Painkiller, Princess

by Chester Gattle

  Emmelia had seen the Instagram photos. She knew to expect the infected oddity, but the cherry eye looked so much worse in person. Still, not wanting Quincy barking or causing a fuss, she forced herself to get close, give him a gentle pat, and offer him a piece of the beef jerky she’d brought.

  The dog didn’t even sniff the dried meat snack. He just backed up some more.

  “Fine. As long as you don’t bark, I don’t care.” Emmelia chewed the jerky and went exploring the apartment that smelled unnaturally strong of grapefruit, a scent certainly born from a candle or an oil diffuser.

  Emmelia stuck her head into the bathroom, then the bedroom—both uninteresting: clothes scattered about, some makeup containers around the sink, a bed half made. She dragged her fingertips across the white walls as she went to the kitchen and set the grocery bag on one of the barstools along the island separating the kitchen and the living room.

  Quincy had moved to the balcony door and pawed at it gently.

  “I’ll let you out in just a second,” Emmelia said as she went to the writing desk in the far corner and pushed around some papers. A wrinkled pile of handwritten notes were unreadable, but the adoption forms with slightly better handwriting looked interesting.

  She snapped a few photos of the forms, unsure of the information’s usefulness, but figured “Why not?” There were too many personal details here to just ignore.

  She then leaned against the desk, studying the room. An oversized plush SpongeBob with the tags still on and a bow around its head had been set in another corner. The adoption’s a work in progress. The rest of the room was a foundation of IKEA overlaid with trinkets and many, many blankets. Somebody’s got a circulation problem. That was about it, though.

  “Might as well do this.”

  She went to the grocery bag and pulled a bottle of lighter fluid from underneath the props. Assuming this was the fastest way to get Jacob back to Minneapolis, she sprayed the apartment, starting with the desk, then the couch and plush toy, then each and every blanket, soaking them all. When the fumes started to warm the back of her throat, she moved toward the kitchen.

  Quincy was mashing his face against the balcony door, desperately trying to escape.

  She booted him lightly with her foot. “Go, Quincy. Hallway door. Go.”

  The dog scooted under the stools beside the island.

  “You’re going to get some on you. Watch out,” she said, swishing her shoe in his face.

  So Quincy rumbled off into the bedroom.

  Emmelia turned the kitchen into a glistening, dripping wonderland, then called out, “Okay, Quincy. You need to get out of there. I’m coming.”

  Quincy, standing atop the bed, his paws sinking into the soft white comforter, laid down when she approached.

  She patted his butt. “Move.”

  The dog grumbled and hopped away, but he only went so far as the dresser.

  Emmelia groaned. “You’re so freakin’ lazy. Quincy! Get!” She sprayed lighter fluid on the closet door beside the dresser. The pug jumped and gazed up at the wet door but still did not move. So Emmelia squirted the dresser.

  “Oh, shit.”

  She saw the candle, the source of the grapefruit aroma barely flickering, almost burned out, next to the jewelry box.

  The lighter fluid splashed over it and came to life. Liquid flames washed over the dresser and rolled over the edge, dribbling down to the carpet.

  That got Quincy to move. He ran for his life.

  And so did Emmelia. She dropped the lighter fluid and raced out. They went left, and the fire went right, tracing the combustible trail she’d made. The kitchen burst into flame, sizzling and crackling, then the living room and all the soaked blankets went up with a great whoosh.

  The apartment no longer smelled of grapefruit.

  “Damn it, Quincy.” Emmelia looked at the paper bag sitting on the kitchen stool. So much for the fireworks hidden at the bottom being her fuse.

  The smoke detectors went off.

  “You screwed me,” Emmelia scolded the dog. She pulled a gun from her waistband and fired a couple of incriminating shots into the side of the island where the police would notice them. She also considered popping one of the Black Talons from the clip and leaving it in the hall for good measure, but that was probably overkill, so she tucked the gun away and yanked open the door.

