All things, p.4
All Things, page 4
part #1 of Reverend Alma Lee Mystery Series
Naomi’s wary expression softened, but the door didn’t budge.
Evidence of the presence of children littered the stairwell. A pair of tiny rain boots and a matching umbrella. A limp plush monkey lay prone on the carpet next to an empty shoe shelf. Something about the toy tightened my ribs.
“Your brother has kids?”
She nodded. “Aviva’s three, and there’s a baby on the way.”
“Was she here when the detective came?” Hopefully Cesar could manage that with more tact than he’d handled Lynn. As the oldest of five, he was great with kids, wanted to make as many little Garzas as his parents had.
“No.” The door creaked open an inch. “Melissa took Aviva to her parents’ in New Jersey a few days ago. David’s been here alone, perseverating over his plans.” Bitterness edged her words.
Or was that the acrid scent suddenly pouring down the stairs? Smoke. As soon as I thought the word. An alarm blared—one of those new-fangled and extremely loud ones with a robot voice shouting, “Fire! Fire!”
“Dammit.” She bolted up the stairs.
A fire wasn’t exactly the invitation I’d been waiting for, but I seized the opportunity and followed her in the direction of the smoke. In the kitchen, she opened the oven. Gray clouds billowed out. She fanned them with a dishtowel, and I opened all the windows, grabbing an issue of the New Yorker to beat the eye-stinging fumes outside.
One alarm in another room quieted so that only the device directly overhead bellowed at us. The stupid thing was loud enough to make my heart race even though I knew there was no actual fire.
Naomi pulled a casserole pan out of the oven. Blackened bubbles covered the surface of what she’d been cooking.
“Damn broiler.”
She might just as easily have damned me, the uninvited caller interrupting her cooking.
“What was it?” I asked, hoping to distract her from that inconvenient truth.
“Kugel. Comfort food for David.” And then she started to cry right into the Pyrex pan full of ash.
Hug her! screamed my lizard brain, far louder than the fire alarm had been. But she didn’t even invite me in, I rationalized with those base instincts too stupid to grasp reason. She only tolerated me following her in the role of volunteer-firefighter.
Still, she was new in town, her brother was being questioned at the police station. She needed a friend. I went to her side and stood close enough to let our arms touch.
She leaned into me. My ribs squeezed my heart tight. I wanted to hold her and let her cry on my shoulder, the mysterious beauty wearing a bracelet with a verse from the Song of Songs. But since I’d been putting the moves on her last night, I opted for standing firm like a pillar instead.
What a mess. Someone had killed Cindy, and it was going to devastate a lot of other people’s lives. This is what people don’t understand about sin. It’s not an action that puts you on Santa and God’s naughty list, or gets you damned to hell. It’s a single choice, often thoughtless, that harms countless others—usually the ones you love most. And then you have to live with it forever.
God always forgives; usually it’s people who can’t.
If David killed Cindy in a moment of rage, it would devastate Naomi and his family, as well as Lynn and the family she'd wanted.
And me—I’d be staring across Fourteenth Street every day, wondering if I might have saved Cindy’s life, if only I’d been less petulant at that damn party.
Naomi sucked in a deep breath and grabbed a spatula, digging under the blackened layer of her casserole to reveal creamy noodles baked together.
Hey look, a bright side. “It’s probably edible.”
She sighed. “It’ll taste like a bonfire.”
My stomach chose that moment to grumble. She quirked her brow, the one with the scar. So cute the way it arched over her glasses. Almost as cute as the gap between her front teeth.
“Hungry for a bonfire, are you?”
Along with Lynn, I’d eaten nothing but chocolate all day. She’d devoured a bag of Hershey’s miniatures and dug out a bar of vegan, fair trade organic with 70% cacao for me. Just like the TV binging, allowing her to eat only candy would not meet my friend Jordan’s pastoral care standards. But hey, everybody has their own style. And when Jordan was pregnant, I cooked her vegan feasts while she snuck milkshakes behind my back, the traitor. So sue me if I opted for pastoral chocolate these days.
