by Alexa Davis
Bix Northrup had been my best friend since the first day of fourth grade when we had been assigned to sit together. It was my fifth school in as many years since my father was a diplomat whose job moved us around the world on a regular basis, and I was somewhat weary of having to adjust to another new group of people. Because of all the moving, I was a little more cosmopolitan than some of my classmates and as a result, I'd wait to decide how smart I thought they were before I made friends with any of them. It was a defensive strategy that had served me well.
The morning I joined Bix's fourth grade class, the teacher had assigned us a desk on the side of the room closest to the windows, and I'd been staring out them wishing I could transform into a cardinal and spend the day hunting for seeds and bugs when a girl sat down next to me.
"Hello," I said, staring at her. She was a small girl with hair so blonde that it looked white. She was wearing a sky blue dress, knee high socks with tennis shoes, and a pair of enormous round glasses. I'd never seen glasses that big on any adult, let alone a girl as small as she was, and with her hair pulled into two tight French braids on either side of her head, the glasses looked even bigger. I couldn't stop staring as she held out her hand.
"Hello, I'm Elizabeth Margaret Wentworth-Trent," she said solemnly. "But you can call me Bix."
"Why?" I asked taking her hand and giving it a good shake. Her hand felt fragile in mine and I quickly pulled back, afraid I'd hurt her.
"My parents are big jazz lovers," she said as if that explained everything. She pushed her glasses back up on her nose and stared at me waiting for a response.
"So? What does that have to do with anything?"
"Oh, you don't know jazz, do you?" she said with a sympathetic smile. "Bix Beiderbecke was a famous 1920s jazz musician and composer who played with the Wolverine Orchestra."
I stared at her blankly, not sure how to respond.
"He died in 1931," she said and then added, "They say it was pneumonia, but most people think it was alcoholism."
"Why would your parents nickname you after a dead alcoholic?" I asked bluntly.
"I think they wanted a boy," she confided as she pushed her glasses back up on her nose. She looked at me with her owl eyes and then said, "You didn't introduce yourself."
"I'm Olivia Moore," I said. "I don't have any nicknames, and I don't know if my parents wanted me or a boy, but I do know that they probably shouldn't have had children."
"Why do you say that?" she asked seriously.
"Because they like to move around a lot and it's a royal pain in my ass." Bix gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.
"You just said a bad word," she whispered from behind her hand as she looked at me. "You shouldn't say that."
"Why not?" I sat up a little straighter, feeling accomplished for having shocked my seatmate on the first day of class. "Grown-ups say it all the time; why shouldn't I?"
"My parents would spank me for saying that," she whispered.
"I don't think my parents notice anything I say," I admitted. Bix nodded as the teacher moved to the front of the classroom and told us all to be quiet because the lesson was about to begin. From that day on, Bix and I were best friends. We had an unspoken agreement that we would share everything, and for over twenty years, we had. That is, until Bix fell in love and got married.
We'd both applied to the Ivies and gotten in to all of them, but we'd ultimately decided we'd rather live in New York City, so we chose NYU where I majored in journalism and she in corporate law. She'd aced her classes because she had a photographic memory, a deep need for organization of information, and had managed to avoid the college drama surrounding boyfriends and heartbreak by not dating.
I, on the other hand, had stumbled through my classes and managed to graduate with a B-average and a string of failed love affairs. Bix had pulled me up each time and pushed me back into my life with each failed romance, so much so that it came to be a running joke in the apartment we shared with three other undergraduate girls who also had their fair share of boyfriend dramas.
And, Bix was the one who nursed me through the loss of my parents when their plane had crashed on a Chilean mountainside during the winter of our senior year. When, grief-stricken, I'd drunk myself into a stupor and threatened to jump out of our third-story window, Bix quietly coaxed me to seek counseling and then accompanied me to the first few appointments. Through it all, Bix kept a level head and full refrigerator.