  Quincy squeezed between her legs and bolted to the elevators.

  Either the neighbors weren’t around or didn’t yet believe the smoke detectors were signaling a real emergency, because the hallway was empty.

  Emmelia followed Quincy. “Come here,” she said. “In case of fire, do not use elevators.” She herded the squishable footstool to the stairwell, where the pug needed no further direction and lumbered down, grunting with each step.

  At the bottom, the stairs opened to a service hall.

  “You just stay here,” Emmelia said as she took off, hurrying back to her car before the firetrucks blocked her in.

  ~

  Jacob was in his hotel room when Regina, the apartment building manager, called about the fire.

  “Is Quincy okay?” he asked.

  “Oh. Yes. We found him on the first floor.”

  Jacob exhaled. “How’d he get down there?”

  “I assume one of the residents.”

  “Strange.” No one, not even CB, the kindly neighbor with whom Jacob shared whiskeys across the balcony, had an extra key to their apartment. The old professor had to have kicked in the door. Whatever the case, Jacob’s mind didn’t linger on that small miracle. There were other pressing questions. “What about our stuff?” he asked.

  “I haven’t been up there yet.”

  “Our furniture? Clothes? Is anything there?”

  “I’m not sure. It was pretty serious, though.”

  “How’d this happen?” Do we have insurance for this? They’ll cover a fire, won’t they? Maybe not. Depends what happened. “I have to call Missy,” he finally blubbered and hung up.

  “Are you joking?” Missy said. “You’re joking.”

  “I can’t even think right now. Can you go over there?” He sat hunched over the end of the bed, staring at his reflection in the TV, a sour lump forming in the back of his throat. “It sounds bad.”

  Missy took a breath, then said, “Quincy’s okay?”

  “Yeah. He’s fine. CB got him out or something.”

  “Okay. So what’s the rush, then?”

  Jacob swallowed the lump. “Huh?”

  “I need to be there right this second? I mean, I’m busy.”

  “You should go. Check on our stuff,” he whined.

  “Jacob, whatever happened happened. It’s not like the place is still on fire and I’ve got the only hose in town. I can’t do anything. And besides, we’re all fine. The rest of the stuff is just stuff.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Missy was quiet as she took a sip of something. She smacked her lips and said, “I’ll be home at five thirty.”

  “Home? You’ll be home? There is no home. It burned down.” He paused, then said, “Where’re you going to stay tonight?”

  “I guess Jenny’s,” Missy answered. “It’s fine.”

  “What about your clothes?”

  “I’ll go to Target. Grab some stuff.”

  “Your perfume?” he groaned. “That was a gift.”

  “Jacob, it’s fine. This is exactly why I say the important things in life are our experiences. Why do you think we go on all our trips? Calm down.”

  Their adoption effort suddenly surfaced in his mind. “Jesus,” he howled. “Morena. They’ll never give us Morena now.”

  “Jacob, calm down. Fires happen. It was an accident.”

  His heart skipped the clichéd beat. “What if it wasn’t? What if the cartel did this?” He scanned the hotel room for his pepper spray, asking Missy, “You have your pepper spray?”

  “In my bag.”

  “They think I’m still in Minn
eapolis. You’re going to get hurt.” Jacob pulled the phone from his ear. “I have to post something. Tell them I’m in Duluth.”

  “Don’t,” came a tiny voice.

  He put her on speaker, opened his Twitter app, and said, “I have to,” then furiously tapped the screen, drafting a tweet to announce his location to the world. He’d repost his deleted photo from the other day too.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Missy said.

  “I’ve got no choice.”

  “You can’t tell them where you are.” Missy yelled, “Just hold on.”

  He stopped.

  “How about this?” Missy said. “I’ll see what needs to be done at the apartment after work, see what stuff we still have, go to Jenny’s for the night, then tomorrow I’ll drive up to you. Then we’re both gone. We’re both safe. How’s that?”

  “My mom’s still there.”

  “They don’t know who she is. They’re not the IRS, Jacob.”

