Chapter 22
Sunlight scratched Owen’s eyelids and he swore at the curtains he’d forgotten to close. Swore louder when his phone chimed with a text—what the hell time was it? It had been well after two when he’d finally got back to Vestemere, and it couldn’t possibly be much beyond that right now. He fished his cell off his nightstand, woke the screen. 6:38. “God,” he groaned, then brought up the message.
Rob. Hey Old Man. I know you got in late last night. Don’t come to work till noon. Thanx.
“And thank you, Rob, for waking me up to tell me that.” He flopped back on the bed, scrolled through any other messages he might have missed when he finally flaked out.
None.
“Dammit Sondra,” he whispered. He’d texted that last number she’d used twice before he finally made himself leave Vancouver, not really expecting a reply, yet… “Where are you?” he’d asked, ’cause it hurt. Fuck, it hurt. He shoved himself up. ‘Play them’, had been the last thing she’d said before she dropped contact. He went to the window. From up here in his old childhood bedroom on the second floor, he could almost see Rob’s rental cottage. ‘Play them’. “Time to chat, Tsarina. You, me, and your cousin. We’ll share notes about a hanged man named Galinko—and how the hell that family ties you both to my buddy.”
He showered. Tied his hair back. Wore a t shirt instead of long sleeves, angling for lots of his ink to show. Time to jack the fear that crawled behind the Tsarina’s eyes whenever she dared look at him. “You are going to talk to me.” He checked his phone one last time (nothing), then slid work boots on, headed across town.
She wore a huge smile when she opened her door and seeing it made his mood that much blacker. But then—“Oh.” She stepped back and the smile fell off her face. “You aren’t Sabrina.”
He cranked on a million watts. “You’re expecting that pain in the ass?”
This teased a tiny bit of smile back in place, albeit upside down. “She and Robyn, yes.”
“Seriously?” He mocked a look all around. “And you haven’t rolled out a red carpet for that kid?”
A giggle, the sound of coins tossed in a fountain, conjured a grin, a real grin, of his own. “You should be kinder,” she said, but was smiling. “She is so sweet.”
“She is so spoiled,” he corrected.
She shook her head, but the same tiny smile played with her mouth and his hands twitched with a sudden need to touch it. To roll the ball of his thumb over her bottom lip, coax it into a real smile, right side up. Instead he inhaled, made a show of it. Not that it was difficult. When she’d opened the door, an aroma had rolled out, smelled amazing. “Cooking?” he asked.
“Baking. Chocolate. What’s…that?” She pointed to the kale shake he toted in its clear plastic cup.
“Protein shake.”
“Ah,” she nodded. “Healthy.”
He wanted to laugh at how her nose wrinkled. Instead he took a big chug of the shake.
She shot a glance to her right, to the closed bedroom door. “I-I’m sorry, but…what can I do for you?”
Fret-fret-fret, her hands had at last remembered who he was, and “Bathroom tile,” he said, and lifted his tool box. And answers, Tsarina. “My brother Steve started it, and—”
“Oh. No. I’m sorry, but…no. That won’t work today.” Another glance at the bedroom door. “Sabrina…she’s coming for a massage treatment, and it needs to be—”
“I will be quiet,” he said, anticipating her. “I’ll even—” He pulled a set of earbuds from his front t-shirt pocket. “Give you complete privacy.” A billion more watts shone on his face.
Didn’t work. She looked…agonized. And sideways again at the damn bedroom door. Whatcha got in there, Tsarina? Time for some charm. “I get it if you’re worried. I am a cop.”
Alarm flared in the tell-tale flutter of pulse in her neck. Good. “And,” he added, “as a cop, I’d never advise a woman to invite a strange male into her house.”
“Yet you were just here a few nights ago, Policii Brophy.”
Okay, so she was as sharp as she was scared. He kept up the full wattage. “Want to call your cousin to come home?”
“He’s not in town.”
“Ah. Over in Cascadia again? He sure ditches you a lot.”
“Cascadia’s not far. I can still easily see his ego from here.”
Surprise choked him with a laugh.
She didn’t join him. Instead kept surveying him, chary and vaguely hostile.
“Sab’s coming,” he reminded. “And I guarantee she’ll kick my ass if I even imagine misbehaving.”
There. A crack in her enmity. The upside down smile. And damned if his thumb wasn’t twitching again ’cause her bottom lip looked as smooth as a rose petal. Regal. Tsarina.
“You are fond of her,” she said.
“Fond…” He squinted “Of who?”
“Sabrina.” The perfect skin on her brow folded, perplexed.