“I’m hungry in general, I think.” And that noodle kugel definitely wasn’t vegan. “How about I throw something together for us? Or we could get out of here…?"
She glanced around. “I want to be here when David comes back.”
“Okay. Permission to rummage through your fridge?”
“Sure. But you won’t find much.”
I opened the french double doors of the refrigerator. She was right. Its shelves were bare. But my dad had taught me you can always make a stir-fry with the last random vegetables in the produce drawer. One rib of celery, two carrots, and a gorgeous bunch of broccolini. Of course, garlic and… “Do you have ginger?”
“I think there’s some in the freezer.”
Perfect. Just where it belonged.
I set rice to cook in David's Instant Pot. It would not meet the standards of my father’s kitchen, but it worked okay for white people.
As I chopped veggies, I admired the hydroponic herb garden in the windowsill, with a beta fish to fertilize it. Mason jars full of liquids of various colors filled the fridge door. I pulled one out and held it up to the light.
“Fruit shrubs for mixing drinks,” Naomi said. “Melissa hates them.”
Magnets affixed notecards to the fridge with what appeared to be color-coded cocktail recipes. Green for gin drinks, blue for vodka, bourbon and whisky on the pink cards, and tequila on the yellow.
As the oil heated in the frying pan, I skimmed through the cards. His recipes sounded damn good. Gin, Fernet, orange juice, maple syrup and lemon juice, served on the rocks. He’d called it The Last Hope.
“He’s a software engineer, but only because my parents made him get his degree. All he’s ever wanted to be was a bartender, ever since he worked at a bar back in high school. His wife didn’t mind the idea until she realized the hours would leave her home alone with Aviva most nights and weekends.”
A bottle of prenatal vitamins stood in the windowsill. “I guess Melissa left these.”
Naomi rubbed her eyes. “She’s five months along. It’s a boy.”
When we sat to eat, still and facing each other for the first time since our almost-kiss, her captivating lips pulled wide and taut—the grimace of sympathy. “I'm sorry about your friend.”
“Yeah. Me too.” I pinched a chunk of carrot between disposable chopsticks she'd found in David's miscellany drawer. It was too hot, but I choked it down along with the lump in my throat.
“I know David seemed angry. He's just really stressed about opening the bar. It's his dream. He took out a second mortgage on this condo, and… um, his marriage is strained… "
I let her talk, drawn by both her concern for her brother and desperation to learn something that might shed light on who hurt my friend. Plan B was working.
“You said David was here all night. Did you sleep over?”
“I’m crashing here until I find a place for myself.”
“Is it possible he left while you were sleeping?”
She scooted her vegetables around on her plate, sorting them into piles. “Sure, it's possible. But it's unlikely. I'm a light sleeper, and he's a total klutz.”
“And that's what you told the police?”
“I might have been more emphatic.” She smiled sheepishly—a loyal sister—and popped a broccolini floret into her mouth. “Oh, my God. This is so good.”
What can I say? I’m a woman of many talents. “I’m glad you like it.”
She glanced at her watch, chewing even though I was nearly certain she’d already swallowed her bite.
“How long ago did the cops take David?”
“Hours. I called a lawyer. He’s there with him, and he’s texted me a few times, but it’s been a while. He says it’s important for David to cooperate.”
Well damn. They must have something seriously incriminating on him. As if the same thought occupied us both, we ate in silence.
When she cleared her plate, she dabbed at the corners of that gorgeous mouth with a cloth napkin, which showed a commendable concern for the environment.
“I hate to ask you this about your friend, but do you think it could have been random? Or a robbery? Or does someone have a real motive to kill her? Because David…”
“Cindy could be exasperating, but I don’t think anyone wanted to kill her for it. And I heard the cops say she still had her phone and wallet when they were examining her.”
“You were there?”
The lump swelled in my throat like I’d swallowed a whole bulb of garlic. “I found her. She was on the steps of the church. I think she crawled there after the attack.”