  “They could figure it out. She’s on Facebook. And what about Emily?”

  “This is called excessive anxiety.”

  “This is called risk mitigation.”

  “You’re acting like it’s a certainty they did this. We don’t know what happened. And even if it was the cartel, you really think they’d go after your mom and sister?”

  “They could.”

  “Emily’s a cop.”

  “What about my mom?”

  “They’re not going after your mom,” Missy promised. “And besides, you really want to hide out with her? You wouldn’t last two days with your mom.”

  He clutched the back of his neck. She had a point. “Fine. Just you come. And don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Not even Jenny.”

  “And maybe you can lay off the social media for a bit?” she suggested.

  “Tina won’t allow it.”

  “Just stop antagonizing them. If this was them…My God, you really need to stop. You really do.”

  Jacob took a long, deep breath. His thoughts shifted back to Morena. “We’re never going to get to adopt Morena, are we?”

  Missy was quiet. “This won’t help,” she finally said, “but there’s nothing we can do. It happened.”

  “When are we supposed to tell the agency about ‘material events’? What’d the paperwork say?”

  “Within twenty-four hours.”

  “Maybe we can also say we’re thinking about moving to Duluth.”

  Missy chuckled. “Yeah, just say the fire was a happy coincidence. Now we don’t have to move any of our stuff.”

  “Ha-ha,” he chided. “But why not? Say they’ve got a really good school system or something.”

  “Because that’s a lie.”

  “We have to say something. Minneapolis is looking like a terrible place for a kid.”

  “We’re not moving. Just tell them the apartment burned, and let it be. They’ll decide what they decide.”

  “It’s not bad here. You might like it,” he pressed.

  “Might like moving to the coldest city in the US?”

  “It’s not that much colder than Minneapolis. And the summer’s nice. They had a Prince Fest over the weekend. That was kinda cool. Beautiful weather.”

  “You went to a festival? Right after what happened? Oh, you’re bold,” Missy muttered.

  “What? Nothing was going to happen. They had security. You couldn’t steal a snow globe if your life depended on it.”

  “I’m coming up for a week. I’m not moving there,” Missy reiterated.

  “Bring Quincy.”

  “Of course I’m bringing Quincy,” Missy said. “The hotel allow pets, or do we need to find another place?”

  “Anything under twenty pounds.”

  “And it’s nice?”

  “Yeah. Elevator’s annoying, but the room’s decent. Has a great view. There’s a balcony.”

  “What about the elevator?”

  “It’s just slow. Faster to take the stairs. It’s fine. The location’s great. Nice café down the street. Couple of decent restaurants. We can take Quincy and walk the shore.”

  “Speaking of Quincy, I think he should start wearing his eye patch.”

  “If you think he needs it.” While Jacob didn’t like the fact that Quincy’s eye infection wasn’t getting better, he wasn’t opposed to having a pirate dog. He could share Quincy’s ridiculousness with all his followers.

  “I’ve never seen him scratch it, but he must be ’cause it just won’t go away.”

  “Maybe it’s permanent.”

  “If that’s the case, he’s getting surgery.”

  “How much will that cost?”

  “Your book money can pay for it.”

  “Have to write it first.”

  “Exactly, so what’re you doing wasting time trying to convince me to move to Duluth?”

  “Wasn’t so much that as just sharing the news about the massive, life-altering fire in our apartment.”

  Missy sighed. “Quincy’s okay. I’m okay. You’re okay. It’s okay.”

  “Yeah. But what about my desk? All my writing notes? All my novel and short story ideas? I hadn’t thought about that. Crap.”

  “Maybe this’ll force you to focus. You almost had too many ideas. Could be good to forget some.”

  “That’s actually what Stephen King says. Only the ideas that stick in your head are worth writing. Notes just let the trash linger.”

  “So maybe the fire was a way to separate your trash from treasure.”

  And also a way for the cartel to warn me to stop. Stop now, or else.

