I'd Kill For That

by Marcia Talley

  The as-yet-unridden Umbandans and the three Elegguas (Laura included) danced merrily on. Oggun’s horse—Tyrone, according to Tiffany—marched down the aisle, bugging eyes straight ahead, apparently seeing nothing until he came to the row where Toni was quaking with a very excited Miranda. He unshouldered the makeshift machete. “Lady of the deer,” he intoned, his voice ringing with a metallic timbre, as if a great bell had been struck.

  Toni hid her face with her hands.

  “Look at me!”

  “Mommy, look at him,” Miranda echoed.

  Toni dropped her hands.

  “You have an enemy.”

  No kidding, Vanessa thought. Lots of them.

  “You have a very dangerous enemy. Lies will be spread about you.”

  The church was full of talebearers, all right. But, so far as Vanessa could see, no real secrets had been revealed. Still, anybody in church was a sitting duck.

  She was thinking of fleeing when suddenly a loud thump elicited more gasps. Momentarily distracted from her own pressing needs, she saw that Danny, the first Eleggua, had fallen flat on his face.

  His comrades rushed forward with water.

  “The orisha has left,” Tiffany explained, still in National Geographic mode.

  Once again the drumming changed. “Ah, time for Oshun, the spirit of the river, of beauty, of fertility—and lovely, lovely money.”

  The Umbandans were in a frenzy. Two succumbed simultaneously to Oshun, suddenly graceful as a river in Africa—no small feat considering that one was a 250-pound man.

  No more than thirty seconds had passed before Parker Upshaw, cutthroat turnaround man and president of the homeowners association, got up, leaving the twins strapped in their toddler seats, and began to mince toward the front of the sanctuary, his walk somehow causing his Brooks Brothers suit to flow as gracefully as a sari.

  Parker waved his closed hand in front of his face, as if wielding a fan, much as the other Oshuns did. He pantomimed primping at a mirror.

  Vanessa thought she’d keel over.

  When he reached center stage, he danced prettily for a few moments, as dainty as Toni’s Bambis, but suddenly he stopped and shrieked, a high feminine wail debouching from his six-foot frame. “Eeeek! There’s a bug in here!”

  Just what we need, Vanessa thought. Someone spying on us. And then she saw something almost as unnerving: cute Ray Flynt, the webmaster, snapping away with his digital camera.

  But she’d misunderstood. Electronic bugs weren’t the kind Parker’s Oshun had in mind. “Oshun hates roaches!” Parker screeched. “Won’t someone kill the bug for Her Loveliness?”

  Peter seemed about to expel bricks.

  Vanessa squirmed.

  The congregation sat transfixed as Parker flounced purposefully down the aisle, seized Jerry by the ear like an outraged schoolmarm, and squealed, “Out, roach!”

  Off the hook, Vanessa thought. For the moment.

  And there was a deliciously bright side. Laura was still dancing on one leg, Tyrone still marching with the lit candelabrum, and Parker-the-pillar had developed multiple personality disorder. Peter had to be desperate. She half expected the hypocrite to break down and pray.

  But before Peter could get around to it, the door of the church flew open.

  * * *

  Lydia had always prided herself on her quick thinking. The green eyes she was looking at peered from a ski mask, never a good sign. Without a second thought she went for them with her key.

  The man—if it was a man—stepped back to avoid her lunge, and she kneed him in the chicken tenders.

  Unfortunately, she missed.

  She fisted her hand and crammed it into his nose.

  He reached for her flying fists, but she feinted and butted him in the chest, which caused him to double over, catching the sash of her robe.

  She kneed him again, this time connecting. He fell backward, still clutching the sash, and Lydia seized her opportunity. She whirled and ran—through the house, out the door, all the way to the church screaming—“Rape! Murder! Fire!”—with equal insistence.

  Not until she’d actually flung open the door did it occur to her that she’d left the robe behind.

  * * *

  Since Vanessa happened to be in church, it seemed perfectly appropriate to thank God she’d been spared Lydia’s cellulite, which was jiggling quite literally in front of God and everybody. Her neighbor wore only a pair of Calvin Klein jockey shorts and a tiny cotton camisole, undoubtedly her sleeping outfit.