“Oh. Yeah.” Jesus, Brophy. Get with the program. “Totally fond of her. The Hasloms were never from the Brophy side of the tracks, but that didn’t stop us from all being best friends growing up.”
“Or from swapping gum on the bus,” she sallied, but a blush rapidly filled her cheeks, cherry pink.
And he’d thought she was an escort? Christ. She acted more like a virgin.
“I’m not,” she said and he startled.
She cleared her throat. “Sorry,” she said. “D-dry air. What I meant to say was I’m not sure if Sabrina forgot or is just running late. Please…come in.”
Fret-fret-fret. Didn’t her hands get sore, twisting like that? And what would happen if he did what that Alberta cop said and touched them? “Could-uh-could I get you to take this?” He passed her his sweatshirt, slung over his toolbox. “Don’t want it to get dirty.”
She reached out and he purposely let his fingertips connect with her skin.
A pink flower fell onto the floor. “Uh—” he said, pointing, but she didn’t notice as the front door banged open behind them.
“Tasha!”
The moppet, Robyn, barreled in and the Tsarina immediately ignored him, dropping down with arms open. “Hello, Sweetheart!” She wrapped her close. “I’m so happy to see you again!”
The little one clung to her, blind adoration that reminded him of old Cackling Carrie back on the Downtown East Side, how she used to blather on and on about past lives, soulmates, and—“Kindred spirits,” he said aloud.
The Tsarina beamed and damned if his heart didn’t skip. Well, you are lovely, Your Highness.
Confusion claimed her face but then Sabrina came in, all typical cocky swagger—and atypical pallor. “Sorry I’m late,” she rasped, then noticed him. “Hey, Badass.”
“Mrs. Danini.” He bowed. “Hope you don’t mind if I work while you get yourself pampered.” Ignoring the Tsarina’s look of outrage, he pulled the wire out for his earbuds, dangled it for her.
Sabrina shrugged. “I’m so sore I couldn’t care less if you blast your heavy metal through the ceiling.”
Heavy metal? Clearly the tattoos and hair were speaking for him again. All he really had on his iPod were a couple podcasts about baseball.
Sabrina glanced around. “Haven’t been in here in ages,” she mused. “My brother’s done a good job—if you’re into the whole ‘tiny house’ thing. Which I’m not.”
“I am,” blurted the Tsarina. “I…I just love it.”
Sabrina cocked her head. “Rob’s planning to flip it once Badass finishes the bathroom. Make him an offer.”
Oh, I…couldn’t.” She looked at the floor. “I own a business back home.”
Yeah. Where people throw rocks at you.
She threw him a startled glance. Shit. Had he said that out loud?
Sabrina moved between them, peeled Robyn out of Natasha’s arms. “Businesses sell all the time.” This, with a shrug. “I should know.” She smiled then, but Owen could see her expression was canny. “I happen to own a business in your area.”
Aha. So she wasn’t just blindly accepting. Good job, girl. Grinning, he lobbed a glance at the Tsarina.
Who was unmistakably astonished. “In Echo Creek? A business? Which one?”
“Not in Echo Creek, near Echo Creek—though the head office is in the city of Edmonton. Haslom Explorations.”
“Oil?” asked the Tsarina.
“Drilling, to be specific.”
The Tsarina looked troubled—and confused. “I…haven’t heard of it.”
He couldn’t tell if she was lying.
Sabrina lifted a shoulder “Lots of other companies just like it out there in Dirty ’Berta.” She grinned. “Now can we…”
“Get started? Of course. I—” She gave him an awkward, apologetic look. “Excuse us”, she said, then, remembering that she still held his sweatshirt, pivoted to a hook near the door.
“And you dropped this,” he added, pointing to the flower.
She looked. “Dropped…what?”
“A flow—” No flower. It was gone. What the hell? Did the moppet take it? He looked, but Robyn was already busy at the coffee table with a box of crayons. “Umm.” He felt his million watts wobble on his face. “There was a pink, puffy flower right…there.” He pointed.
The Tsarina stared and Sabrina chortled. “You see a few pink elephants too, Badass? Sniffing tile glue probably isn’t your thing.”
He scowled. “Go get your knots ironed out, Big Mouth.”
She sashayed away. “No peeking at my stellar shirtless form while I’m getting a rub-down, Brophy.”
“In your dreams, Danini.”
The Tsarina squeaked “I’ll drape you!” then trotted after her. Owen shook his head. An uptight prude he’d had pegged as an escort. “Good work, Detective,” he muttered, then slipped his earbuds in and left his iPod off. Propped the bathroom door wide enough to listen.