She'd finally gotten her turn when she met Doug Northrup while interning at the law firm where he was a contract lawyer. They'd become friends, but it she hadn't considered it a romance until he'd been offered a job in Washington with a major firm that lobbied for the farming industry. The day he'd taken the job, he'd proposed to Bix and she'd said yes.
They'd had a small ceremony at the New York City courthouse with me as their witness and then two weeks later, they'd moved to Washington. They'd settled in a cute, red brick, two-story house a few blocks away from the Capitol and started a family pretty quickly. Now they were the parents of Jake, who was seven, and Diana, who was four.
While other people marveled at Bix's transition from corporate law to homemaker, I knew that it really wasn't much of a switch. She ran a tight ship and kept everyone moving, while she still managed to cook gourmet meals at least five nights a week, plan charity events for her volunteer group, and sew her own clothes. Most people thought Bix was some kind of over-achieving-Martha Stewart type, but I knew better. She simply loved order and organization.
I, on the other hand, thrived on chaos, but frequently sought out Bix when things got too out of hand. She would listen to my tale of woe, feed me a nutritionally solid meal, and then send me on my way with a bag full of leftovers with heating instructions taped to each container. No matter how far I traveled or how long I'd been gone, Bix was my touchstone and my family.
"Aunt Liv!" Diana screamed as I put the key in the lock and opened the door. "Moooooooooom, Aunt Liv is here! Mom! Mom! Mom!"
"I heard you the first five times," Bix said with a smile as she came into the entryway to give me a hug. She was wearing her signature round glasses, though she'd chosen a style smaller than those she wore in fourth grade. Her white blonde hair was styled in a cute, chin-length bob and she was wearing a red cardigan sweater over a deep green t-shirt, both of which were covered by a green apron with the words "Merry Christmas" scripted across the bib. "I'm so glad you're here, Liv. What's going on?"
"I just thought I'd stop by and see if all the little people are behaving or if I need to have a talk with Santa about the coal supply," I said smiling at the small replica of Bix standing shyly to one side of the hall. Jake was as tow-headed as Bix had been at his age and equally as intellectual. His sister, however, was a wild child who resembled a ginger tornado, often causing as much damage as one. "Jake, buddy, how are you?"
"I'm well, thank you, Aunt Liv," he said solemnly. He wore a smaller version of Bix's round glasses and resembled a tiny scientist. Lately, he'd taken to wearing a white doctor's coat and a second-hand stethoscope I'd picked up at a shop in New York. I'd found an old fashioned doctor's bag full of weird old bottles and instruments that I planned to give him for Christmas, but I had to clear it with Bix first. "How are you?"
"I'm quite well, thank you, Jake," I smiled as I held out my hand and we shook. Jake liked the ritual of greetings and goodbyes, so I accommodated his need by adhering to the standards. Meanwhile, his sister hung from the hem of my coat batting my scarf and alternating between hooting like a monkey and singing Jingle Bells. I reached down and swung her up into my arms looking into her bright blue eyes. "And you, Miss Monkey, what are you doing?"
"Nada," she said suddenly shy. "Necesito el baño, por favor."
"Gotcha," I said setting her down. I'd had enough high school Spanish to understand that one and did not want to find out what would happen if I failed to set her down. Diana made a mad dash for the bathroom as Bix waved me into the kitchen.
"What the hell are you doing?" I blurted out.
"Little ears," she reminded me. I nodded and looked around at what could only be called a manufacturing operation. "I'm making cookies for all of the kids in Jake and Diana's school Each cookie is decorated like each individual child."
"You are certifiably insane," I said, shaking my head. "If it were me, I'd stop at Foggy Bottom Grocery and pick up twelve dozen of their cheapest cookies and a couple of gallons of milk. Bingo, instant party!"
"Oh, Liv," she laughed as she picked up a pastry bag filled with icing and began carefully decorating a gingerbread kid. "What's going on? Why the unexpected stop?"
