by Libby Howard
Oh, no, the chicken. Pushing an indignant Taco aside, I ran for the kitchen and threw open the oven door. It wasn’t too bad. A little dry, which seemed to be the way my chicken always turned out. Trying in vain to distract Taco with some fresh cat food in his bowl, I set about preparing my evening meal.
I ate alone. Had the judge even come downstairs for a snack or had he stayed in his room the entire evening? I had mixed feelings about his absence. Part of me enjoyed having the house to myself one more time, unsullied by the presence of strangers. Part of me was well aware that he was upstairs and felt as if I were the worst hostess in all of history, that my renter didn’t feel welcome enough to come downstairs even with the enticing aroma of slightly overcooked chicken in the air.
Later that night, after all the dishes were in the dishwasher, and the roasting pan was drying on the counter, I went downstairs. The bulb at the top of the staircase had blown, leaving me with a dark walk down one flight until I turned the landing and the lower one lit my way. It was cooler compared to the spring evening air that filtered through the upstairs windows. As my foot hit the landing, I walked through a cold spot that would have done a freezer proud. Weird. I’d need to check the heat vents and make sure they were fully open. Another item to add to my growing to-do list.
At the bottom step, I turned on the light, admiring the room. I’d always loved it down here. When we first bought the house, Eli had laughed at how much time I’d spent remodeling the cellar into this modern retreat. Bat woman, he’d teasingly called me, and from the damp chill and musty odor that had taken over, he would have been right. All it needed was a ceiling full of furry, winged creatures.
I flicked some dust from the edge of the pool table and frowned, disgusted with myself for neglecting this section of the house. Even after years of physical therapy had restored limited mobility, Eli had still been unable to negotiate stairs. He’d lived the last ten years of his life mostly in the first floor of the house, occasionally going outside to the garden when someone came over to help me get him in and out of his chair and through the narrow doors. It had seemed wrong to be down here without him, like I was abandoning him upstairs.
The golden glow from the track lighting illuminated the soft, wine-colored carpet and caramel leather sofas. The memories came back—of Eli and I curled up together watching a movie, the hand-crocheted afghan from his mother keeping the basement chill from our legs. We’d added special heaters when we put in the wine room and humidor. I flicked them on, turning up the temperature. Taco bolted down the stairs, leaping onto the back of a sofa and looking around as if he had seen something suspicious.
“Guard cat?” I teased him. “Or maybe you want to pick out the movie?”
The tabby made a weird squawking noise, his tail swishing angrily around as his eyes fixed on the edge of the sofa.
“Oh, no you don’t.” I moved the old afghan away from the cat’s sharp claws and knelt down in front of the DVDs stored in a rack under the wall-mounted television. “Action? Romance? Comedy?”
With a thump, the cat jumped from the sofa to the floor, strolling over and purring as he serpentined around my arms. “Comedy it is,” I announced as I stood and slid Young Frankenstein into the player. Grabbing a bottle of wine from the depleted walk-in, I wiped the dust out of a glass with the bottom of my shirt and popped the cork. Eli would have had a fit over this dusty glass. Of course, Eli would have been firing up a cigar in spite of my complaints. I hadn’t really minded the cigars. It was a ritual of ours—I disrespected the wine and didn’t understand the pleasure of fine tobacco while he was woefully rustic in his movie tastes and couldn’t tell a peony from a petunia. We’d exchange some teasing insults, then we’d curl up under the afghan, sip our wine, and watch whatever I’d chosen for the evening. Often his hands would wander. Some evenings we’d wind up doing far more under that afghan than cuddling. I always wondered if his mother would have been scandalized or have approved of our use of the wedding gift she’d labored over for months.
She probably would have approved. My mother-in-law always said one of the happiest days of her life had been our wedding—her only child and the woman who’d become like a daughter to her. She’d died a few years before Eli’s accident and I’d been grateful she hadn’t lived to see him like that—either in the hospital when I feared he wouldn’t survive, or after, when I found myself married to a very different man than the one I’d said vows to at the altar.
But now Eli was gone, joining his parents and mine in the arms of God. It was just me tonight under the afghan. Tears stung my eyes, blurring Gene Wilder and Madeline Kahn on the screen. He’d left me all alone. What was I going to do with my life now that he’d left me?
Eli, how could you abandon me like this? We’d promised through sickness and in health. I kept my end of the bargain only to have you leave. I need you. I don’t think I can make it alone.
Taco took that moment to jump into my lap, a warm affectionate ball of fur. The floater returned, looking as if a shadow had sat down next to me on the sofa. My grief eased just a bit as I petted my cat and remembered there was another person just two floors up from me. Maybe I wasn’t as alone as I thought.
Chapter 7
I was awake before the sun, when the sky was gray with just a hint of pink in the east. I’d always been an early riser, and ever since Daisy had discovered this fact, she’d been hauling yoga mats over and forcing me to contort myself until the sun appeared above the horizon.
In spite of tossing and turning all night, I was still dressed and ready with time to spare, setting up the coffee for automatic brew and throwing some blueberry scones in a towel-lined basket. Taco was yowling for his food before the tablespoons of grounds hit the coffee filter. Our first day together, he’d been perplexed at my early start but the cat quickly got with the program, realizing that rising before dawn meant breakfast before dawn.