Sabrina said “You were going to tell me about the rat bast-ah….creep.”
Oh, right. The ex boyfriend. What had been the problem? Had he worn his bowtie too tight? Not held the door open long enough? C’mon, Sab. You’re suspicious too. Get to something about Galinko.
“You…you’ll think less of me,” warned the Tsarina.
Oh, Christ, why? Had she picked someone who hadn’t known proper wine pairings? Had he worn a cologne that once clashed with hers?
“He…was married,” she said. “Still is married, actually.”
Okay, that did surprise him. He peeked out of the bathroom. That why locals in your little town throw rocks at you, Tsarina? You get caught servicing a married man?
She looked his direction. He ducked back in and started chipping tile. Quietly.
“An affair,” Sabrina said, and he could hear her shrug. “It happens.”
“I’m not quite so blasé about it yet,” the Tsarina replied.
Ah, so Married Man knew lots about wine pairings and his cologne had been perfect. Owen tossed a piece of tile down, too savagely, and when it shattered he called out “Sorry!”
“Keep a lid on it, Badass,” Sabrina shouted back.
Jesus. No wonder he and Rob used to hide all her stuff on her when they’d been little.
“You know,” she said then, speculatively, “the only time I ever heard my old man actually sound human was when he talked about the woman he had an affair with.”
Really? Owen edged closer to the door, hammering at the tile softly.
“Your…your father told you he had an affair?”
Sabrina barked, an unkind laugh. “Please. He didn’t tell me anything. I found out after he died—he’d gone to fortune tellers, can you believe that?—and had the sessions all recorded on tape. Cassette tape. Real old school.”
Owen listened. A psychic? Cory Chandler had also consulted with a psychic—about Vince.
“Took me forever to find something to play them on,” Sabrina continued. “Finally found something at a thrift store.”
Yeah, yeah, Sab. Get on with it.
“Listening to my Dad in those recordings…I heard a different person. He sounded…”
She trailed off and Owen found himself making a hurry-up gesture with his hand.
The Tsarina, though, simply said “He sounded softer?”
“Softer,” Sabrina reflected. “Yes. Good word. He was always so…God, he was harsh. Snappish even on a good day. But on those tapes with those fortune tellers he was…”
Again she ran out of words. And again the Tsarina provided one for her. “Vulnerable?” she asked.
Vulnerable.” Sabrina agreed. “Human. Even though most of the recordings sounded like hokey bullshi…ah...nonsense. Generalities anyone could spout off if they’ve observed enough people for enough time.”
“Like you,” the Tsarina said softly. “You’re a good judge of character.”
Why? Because she consistently referred to him as ‘Badass’? Although…the Tsarina’s was an interesting—and accurate—observation. He kept his gaze trained on her.
“Who knows? Maybe I owe the old bastard something after all,” Sabrina said, then flinched when Natasha hit a tender spot. “Yowch!”
“Sorry,” the Tsarina winced and visibly eased up on the pressure. Then she said “Did…did any of the fortune tellers ever let your father know what happened to the girl—er—lover he asked about?”
A visible shudder fluttered the sheet Sabrina had been draped with. “Just one. That was the last recording I listened to, and the one that taught me to never—ever—eavesdrop on even a dead man’s voice again.”
Owen shooed a rogue shiver from his shoulders, silently popped more tile off the wall.
“What-uh-what did the psychic say?” asked Natasha, and his ears perked. ‘Psychic’, not ‘fortune teller’? The subtle shift in wording was not lost on him and again he glanced out at her. What do you know, Tsarina?
“I can quote it,” said Sabrina, and Owen ducked back into the bathroom. “’Cause God knows I’ll never forget it. The fortune teller said ‘The person who murdered your lover will also kill your son’.”
Natasha dropped a squeeze bottle of massage oil, startling when it hit the floor at her feet.
“I’ll get it, Tasha.” The moppet scooted over and handed it back to her, face adoring.
The Tsarina crouched, kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
Robyn beamed but Natasha, as she lifted herself back to her feet, was a mess of tremors. “You…you didn’t mention that his lover was—”
“—murdered?” said Sabrina. “I didn’t know till I heard that tape. And who knows? It might all be malarkey too. It was only some dime-store psychic, but still…I’ve had the creeps ever since because the ‘son’ that fortune teller referred to—he’s my brother.”
“Blue Eyes,” said Natasha, an unconscious blurt that embarrassed her. Owen could see it on her face.
But Sabrina laughed, the tension cut. “Good name for him. Big, innocent, blue eyes—but don’t let those baby-blues fool you. Robert only acts like the boy next door.”