Behind her glasses, the worry in Naomi’s eyes softened to compassion.
“I walked out on her last night after she argued with your brother. The idea of fighting for her lease was ridiculous, and I got mad. But now it seems so petty.”
The doorbell rang. She shot out of her seat and thumped down the stairs.
I cleared our plates.
“Oh, hi. Is David here?” An airy voice floated up from downstairs—a woman, sounding young and confused.
“Sorry, no. Can I tell him you stopped by?”
Cesar didn’t call me a nosy member of the public for no reason. I sped down the stairs and tried to look casual as I hovered on the last step.
“Where is he?” The woman stepped closer, trying to peer around Naomi. “He hasn’t replied to my texts all day.”
“Something urgent came up.” Naomi moved to fill the entire doorway. I came to her side to help.
The statuesque young woman sported the careless casual of the Mission hipster—oversized sweater, vintage sunglasses pushed up on her forehead, tight jeans of an awkward length neither capri nor ankle. The way she wore the outfit seemed wrong. Perhaps it was her stiff posture, or the fact that a sheath dress or a pair of wide-legged trousers would flatter her figure better.
Since I am the genuine article—Mission District born and raised—I didn’t have to try so hard. I wore snug but comfortable black jeans, and my burgundy faux leather motorcycle jacket zipped up to hide my clerical collar.
She gave me a quick, puzzled glance, then refocused on Naomi. “Is he okay?”
“He should tell you that himself. Who should I say dropped by?”
“I’m Christina. Do you know if he’s going to services with you tomorrow?”
“Nice to meet you, Christina.” Naomi said the words without sounding even a little pleased. “I’ll give your message to David as soon as I see him.” She closed the door in the woman’s face.
When she glanced at me, my eyes must have been huge. She giggled, then slapped her hand over her mouth. We dashed upstairs and let the laughter out at the top.
“Who the hell is Christina?”
“I don’t know for sure, but considering how often she texts my brother, I assume she is at least half the reason Melissa left.”
“Oh damn.” That made Aviva’s face-plant monkey even sadder.
“I feel the same way. Plus, I’m genuinely concerned my mother will murder him in his sleep.” She reached for a bottle of whiskey and popped the cork with one thumb, pouring it into a glass, neat.
“No sage and blackberry for you?” I tapped one of the pink cards.
She winked. “Don’t worry, the only thing I like straight is my whiskey.” She downed the whole glass in one sip and blew out a breath.
My body heated like I’d just taken a fiery shot of booze.
“What are your marriage stats?”
I was single, obviously, or I wouldn’t have been trying it on with her last night.
She set the glass down with a thud. “Have you hitched together any adulterers?”
Oh, right. The marriages I’d officiated.
“Not that I know of, although I’m working with a polyamorous couple to write a blessing service that isn’t actually a marriage.”
“Gotta love San Francisco.” She poured herself more whiskey. “Want one?”
“Sure.” As she poured, I studied her face, wanting to kiss the pink that had risen high on her cheeks and across her nose, wanting to know every single thing in addition to whiskey that brought the color to her face—embarrassment, laughter, tears? “Sometimes it seems like you know an awful lot about my job.”
“Maybe.” She shrugged.
“L'Chaim, Rabbi Cohen.”
“L'Chaim, Reverend Lee.” A smile played on her lips before she raised the glass to them and took a modest sip. “It took you long enough, by the way.”
I sputtered. “That’s not fair. You had like a million more clues to make your elementary little deduction.”
“Excuses, excuses.” She laughed, and her eyes twinkled.
My chest went tight with certainty. I’d just met my soul mate—sexy, smart, and spiritual. And best of all, Naomi would understand the pull of a vocation, the limitless duties of my job, the joy of pastoring people through their happiest highs and deepest valleys. Now we just needed to deal with the fact that her brother might have murdered Cindy.