  However, since she was screaming for help, it did stand to reason she’d left home in a hurry. But the moment Lydia exploded into the church, she shut up. Her mouth froze in an O of astonishment at the sight of her husband doing a fair impersonation of RuPaul.

  Or perhaps she was even more riveted by the fact that Jerry Lynch seemed about to slug him.

  Doubtless, the drums, the incense, the rapturous dancers, and Laura’s baritone laughter all contributed.

  Not to mention the cigar smoke.

  Whatever the cause, Lydia sank to the floor in a dead faint.

  Diane Robards stood. “That’s enough!” she shouted. “Church is out.”

  Her command broke the spell. The possessed dancers started to fall like bowling pins.

  Diane raced to Lydia’s aid, Peter to Laura’s.

  It was Laura who came around first. “Whash that awful tashte?” she slurred.

  * * *

  Never had the club bartenders been called upon to concoct so many lunchtime drinks in so short a time. Mojitos, the drink of the moment, were going down like lemonade. Daiquiris, Bloodies, mimosas, Long Island iced teas, and the occasional Bellini were also being consumed in quantities usually reserved for New Year’s Eve.

  Since Laura was presumably home sleeping it off, somebody had to play her part. Henry Drysdale slipped into the role like a favorite sweater. “What the hell was Peter Armbruster thinking? Voodoo! In Gryphon Gate! God, I hope the papers don’t get wind of it.”

  Rachel Vormeister, sipping a Diet Coke, took issue. “It wasn’t voodoo. Umbanda is quite a different syncretic religion—meaning a mixture of Catholicism and various folk beliefs. Voodoo is Haitian, Umbanda is Brazilian. And here’s a question for you, Henry—can seventy million Brazilians be wrong?”

  “I didn’t know there were seventy million Brazilians.”

  Rachel shrugged. She was enjoying this. “Well, that’s what Umbandans claim,” she said.

  Mignon Gervase was pale and drawn, her hair damp around her face. “But what was that? It was like they turned into somebody else.”

  Well, duhh was not what Rachel answered, though she had to bite her tongue.

  Henry took advantage of the pause to override Mignon. “How do you know so much about this, Rachel?”

  Rachel gave him a winsome smile. “You didn’t know about my sordid past, Henry? I’m a Jungian therapist. You may have heard that we Jungians are into archetypes.”

  “Uh—archetypes?”

  “That’s what those entities are—ideas of powerful beings. Gods, if you will. I did my thesis on Afro-Caribbean religion. It’s a particular interest of mine.”

  Mignon’s hands were shaking.

  “What we saw, Mignon, was something called spirit possession.”

  “Yes, yes, we all heard Tiffany,” Ned Carbury interjected. “But what was it, really?”

  Rachel smiled again, rather smugly. “It looked pretty real to me.”

  The senator set down his glass so hard his gin and tonic splashed. “Come on, you’re an intelligent woman. Is it some kind of mass hypnosis, or what?”

  “Well, those drums are pretty hypnotic. But you weren’t affected, were you?”

  “I was scared out of my shoes,” Mignon said. She was on her third mojito.

  Silas Macgruder had bellied up with a Bloody Mary in hand and a broad smile on his face. “Laura Armbruster smoking a cigar! Parker Upshaw flapping his wrists! God, I’m glad I lived long enoug
h to see it.”

  “Well, they were…” Rachel searched for a phrase these people had a prayer of understanding, “… under a spell, you might say.”

  She let them chew on it a moment. “Or maybe they were faking.”

  Her mother seemed to be thinking something over. “Well, it was a fascinating event, to say the least,” Mrs. Kaplan said. “But tell me something—is it the custom in Gryphon Gate to advertise church services like plays or movies?”

  The assembled group stared blankly, all except one. Anka—who’d been dispatched to the club for emergency takeout—knew exactly what she meant.

  “Those ’Showtime!’ faxes,” Mrs. Kaplan explained. “Didn’t everybody get one?”

  Such a buzzing ensued you would have thought she’d reported seeing a spaceship.

  * * *

  Diane Robards had buttonholed Peter as he was trying to stuff his drunken wife into the family Volvo. Then she’d followed up by questioning Tiffany and placing a call to Ahmed, the no-show professor.