  Missy said, “I’ll go there tonight, and let you know what I find.”

  “Be careful,” he told her.

  “I will.”

  “Don’t stay long. Go straight to Jenny’s after. And keep your pepper spray close.”

  “Of course. I should get back to work now, though,” Missy said.

  Jacob let her go and went to the balcony for some fresh air. The adoption, his writing, and the cartel were working in tandem to form another lump in the back of his throat.

  VI.

  Day Six, Tuesday

  The Coffee Princess was located in a two-story brick building in downtown Duluth, nestled between a candy shop that still had a working soda fountain and an emptied-out bankrupt furniture store. Emmelia had been trying to expand her café into the latter’s space, but the move had been proving difficult.

  Her particular building was part of the Duluth Commercial Historic District, one of eighty-seven contributing properties built between 1872 and 1929 that required approval from the city’s Heritage Preservation Commission before any renovations could be made, and given that Emmelia needed to tear down a common wall and move several load-bearing columns, the commission was refusing to grant such a permit.

  She’d been fighting them all summer. At the last meeting, after revising her plan for the fifth time and being summarily rejected, she’d called the commission a bunch of “warehouse whores.” She wasn’t even sure what that meant, but it’d felt good to say.

  What may have been most frustrating of all was that the commission hadn’t always been this way. When Emmelia had opened the café, she’d asked to split the space—the front for the café, the back for the roastery—and even though that had required some massive work to the roof to accommodate the roaster’s vents, she’d been approved without question.

  The problem was that several commission members had rotated out since then, and the new members were tripping over themselves to exert their newfound power.

  “Warehouse whores,” she mumbled, weaving her way through the back of her presently cramped roastery, around pallets of burlap sacks filled with unroasted coffee, and stepping into a barely adequate clearing where the roaster—a deep-red, twenty-two-kilo Probat twice her height—was bolted to the floor. She checked the roasting drum’s internal temperature—350 degrees Fahrenheit—then pulled a sample of beans for a quick inspection—just starting to brown—before steppin
g back from the blisteringly hot machine. The beans had about three minutes left before she’d dump them from the drum into the cooling tray.

  Waiting, counting the seconds, she gazed through a window in the shared wall between the roastery and the café. She’d once thought the window a good idea—it let customers watch the roasting process—but now, as sweat dripped down her face, and the dried parchment of the coffee bean, called chaff, covered her neck and arms like rampant psoriasis, she was regretting that design choice.

  She brushed away some of the flaky debris and checked the coffee again—Getting there—and shoved the sample probe back into place. Her wrist, previously burned in the apartment fire, glanced across the hot metal drum, and she let loose a string of profanities, clutching the raw, sensitive patch.

  She hadn’t noticed at the time, but she’d gotten some lighter fluid on herself, and when Jacob’s apartment went up, so too had her wrist. A quick singe.

  It didn’t help that she wasn’t supposed to even be roasting that day. Barry, her full-time roaster, had called in sick last minute, so she’d been forced to move to the back and leave the newest hire up front to man the café by himself. Given that it was a slow Tuesday morning, he was keeping things running smoothly enough, but she could tell he was letting his espresso shots run long and scalding the milk. Still, the place looked in order, and perception was half the battle, so she let him be.

  Emmelia conducted one more sample check and one more temperature check before finally dumping the coffee. A flutter of chaff burst forth like a swarm of mosquitoes, and she hurried away, leaving the coffee to cool in the tray, to seek refuge in her office where she could think.

  This Jacob White situation hadn’t been resolved (he hadn’t left Duluth like she’d hoped he would), and she needed to sort it out. But no sooner had she shut the door when her cell phone buzzed, the screen displaying the name “XS.”

  “Okay, then.” She turned back around, left her office, weaved through the stacks of burlap, and ducked out the back door into the alley, where a blissful August breeze blew, cooling her sweaty face and soothing the burn on her wrist.

  “Who do you know in Minneapolis?” Bump asked when she answered.