"Did you see the news?" I asked looking sideways at Jake standing near the counter, watching his mother.
"Jake, why don't you go play Aunt Liv a song from your recital?" Bix suggested. She gave him a knowing look and he nodded before turning and walking into the living room. A few moments later, the opening notes to “Greensleeves” drifted from the living room into the kitchen.
"Bix, there were five senators shot on the Hill today," I said quickly trying to get the story out before one of the children interrupted our conversation. "I'm not sure what happened or why, but two teenagers near the park told me that the guy who'd done the shooting had hollered something about not taking away his gun or his freedom. And then, I ran into that gun tech nut, Lincoln Redding, not once but twice today!"
"Wait, back up, you're out of order here," she said as she continued carefully outlining the shape of a gingerbread kid before adding decorations.
I told her the whole story from start to finish, and then waited for her to say something. She carefully dusted a cookie with colored sugar then looked up at me and remarked, "Linc Redding is really handsome, isn't he?"
"Bix, did you fall and hit your head?" I asked as I reached out for one of the cookies. She slapped my hand before turning and grabbing a plate full of broken pieces and setting it in front of me.
"Eat those, they're not useable," she said.
"But they're broken," I whined.
"God, you're just like one of the kids," she laughed as she drew a smiley face on one of the broken pieces and dusted it with turquoise colored sugar. "There, now it's pretty."
"Thank you; I don't like feeling like second best," I said as I bit into the cookie and then hummed to indicate my approval. "Mmmmm, so good!"
"But back to Redding," Bix said. "He's handsome, isn't he?"
"What has that got to do with anything? I'm talking about five senators who were shot, two who are dead. Why are you focusing on the good looks of a guy who has nothing to do with the shootings?"
"He might be a good date for the Christmas Gala," she said as she started on a new gingerbread kid. "Besides, I do think he has something to do with the whole thing. Wasn't he on that morning talk show where he and that airbag Davis Russo went head to head?"
"Yeah, but what does that have to do with the shootings?" I was always interested to hear what Bix had to say about things that seemed unrelated because her brain could pull together information and see patterns quicker than anyone I'd ever met.
"Well, Russo was the guy who led that Church of the Loaded Pistol or whatever it was down in Virginia, wasn't he?" she asked. I burst out laughing, spraying cookie crumbs down the front of my shirt. Bix handed me a napkin and gave me a look. "You know what I mean. Redding is the guy who developed the smart technology that would make guns tied to the owners much the same way fingerprint technology ties smart phones to their owners, isn't he?"
"Yeah, so what's the point?" I asked as I brushed cookie crumbs into the napkin and deposited it all in the trashcan Bix had under her workspace. I wanted to tell Bix about what had happened outside of the florist's shop, but I wasn't sure how I felt about it, and I didn't want her picking it apart or, worse, encouraging the silly fantasy.
"Well, isn't Redding pushing for a bill that would make it mandatory for all weapons to be equipped with smart technology?" she asked. "If he is, then wouldn't it be logical that Russo would be fighting it?"
"Those two hate each other, that's for sure," I nodded. "But why would Russo oppose legislation that would make guns safer?"
"Because the weapons manufacturers don't want the added expense of smart technology guns and because it would limit sales," she said as she finished another cookie and set it aside so that it could dry. "Think about it, Liv. If manufactures have to make guns connected to their specific owners, it cuts down on illegal sales, and as much as everyone is standing behind the idea that legal sales should be the only sales, we all know that a large portion of the profits in the weapons industry come from unregulated sales."
"How do you know all of these things?" I asked as I looked at her. "I'm the damn reporter, and I don't know all of this stuff."
"It's patterns, Liv," she shrugged. "Just follow the money and you'll see the pattern. Besides, if smart technology is made mandatory, it's going to affect millions of gun owners who have to then equip their weapons with the technology. Like it or not, it's going to cost money, and that's not going to make people happy. I'm sure Russo knows his members are not super rich billionaires who have tons of money laying around, so he's going to fight the legislation any way he can. You might check into whether those Senators were supporting the bill."
