up trucks for a second trip to the thrift shop. I waved them off, and was left with two empty rooms and endless possibilities for paint and decorating options.

  Freedom licked at my heels as I wandered through the rooms. I stopped in the middle of the bedroom and twirled until I dropped to the floor with the room spinning around me. I hadn’t done that since I was, oh, maybe four or five years old. It felt good. Really good. I knew somehow that my parents had been waiting for me to get on with my life—and could feel their love pouring through the windows, riding on wisps of sunlight.

  Apparently the storm was over.

  Or not.

  I reached for the clip that had flown out of my hair while I played whirling dervish and noticed a small box tucked into a corner shelf of the closet. I stood on tiptoes, stretched to reach it, snagged the corner, and pulled. It tumbled off the shelf and dropped to the floor with a clatter.

  Memories flooded my mind, and I grabbed the closet do
or for support.

  My mother’s gun.

  An ankle holster she always strapped on before she went to work. A clear image flashed in my mind of my dad telling her to be careful, that it wasn’t enough protection, and she shouldn’t let her guard down.

  Funny how the memory was so clear. I hadn’t thought about that day, well, since it happened. I stared at the gun lying there and froze. No way was I going to touch it, not with my fingers on the fritz. Guns often knocked me on my ass, well, when my fingers were working. But even now I wasn’t going to chance it. Not with this weapon. Especially not with this one.

  I headed for the kitchen, grabbed the scissors out of a drawer, hotfooted it back to the study, and slid the scissors into the gun barrel. It took a minute to get it balanced so I could pick it up and lever it back into the box without touching it. I snapped the lid on the metal container and locked it in the safe.

  My mother. A weapon. What else had my mind blocked?

  I needed to be outside. The rain had left a fresh, clean scent in the air that was irresistible, so I stripped off my clothes, crawled into the hot tub, and soaked until my skin wrinkled and I started slapping at mosquitoes. I gathered my clothes and let the evening breeze dry my body as I wandered back to the house.

  It had been a long day, but I still had work to do.

  I poured myself a glass of Kim Crawford sauvignon blanc, and curled up in bed with the tollo nunc tacitus envelope. The light fruit flavor of the wine rested on my tongue, delightfully delicious, and just the right accessory to go with the thinking I had to do.

  Educating in the present time, silently, without speaking of. I trailed the definition through my mind. How was it related to blowing things up? Explosions weren’t educational activities, and they certainly weren’t a silent way to communicate.

  I picked up the envelope, rested it on the palm of my hand, took another sip of wine, consciously focusing on the flavor.