  She’d been forced to come to a puzzling conclusion—no one could have predicted the scene in the church.

  So, what was the fax all about?

  She had a sinking feeling she knew the answer when the first call came in.

  She’d described the scene to Leland, who met her over at the Upshaws, where, predictably, they found no one in a ski mask clutching his wounded privates.

  What they did find, however, was a prodigious mess in Lydia’s subterranean record room; but Lydia had been too distraught to figure out right away whether anything was missing.

  Or so she said.

  After calming the Upshaws, she and Leland picked up sandwiches and retired to her office. “I’ve been thinking,” Diane said, “about what you said about Roman Gervase being disturbed.”

  “Yes?”

  “Suppose he isn’t.”

  Leland stared. “Can you give me one good reason why a sane man would behave like a werewolf?”

  “Three.” Diane replied. “I started thinking about what Laura said to him.”

  Leland considered. “’All bets are off.’ Ah. A bet.”

  “Uh-huh. Or maybe a promise.”

  “’Be mine and I’ll howl at the moon.’ That kind of thing?”

  Diane nodded, stretching long legs now clad in tight black pants. She’d ripped off her pantyhose the minute she got to the office, where she always kept emergency clothing. “Or a vow maybe.” She nodded again as if talking to herself. “Could be a vow.”

  Leland was fast losing interest. “What do you make of that roach action?”

  Diane frowned. “Hard to know. But I’ll tell you one thing. I researched Jerry Lynch on the Internet last night, and, strangely enough, he hardly seems to exist.” Abruptly, she changed the subject. “I’ve been in his office, have you?”

  Leland shook his handsome head.

  “Well, he’s got this big fat diploma from Harvard Business School hanging on his wall. So I checked that out, too.”

  “You’re some whiz with the databases.”

  As a matter of fact, she was proud of her electronic prowess. She wondered if Leland had figured that out. He certainly knew how to get to her. But the jury was still out on what was calculated and what was genuine where he was concerned.

  “Just part of the job,” she said.

  “Well, let me guess,” offered Leland. “Jerry didn’t go to Harvard.”

  “Not the year he’s supposed to have graduated. I checked the five years before and the five after, just to make sure.”

  “Still wasn’t there?”

  “No, but a funny thing—a certain Ronald Roach was. I remembered the name because it’s so…”

  “Repulsive?”

  They were giggling when the first of the calls came in. It was Babs Blackburn. “My ring,” she sobbed. “I’ve been robbed.”

  * * *

  Toni had taken Miranda home immediately after the service, foregoing the bar like the good mother she was. The poor kid was just about freaked out of her mind.

  Exactly how was Toni supposed to explain fainting ladies in their skivvies? Laura Armbruster turning into a gross old man with a double habit? Crazy adults running around in robes?

  “It’s was just a game, darling. You know how silly grown-ups can be.”

  “But, Mommy, Mrs. Upshaw seemed really scared. And so did Mr. Lynch.”

  “Mr. Lynch?”

  “You know—when Mr. Upshaw called him a bug. Was he afraid of getting stomped?”

  Hmmm, thought Toni. Could be. You might have something, kid.

  For some reason, the part about her mother having an enemy hadn’t spooked the child at all. But it was working Toni’s nerves pretty hard.

  It required a Haagen-Dazs lunch—strictly against Toni’s principles—but eventually Miranda was calm enough to watch 101 Dalmatians for the hundredth time. (It cracked Toni up, remembering the first time the kid had watched it. She was four at the time. Innocent little face turned up, freckles arrayed on her tiny nose, Miranda had pointed excitedly at the wide screen. “Mommy, Mommy, is that Mrs. Smart-Drysdale?” She meant Cruella de Vil, of course.)

  Finally having a moment to herself, Toni retired to change out of her church clothes. She had worn a silk pullover and Michael Kors slacks, set off with a pearl-trimmed antique watch on a chain around her neck, a pair of simple pearl earrings, and her favorite ring—rubies set in a star surrounded by diamonds.

  A gift from Lincoln, of course.

  She stripped off the jewelry, hung up her clothes, and then opened her top bureau drawer to put the ring away. Her ring box was wide open—and empty.