"C'mon, Bix, get real," I said as I bit into another cookie fragments. "Despite living in D.C., this is not exactly House of Cards. People don't murder people to get what they want! Not here in the US of A!"
"Don't fool yourself, Liv," she said, pushing her glasses up on her nose with the back of her wrist. "This town is full of people who do things that you and I would never dream of doing in order to preserve their interests."
"But murdering senators? Seriously?" I said. "C'mon, that's just insane."
"It might be, but it also might be closer to the truth than you think,” she said as she looked at me. There was something in Bix's eyes that told me she wasn't kidding, and that scared me. I was about to ask another question when Diana came tumbling into the kitchen and knocked a plate full of decorated cookies off of the counter. They flew through the air and crashed at my feet where the broken bits mingled in a rainbow of colors.
"I'm sorry, Mom! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Diana cried as she prepared to shed tears to show how sorry she was. Bix knelt down, gathered Diana in her arms, and hugged her tightly.
"It's okay, baby," she cooed as she rocked the sobbing child. "Accidents happen and broken cookies are not the end of the world. We'll fix them or we'll make another batch, okay?"
Diana stepped back and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as she looked at her mother. Bix smiled, patted the child's cheek, and then kissed her on the head before saying, "I love you and I'm just glad you're not hurt, but what's the rule about running in the kitchen?"
"The rule is that we don't run in the kitchen unless a monster is chasing us!" Diana yelled as she jumped up and down.
"That's right," Bix smiled. She patted Diana's head and then sent her on her way. After Diana had returned to the playroom, Bix turned and smiled at me and said, "Some days..."
"I know, I know," I said. "Do you want me to break out the wine?"
"Every single day," she sighed. "Every single day."
We both dissolved into laughter as Bix set about whipping up another batch of gingerbread kids while I poured the wine.
CHAPTER NINE
Linc
"Another drink, gentlemen?" I asked as I raised the bottle of hundred-year-old whiskey. Glasses were quickly pushed forward and I filled each one as I took note of how each of my poker buddies were doing. "There are more sandwi
ches on the sideboard and cigars in the humidor if anyone needs more of anything."
"You sure know how to throw a poker game, Redding," said the man to my left. Senator Roy Walker looked a little farther gone than the rest of them. I'd been watching him carefully and gauging his behavior, watching as his beady little eyes began to shine brighter under the influence of alcohol. Despite his portly body, he moved surprisingly quickly, reminding me of a hamster looking for food.
"Thanks, Roy," I smiled as I held up the bottle and offered him another round. He grinned and nodded as he held out his glass. "It's a good turnout tonight, I'm glad you could make it."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world, Linc," he said as he continued flashing his idiotic grin. "You know that. Especially after all that happened on the Hill over the weekend. I needed a place to blow off some steam."
It had been three days since the shootings and everyone on Capitol Hill was a little edgy. So far, three of the senators were dead and two were still clinging to life at Washington General. I hadn't yet heard from any of the families, but then I hadn't expected to, really. I knew that things were in turmoil, and I'd watched as Russo had stood on the steps of his family home, flanked by an enormous American flag, telling the crowd that he was praying for the victims of the shooting, but that one crazy man's actions should not allow millions of patriotic American gun owners to have their rights taken away. I'd shaken my head as I watched Russo's scripted performance and wondered what it would take to bring him to his knees.
"I certainly appreciate that, and I'm glad I provide a space in which you can blow off steam." I turned toward the rest of my guests and asked, "Does anyone need anything else?"
"A woman?" Senator Mason laughed as he lit his cigar and sucked deeply.
"Well, you know the rule around here, Senator," I said with a half-smile and a friendly chuckle. "Your wish is my command."
"Nah, I'm good," Mason said with a nervous laugh. "My wife would kill me if she found out I'd been boning hookers at the poker game."