“I’m hurrying,” I scolded, finishing up with the coffee and grabbing the bag of Happy Cat out of the cabinet. By the time I’d gotten the bag open, Taco had batted his bowl across the floor, trying to convince me in cat-language that he was on the brink of death by starvation. In reality, the cat had filled out quite a bit since I’d brought him home from the shelter. I wasn’t sure how fat was too fat when it came to cats. I wondered again if I should put Taco on a diet. Would he hate me forever if I gave him just a little less food in his bowl?
The eager way he shoved his head into the dish as I poured the Happy Cat did more for my sense of well-being than the hour of sunrise yoga. Happy Cat. They should have called it Happy Pet-Owner.
Daisy showed up promptly at five. By then, Taco was licking the last crumb from his bowl. I piped some 1930s jazz through the outdoor speakers, trying to be mindful that the neighbors as well as my new roomie were probably still sleeping. Then Taco and I joined my friend in the garden—me to greet the day with vinyasas; the cat to go stalk insects in the hedges.
Daisy did a light stretch, spreading out her mat and eyeing the house suspiciously. “Please tell me those kids didn’t spend the night.”
I rolled my eyes. “No. And if they did, I doubt they’d be up at this ridiculous hour of the morning.”
“Good.” She put herself in mountain pose. “I don’t want teenagers looking at my saggy old-lady butt.”
I noticed she didn’t seem to care if Judge Beck saw her saggy old-lady butt. The thought had me glancing back at the windows, then checking out the reflection of my own rear end. Was it saggy? Should I do squats? At my age, was it even worth the bother? Honestly, everything looked kind of saggy, but the wavy, lead-glass windows probably made my shape look worse than it most likely was.
Full of denial about time’s effects on my body, I closed my eyes and breathed deep. We went through the poses, and by the time we were rolling up the mats, I did feel better. I might be barely able to touch my toes, but something about the rhythmic breathing and smooth motion of the exercise calmed my anxious mind.
Guilt. Because when the man you loved wasn’t the same, when a skilled surgeon can no longer manage to cut his French toast, when I’d had those horrible self-pitying moments where I’d wondered what my life would have been like if he’d died in that hospital room, that was when the guilt filled you up like a water balloon about to burst. Daisy kept me from losing myself. I didn’t know if she realized how much she meant to me, yoga and crystals and blessing bags and all.
Even now. Ever since Eli had died, she’d been coming over most mornings, turning our weekly yoga into nearly a daily event. It was surprising how quickly this became a routine, how quickly I’d grown to treasure our quiet time together. It was a great way to start the morning, giving me a feeling of togetherness, of peace that stayed with me all day. Me and my best friend.
Today the peace lasted until I crossed the threshold into my kitchen. Judge Beck stood at the coffee maker wearing a pair of plaid flannel pajama bottoms and a crisp t-shirt. It was incredibly obvious to me that he’d thrown the shirt on at the last moment and that in his own home, he probably would have been at the coffeemaker half-naked.
That thought had me jerking to an abrupt stop. Daisy ran into my back. “Hey!”
Judge Beck turned around at her exclamation, tugging at his shirt self-consciously. The aloof, distant look descended on his face. “Is this coffee up for grabs?”
My morning routine with Daisy just became a plus-one. “Of course. And so are the scones.” I pulled a handful of mugs out of the cabinet.
Judge Beck poured himself a cup-o-joe and started to walk out, before hesitating to eye the scones.
“Stay,” I told him. “We’re not that sweaty.”
“Speak for yourself,” Daisy muttered, wiping her face with a damp paper towel. “Are these hot flashes ever going to end? I’m fifty-five, darn it. I should be done with this by now.”
“Shirley’s didn’t stop until sixty-two, poor thing. Hang in there, girl.” I put a scone on a plate and handed it to Judge Beck, noting his horrified expression at our topic of conversation. Too bad. If he was going to live here, he was going to occasionally hear about the woes of menopause.
Daisy made a pfft noise, dumping what seemed like a half gallon of milk into her coffee. “I hope it’s all over soon. I’ve been planning my crone ceremony for the last decade. You’ll have to come and help me burn the tampon effigy I made, Kay. Every month I pray to the goddess I don’t have to deal with this ever again, but clearly she has other plans.”
Judge Beck eyed the doorway, no doubt wondering how he could edge past Daisy and escape. After spending all evening tiptoeing around, wondering if he was coming down for dinner or to socialize, I suddenly felt like laying it all out on the table. Maybe it was the early morning yoga, maybe it was the fact that I held my first cup of coffee, untouched in my hand. This was my house, my life. I’m sure he’d gotten used to monthly events with his wife and daughter. He’d need to get used to hot flashes and talk of irregular menstrual cycles.
But tampon effigies? What the heck was Daisy up to now? I’d joined in on a few of my friend’s circle thingies a few decades back, the only one there who was not buck naked. I’d gotten drunk on ceremonial wine during a Beltane celebration. I’d helped her smudge a grove with something that I was pretty sure wasn’t just sage and prairie grass, but burning tampons?