  Toni felt the blood rush to her face. Her heart pounded furiously.

  It wasn’t fair!

  You lived in a place like Gryphon Gate because it was safe. So you didn’t have to keep everything under lock and key.

  Frantically, she opened all her jewelry cases, some on top of the bureau, some in drawers like the ring box.

  Not a single one contained so much as an earring.

  9

  TO SHARE OR NOT TO SHARE? That was indeed the question.

  Aaron Kaplan stood at the window, gazing out at the rich expanse of Gryphon Gate. He scratched his blond head and for a moment sucked in his gut. Pacing, he came to the free-standing mirror that stood near the door of the huge walk-in closet of the guest room he occupied in his sister’s house. Really, really, sucking in, he wasn’t all that bad. Weeks of daily crunches had added definition to his abs—not a six-pack yet, but a four-pack for sure. Aaron turned sideways to consider his glutes, lats, and delts. Not bad. Not at a distance. Still, there was the acne thing. Maybe if he laid off the Milky Ways.

  Real exercise, that’s what you need, young man! Discipline! Or so Lieutenant Colonel McClintock had told him on occasion. On occasion? Hell! On every occasion that he’d seen the old buzzard. In fact, McClintock had suggested to Rachel and his mother that he join the army—that would whip him into shape, not this sissy skateboarding stuff. Fat lot of good it did McClintock. Discipline or not, the colonel was dead.

  Aaron turned away from the mirror. Maybe he wasn’t an Adonis, and maybe he would never be.

  Being smart was better.

  All of them running around like confused ants. Even the cops. He, a teenager with acne, now held power over the lot of them, and he planned to use it.

  Such a rich victory was something to be savored. Should he cast out a few clues? Scare the hell out of a few folks? Make some of the high and mighty itch and scratch until they were begging to know just where he got his information? If they only knew!

  Smiling, Aaron returned to the window. Gryphon Gate was a rich and beautiful place. His sister’s house alone was testament to that fact. Aaron loved his sister, but, really, it was all such a sham! What Rachel spent on Persian carpets could feed an army of immigrants for a year.

  Outside a pair of blackbirds quarreled over the carcass of a dead squirrel like hungry ja
ckals. Jackals, he thought, just like his sister’s neighbors, living here together, enjoying the wealth.

  Aaron knew he should run straight to the police. At the very least, he should tell his sister what he knew. Poor Rachel. She was truly upset over the death of old Siggy. Aaron had always considered his brother-in-law something of a weirdo, but Rachel had loved him. And now she was pregnant and Siggy was dead.

  Siggy had never paid Aaron much attention. Funny how grown-ups always overlooked young people. If anyone but he had studied Siggy’s notes, though, those notes never would have meant anything. But not to Aaron. Now he knew.

  Aaron stared out the window for a long time, expecting Rachel and his Mom to return any moment from church. In point of fact, he was amazed that they had gone. Siggy was barely cold and still at the morgue. There would be a funeral to plan, and if his mother had anything to say about it, they’d have to sit shivah.

  And now that old bag of critical wind, Lt. Col. Lance McClintock, was dead as well. That was a shocker. He’d been such a tough old bird. But even the mighty could fall to the low, especially when taken completely by surprise. Surely McClintock never saw it coming.

  Aaron smiled slowly.

  Hell, he was no lawbreaker. Eventually, he’d go to the police with everything he knew—and what that knowledge led him to suspect.

  Eventually.

  But first he was going to make the mighty squirm.

  Aaron started downstairs, his footfalls silent on the carpeted treads. As he wandered through the quiet living room, a sudden shudder raked him.

  What if…?

  What if by holding onto the information he caused someone else to die?

  And what if that someone was him?

  * * *

  Dr. Charles Jefferson was no longer limping by the time he arrived at the clubhouse, and he headed straight for the bar. He planned to order something, anything, to dull the throbbing in his nose.

  To his amazement, the barroom was empty, except for a few busy bartenders trying to pick up the place. It was a shambles—empty glasses everywhere, cocktail napkins and trail mix littering the floor.

  “Hello!” a young woman said perkily, three empty highball glasses in each hand. She stared at him with a strange curiosity, as if she should know him but wasn’t sure why, then set the glasses down on a tray.