Really? Although that did jive with the crisp, cutting businessman Owen had already been exposed to a couple times since he’d come home.
“Robert never wants anyone to think he’s like our Dad,” said Sabrina. “But here’s the thing: Rob’s no fool, and he may be a hell of a lot more honest than the old man ever was, but that doesn’t mean he’s not every bit as sharp.”
And with that she fell silent, leaving Owen to steal glimpses of the Tsarina in the mirror. She was pale. Visibly unnerved. Why? Had it been the murder talk? Or was it because Sabrina had told her Rob was no dupe? Either way, how many bodies had there been out in Alberta? And how much did Rob—who he agreed was no dupe—know about how the Nikoslavs were connected to Galinko? Minutes ticked by in silence then a tiny voice, the Moppet’s, intruded on his thoughts. “Is my Mama dead?”
“What?” the Tsarina sounded both startled and hushed. “No! Sweetheart, why would you even ask—”
“’Cause look.”
Owen peeked and Robyn, eyes glossy, pointed a chubby finger at Sabrina, slumped and sleeping.
“No, baby. No.” The Tsarina rushed forward and scooped Robyn up, used the hem of her t-shirt to mop tears that had already started to roll. “Mama just fell asleep, honey. That is all. Mama’s sleeping.”
A watery sniffle replied and Owen braced himself when the little one drew in a big breath for a sob.
The Tsarina fretted. “I…would you like a cookie?”
Sniff-sniff-sniff was the only response.
“I have cookies!” she exclaimed and Owen grinned at how desperate she sounded. Still want lots of nieces and nephews, Tsarina?
Robyn sniffed deeper, her small chest was shuddering, and one glimpse of Natasha’s face in the bathroom mirror made him laugh into his palm at how fraught she looked. Then a yowl, ungodly and plaintive, made him cringe and “What was that?” the little one asked, and started to bawl.
Jesus. Was Sab dead? How could she sleep through this circus?
The snort of a loud, loose snore resounded in answer, and “Shh-shh-shh!” said the Tsarina, then bustled, past the bathroom door, the wailing moppet in her arms.
He stuck his head out and faked plucking an earbud from his ear. “You okay?” he asked.
“Fine,” she snapped. “Thanks for grinning.”
He tucked his bottom lip between his teeth as she rushed into the kitchen. “Wait here,” he heard her say to Robyn, then scurried back up the hall.
He peeked and saw her open her bedroom door, just a crack. Then she bent over (okay, how the hell could she look that good in yoga pants when she ate nothing but cookies and crap and sneered at things like his kale shake?) and scooped something up. He ducked back into the bathroom as she rushed back, but not before noticing something fuzzy in her hands.
“Here,” she said breathlessly, voice back in the kitchen. “Look what I found!”
Robyn hiccupped once. Twice. Then “Ooooh,” she said.
“This is Shoes,” the Tsarina announced, and Owen leaned to peek with one eye. She was sitting on the floor, legs outstretched and—Oho! That was what she’d been hiding in the bedroom. A kitten, resting on her knees.
“Careful Sweetheart,” she told Robyn. “Shoes has an owie.”
True enough. The kitten’s paw was bandaged up.
“Why?” asked the moppet, big-eyed—but no longer crying. Owen grinned. Well played, Tsarina.
“Because…when I found her she was hurt.”
Robyn gasped yet did as told, stroked the kitten with only one little finger. “Where did you find her?”
A hesitation, then—“I rescued her so she’ll be safe,” the Tsarina replied. “Someone...hurt her.”
That wasn’t what the kid asked yet even so his gut dropped to his feet. She’d found her? And had there been blood on the porch where she’d made the discovery? A nail gun lying there too?
“Someone hurt her,” said the moppet and uh-oh. Her eyes pooled again. “Poor little Shoes.”
Her lip wobbled and “No, no, no!” Natasha said hurriedly. “Not so much poor little Shoes. Look.”
He watched as she tenderly lifted the kitten’s uninjured paw, brushed the fur back. “Claws,” she announced gravely. “Little Shoes can look after herself too.”
Robyn smiled, watery, but appeased. “But you’ll still keep her safe, right?”
“Right.” Natasha smiled, upside down, and Owen felt his thumb twitch again. He stuck it through his belt loop while, on the kitchen floor, Robyn wriggled, wriggled, then—“Why, look where you are!” laughed Natasha.
She had maneuvered herself alongside the cat and now sat on the Tsarina’s lap. Owen shook his head. Natasha Nikoslav, the fairytale queen, small animals and children, falling at her feet.
“Tasha?” the moppet asked.