Chapter Five
In the middle of Thursday night, the lump in my throat grew so big I considered trying to do the Heimlich maneuver on myself. I woke up on Friday determined to write my sermon. It was technically my day off, which just meant I didn't wear my collar when I went into the office or visited a parishioner. As the priest-in-charge of St. Giles’, appointed by the bishop, I was too busy to carve a whole day out for myself. And how would I keep myself occupied if I played hooky on Fridays? Everything I loved to do fell under the umbrella of my work. I looked forward to hospital calls, diocesan meetings, and writing sermons.
However, it turns out it’s hard to write a sermon when all you can think about is who murdered your friend. I wasted the entire day on six false starts, my mind constantly trying to draw me into amateur detection. Part of me wanted David Cohen to be guilty, so Cesar could wrap things up for Lynn. Hopefully, a resolution would also prevent me from choking to death on my own feelings.
The part of me smitten with Naomi wanted the culprit to be somebody else. But who?
That was Cesar’s question to puzzle over for the moment, because the one I needed to ask was, What the hell should I say Sunday morning from the pulpit of St. Giles?
Eventually I gave up and went for a walk. Inspiration never failed me on the streets of my neighborhood. Only, this time, it did. My muse must have been napping at the morgue with Cindy’s body.
By Saturday afternoon, I’d grown desperate. I called my very together friend Lily. She'd married a hot surfer and never procrastinated on her sermon so she could hang out with him on Saturdays.
“Any brilliant ideas on this passage in Matthew?”
“Honestly, I don’t think you should touch the Gospel reading. Your text for tomorrow is the fact someone murdered a person on your doorstep.”
The lump swelled even larger. Was I developing a goiter? Mental note: quit cooking with the natural sea salt and eat iodized Morton’s with a spoon for lunch.
“She’s your friend from the bar across the street, isn’t she?”
“Yeah. I’ve known her since high school.”
“Was it gang violence or a robbery?”
Lily hadn’t grown up in the city, and she lived in her husband’s mansion in the rolling hills of the St. Francis Wood neighborhood. I tried not to bristle at her assumptions about my neck of an entirely different woods.
“No. The police don’t think so.”
“Well, if it related to her fight to keep the bar, then you point out how far the powers that be will go to silence the marginalized.”
See, Lily’s not so bad. She gets it big time even though she married her sugar daddy. And I don’t blame her—the man has abs like Batman and worships every square of sidewalk she walks on.
“The problem is—I can whip them up into frenzy, but what’s the goal? I’m certainly not going to pick up Cindy’s torch.” Parish priest, community organizer, nosy citizen—I already spread myself too thin. Bar proprietor would break this camel’s back.
“No. A frenzy is not a good idea. What's your call to action after this tragedy? Comfort each other? Take to the streets to protest violence?”
I pictured Cindy’s blazing eyes, her gaping mouth—the fury she’d fired at me the last time I’d seen her alive.
“I want them to get right with each other, to make peace and resolve conflicts. That’s the way to resist violence.”
“That’ll preach. Go with it.”
“Thanks, Lil.” I ended the call and cranked out a thousand words in an hour. As I was reading through the text, someone knocked on my door.
One of the liabilities of living adjacent to the church—people dropped by all the time. I peeked through the window. Jenny Wong, Supervisor of the 9th District and my junior warden stood outside in a navy-blue power suit. I zipped up my hoodie to hide my lack of a bra and opened the door.
When she’d been elected, I thought for sure she would resign from the time-consuming demands of parish leadership, but she’d laughed me off. “Coffee hour is my only social life. Morning Prayer feeds my soul. I’m going to be here anyway, so I may as well keep helping out.” And thank God she had. Not only did she share my work ethic (which Lily called poor boundaries), but she was an invaluable mentor.
“Hey, how are you holding up?” The concern in her voice sloughed off layers of the calluses I’d been trying to build since yesterday, leaving me stinging and raw in my doorway.
“I’m okay. Working on my sermon.”
“Good, good. That can’t be easy, after…”
“No. It’s not. Come on in.” I swept my arm, reiterating the invitation.
As she entered, she shook her head. “Poor Cindy.”
“Yeah.” I coughed, trying to clear the lump from my throat.
