No reference was made to the Skylark.
Chops and veggies grilled, we descended to the dining room. As our comfort level grew, conversation turned to more serious issues.
Charlie talked of a teen whose defense he was handling. Mildly retarded, the boy had been charged with murdering two of his grandparents.
I discussed the cauldron bones, Anson Tyler, and Boyce Lingo’s latest showboating. Why not? Between them, Lingo and Stallings had put practically all of it out there.
“Lingo’s suggesting the cases are linked?” Charlie asked.
“He’s implying it. He’s wrong. First of all, Anson Tylor wasn’t decapitated. And, while I’ll admit that the Lake Wylie mutilation suggests Satanism, there’s no hint of devil worship in the Greenleaf cellar. The barnyard animals, the statue of Saint Barbara, the carving of Eleggua, the cauldrons. It all smacks of some form of Santeria.”
“Ignore him. Lingo’s positioning for a run at a state senate seat and needs publicity.”
“Who votes for that jackass?”
Charlie took my question as rhetorical. “Dessert?”
“Sure.”
He disappeared, returned with pie slices the size of warships.
“Please tell me you didn’t make this.”
“Banana cream purchased at Edible Art. Though galactic, sadly, my powers have boundaries.” Charlie sat.
“Thank God.”
Two bites and I winged back to Lingo. This round, I really cranked up.
“Lingo’s hysterics about Satanists and child murder are going to scare the hell out of people. Worse. He could inspire the right-wing loony fringe to start burning crosses on the lawns of Ashkenazim and Athabascans. I’ve seen it happen. Some holier-than-thou nitwit hits the airwaves, next thing you know folks are organizing down at the mini-mart to go out and kick ass.” I air-jabbed my fork for emphasis. “Statues? Beads? Coconut shells? Forget it. Satan wasn’t on the A list down in that cellar.”
Charlie raised his palms in my direction. “Put down your weapon and we all walk away.”
I lay my fork on my plate. Changed my mind, picked it up, and dived back into the pie. I’d hate myself later. Tough.
“Lingo really pissed you off,” Charlie said.
“It’s one of his specialties.” Garbled through crumbs and banana.
“You done venting?”
I started to protest. Stopped, embarrassed.
“Sorry. You’re right.”
We both ate in silence. Then, “Athabascans?”
I looked up. Charlie was smiling.
“Ashkenazim?”
“You know what I mean. Minority groups that are not understood.”
“Aleuts?” he suggested.
“Good one.”
We both laughed. Charlie reached out, stopped, as though surprised by the action of his hand. Awkwardly, he pointed one finger.
“You have whipped cream on your lip.”
I made a swipe with my napkin.
“So,” I said.
“So,” he said.
“This was nice.”
“It was.” Charlie’s face was fixed in an expression I couldn’t interpret.
Awkward beat.
I rose and began gathering dishes.
“Not a chance.” Shooting to his feet, Charlie took the plates from my hands. “My house. My rules.”
“Dictatorial,” I said.
“Yes,” he agreed.
An hour later I lay curled in my bed. Alone. Perhaps it was the panty-tumble incident. Whatever. Birdie was keeping his distance.
The room was silent. Slivers of moonlight slashed the armoire.
Given the calm of the room and the demands of the day, I should have fallen asleep quickly. Instead, my thoughts spun like whirligig blades.
I’d enjoyed Charlie’s company. Conversation had been easy, not strained as I’d anticipated.
Sudden realization. I’d done most of the talking. Was that good? Was Charlie Hunt the silent, pensive type? Still waters running deep? Shallow waters barely running at all?
Charlie had appeared to understand my frustration with Lingo. Though I had, indeed, been venting, he hadn’t treated me like a sleep-deprived toddler.
Our dialogue had been strictly present tense. No mention of past marriages, lost loves, murdered spouses. No discussion of the years between the Skylark and now.
I remembered the wedding picture. Charlie’s expression. What was it I’d seen in his eyes? Resentment? Guilt? Grief for a woman blown up by fanatics?
Not that I wanted to share secrets with Charlie Hunt. I hadn’t mentioned Pete and his twenty-something fiancee, Summer. Or Ryan and his long-ago lover and damaged daughter. Ours had been a mutual, unspoken complicity, both dancing around the edges of our respective pasts. It was better that way.
Ryan.
I hadn’t expected Ryan to call. Yet, arriving home, I’d felt hope on seeing the pulsing red beacon.
Three voice-mail messages. Katy. Pete. Hang-up.
My daughter wanted to discuss Saturday’s shopping excursion. Sure she did.
My estranged husband hoped to arrange a dinner for me to meet Summer. That was as likely as pork chops on Shabbat.
The blades twirled crazily.
Ryan.
Was he happy reunited with Lutetia? Was it really over between us? Did I care?
Easy one.
Pete.
Don’t go there.
Charlie.
Enough.
The Lake Wylie corpse.
What had bothered me about the body? The paucity of maggots, given Funderburke’s statement? The absence of smell or signs of scavenging? The missing head? The symbols carved into the flesh?
Duh, yeah.
Was the Lake Wylie case somehow tied to the Greenleaf cellar? If so, how? The former suggested Satanism. The latter looked like Santeria or a variant such as Palo Mayombe.
What had happened to the Lake Wylie kid’s head?
Sudden image. The hunk of brain buried in the cellar cauldron.
Was it human? Note: Ask Larabee.
My pessimist brain cells threw out a thought.
Adolfo de Jesus Constanzo and his followers were an aberration of Palo Mayombe. They were not Satanists.