“Uh-huh?” She was rocking her and petting the kitten.
“Is Mama sick?”
“No, baby.” She craned to see the little one’s face. “Why do you keep asking?”
“’Cause she sleeps all the time. Even when we try to play.”
Her little lip went wobble, wobble, but the Tsarina just smiled, brushed the hair off her face. “Well, Mama is tired, honey but not ’cause she’s sick. She’s just…”
Ah. Owen grinned, piecing it together.
“In a few more days, Mama will not feel tired anymore,” she finished.
“How many days?”
“Not many.”
You sure?”
“I am sure.”
Robyn stuck out her pinkie. “Promise?”
“Yes, I promise, but…” She looked mystified. “What am I to do with this wee little finger?”
Robyn giggled, a sound so sweet…okay. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, having nieces and nephews. “You pinkie swear, silly.” She wrapped her tiny digit ’round Natasha’s larger one, then shook.
Out in the living room, Sabrina stirred and as she rose he ducked back into the bathroom, pried more tile from the wall with busy-sounding crashes.
Sabrina ambled past, into the kitchen, and “Well, look at you two…oh,” she said. “Natasha, that…that’s a cat.”
“It’s Shoes!” said Robyn. “Hi Mama! I thought you were dead but Tasha said no. I still cried.”
Sabrina sighed. “Little Bird, I keep telling you I’m not dead. Here. Listen to my ticker.”
Robyn’s giggle made him grin.
“Now hurry and get your colors picked up, that’s my sweet bird. Natasha,” Sabrina said, once Robyn had rushed out of the kitchen. “You have to get rid of this cat. Robert hates cats. He’ll have six shit fits if he knows you have a cat in his house.”
Owen peeked. The Tsarina looked miserable. “But—” she began.
“I’ll help you re-home it,” said Sabrina. “And I won’t say a word. But no cat, Natasha. Not here. Bar later?”
“I….but…you can’t drink!”
“I know. But I can still smell it. And I like iced tea—and your company. Yes?”
The Tsarina clutched her kitten to her chest, looking woebegone. “I…sure.”
She slunk past the bathroom moments after Sabrina and the moppet were gone, the kitten aptly hidden in the up-tucked hem of her shirt. He heard her open, then quickly shut, her bedroom door, and when she passed him again he feigned popping his earbuds out. “Sorry,” he said, “did you say something?”
She blinked as though just remembering he was still there. “Ne,” she mumbled. “No.”
“I’m almost done here,” he said, and faked putting the earbuds back in.
She nodded, preoccupied, and waved an absent hand, carried on into the kitchen.
He glanced out the bathroom door as she put her cell phone to her ear. “I obtained us a new problem,” he heard her say, then “Well…actually two new problems. Jakob I need to talk to you about….about matka.”
‘Matka’. She’d said the word before, but when? And what did it mean?
“And also Shoes.” She paused, then “What? Why?” she asked hotly, and “No. No. You know I hate calling you that way.”
What way? Online? Skype?
“It’s a habit I—we—need to break. It’s not…not natural.”
Owen squinted as if this could bring some sort of sense into what he was hearing. She said “Yes, I’m aware phone cables and fibre-optics and satellites are also not natural. Jakob, must you be this way? Anyway—what?” She paused again and this time he could somehow feel fury within her silence. He started packing up quickly, intuition propelling him.
“Really?” she said, bone-chill cold. “Just like you don’t listen to music when you’re supposed to?” She hung up.
He was out on the step when she caught up to him. “Policii Brophy.” Everything in her tone sliced his balls off. It took work not to cringe. “Please don’t leave without these.”
He turned. She was holding a bag of fresh rolls and cookies. “Uh…thanks, but I don’t eat that sort of—”
“These aren’t for you.” Her smile could freeze Hell. “They’re for Steven.”
‘Steven’? He rolled his eyes.
Big mistake.
She marched up to him, grasped the earbuds from where they now dangled on his shoulders. The plastic-coated wires sizzled against his skin as she jerked them away. “These don’t do you much good when they’re not even plugged in. Unless of course your goal is to eavesdrop, in which case they did an outstanding job of making you look like you might actually be a decent human being.”
His mouth flopped open. “I—”
“I’m here to help my cousin,” she said. “Nothing more, nothing less, not a lie.” She enclosed the wires of his earbuds in her palm. “So now that you know that, you don’t need them anymore—but I do. They’ll make walking around your charming town that much more pleasant. Now get the hell off my step before I call your old friend Rob. And Sabrina.”
She slammed the door in his face before he could utter a word.
©bonnie randall 2005