Whatever. Count me in. If Daisy wanted me to get naked and burn tampons, I was going to be there to help. Although I intended on keeping my clothing on.
Chapter 8
I rolled in to work bright and early, an extra cup of coffee in hand and a scone tucked in a Ziploc bag in my purse, just in case I got busy and worked through lunch. I was a skip tracer, which really wasn’t a far cry from my original career as a news reporter. Both jobs meant I needed to know how to research and document findings. Both jobs involved writing, taking dry facts and presenting them in a compelling fashion. The main difference was this job paid better.
Even after Eli’s accident, I’d continued to do freelance work for various papers and research projects for Carson to keep my sanity as well as provide a source of income. Sadly, that income over the years dropped to the point where I was barely making minimum wage for the time I put in. When papers and magazines were only paying forty dollars per article, when most of their stories were written by large overseas companies that threw together quick short articles and sold the rights to hundreds of news organizations across the globe, the local reporter found him or herself either without a job or writing for very little pay.
I wasn’t going to get rich doing research for Pierson’s, but the job was interesting, it paid the bills, and my boss was the stuff of sitcom reruns. J.T. Pierson had gotten his P.I. license as a young man fresh out of college with dreams of Rockford Files and Magnum, P.I in his soul. His television role models had remained soundly in the seventies. He romanticized old-fashion gumshoe detective work over modern CSI and internet research—which meant I had job security. J.T. went out to interview people, knock on doors, and liaison with the deputies serving warrants. I found people who didn’t want to be found, building a paper trail that my boss would deposit on the DA’s desk with a dramatic flourish.
“Did you see Snake last night? That guy has completely gone off the rails. He’s gonna get shot one of these days.”
No, I hadn’t watched the latest episode of Snake—Bounty Hunter, J.T.’s newest reality show obsession. “What did he do this time? Stake out the wrong house? Fall asleep and let the perp slip away?”
“He tried to repo some guy’s car out of his driveway, and the man showed up and blocked him in. Idiot.”
Snake was an idiot, but idiots made for good reality television. Ever since the show had aired, J.T. was convinced that his future was with A&E, TLC, or some other channel. On Friday, he’d paid me overtime to stay late and research who he should submit his pitch to. It was his lifetime dream to see his investigative exploits on the small screen beside Jim Rockford and Thomas Magnum, and America’s fixation with reality TV seemed like the perfect venue to launch a show of his own.
In preparation, he’d been experimenting with his “look.” Last week’s slovenly detective persona had been replaced over the weekend. Today J.T. was sporting jeans and a white t-shirt, along with cowboy boots that looked like he’d snipped the tags off them this morning. It wasn’t just the clothing that was a total about-face from the week before either. J.T. had shaved his head.
For a man in his late fifties, J.T. had a decent amount of hair. Silver had been liberally sprinkled among the brown, and along with the increasing prominence of his forehead, he’d begun to suffer from the backside bald spot. He’d kept it a reasonable length and avoided the comb-over, although I suspected he’d used some hair product last week to achieve the disheveled look.
But now it was gone. All of it. The vast white expanse of flesh screamed for sunscreen, or a hat. It seemed J.T.’s envy of Snake the Repo Man had crossed into imitation of the man’s dress and appearance. All he needed now was an arm full of colorful tattoos.
“What’s on my list today?” I asked, trying to ignore the glare of florescent light off my boss’s shiny head.
“Credit
corp has one—a garnishment they’re trying to get served, and Bob asked if we could help with two of his bail jumpers.”
Bob was an old friend and sometimes competitor of J.T.’s. His was a one-man office that specialized in providing bail bond services to the high-risk dealers and multiple offenders. He kept me almost as busy as J. T. did.
“Oh, and can you do some digging on our newest client?”
“Caryn Swanson?” Our local scandal had been released on bail on Friday. It seemed a little late to be checking up on her. Kind of like closing the barn door after you’d given the horse ten grand and let her trot on down the street.
“I know what you’re thinking. She seemed a good risk—local business owner, besides the alleged prostitution ring, that is, family in Milford put up her ten percent without batting an eye. But last night I ran into Craig Walsh’s secretary at the steakhouse and I bought her a few drinks.”
Craig Wash was Caryn Swanson’s defense attorney. His paralegal that J.T. insisted on calling a secretary was eighty if she was a day, and liked her gin. She was also sharp as a tack. J.T. sometimes got information from her, but I got the impression that she wound up with far more information than my boss at the end of those “chance” encounters.
“Yeah? What did Bonita tell you after a couple gimlets?”
J.T.’s brow furrowed. It made a line of wrinkles clear up to the top of his head. “Walsh can’t find his client.”
That was far more than the little tidbits of information Bonita usually shared. “Maybe she’s in Milford staying with family? I’m sure it’s got to be awkward staying in Locust Point right now with her arrest all over the papers and rumors running wild.”
The brow wrinkles deepened. “No. She was supposed to meet him Sunday morning. When she didn’t show, he went over to her place and checked with her family. No one knows where she is.”