Asa Finney did not escape notice. Finney was described as a self-proclaimed witch arrested for possession of the Greenleaf cauldron skull, and as a person of interest in the Satanic killing of Jimmy Klapec.
Allison Stallings’s photo of Finney appeared on the front page of the
My early morning sampling of media coverage left me despondent. And the day went downhill from there.
Katy called around ten to say she was sorry about Rinaldi. I thanked her, and asked about the picnic. She said it was about as much fun as a boil on the butt. And now they were sending her to some backass place in Buncombe County to help sort and tag documents. I said that her recent negativity was a real downer. Or something equally imprudent. She said I was the negative one, that I criticized everything about her. Like what? Her taste in music. I denied it. She challenged me to name a single group she liked. I couldn’t. And so on. We hung up, hostile and angry.
Boyce Lingo was on the air by noon, railing against decadence and corruption and insisting the world remake itself in his narrow image. As before, he encouraged his constituents to take a proactive stance against evil and to insist that their elected officials do likewise.
Boyce pointed to Asa Finney as an example of all that was wrong in today’s society. To my dismay, he referred to Finney as a minion of Satan, and implied a link to Rinaldi’s murder.
A Google of Allison Stallings eventually revealed that she was a writer of true crime with one publication under her belt, a low-budget mass market expose of a domestic homicide in Columbus, Georgia. The book wasn’t even listed on Amazon.
Stallings had also earned photography credits in the
Dear God. The woman was snooping for book ideas.
Around three, I checked my e-mail. There was a message from the OCME in Chapel Hill. It made three points. The chief was deeply troubled by my rant Friday morning. I was to abstain from all contact with the press. I’d be hearing from him first thing on Tuesday.
Ryan didn’t call.
Charlie didn’t call.
Birdie threw up on the bathroom rug.
In between e-mails and phone calls and vomit and tears, I cleaned. Not the run-the-vacuum-swipe-a-dust- cloth type slicking-up. I attacked the Annex with fury, toothbrush-scrubbing the bathroom grout, scouring the oven, changing the AC filters, defrosting the freezer, discarding just about everything in the medicine cabinet.
The intense physical activity worked. Until I stopped.
At six, I stood in my gleaming kitchen, grief once again threatening to overwhelm my composure. Birdie was in bunker mode atop the refrigerator.
“This won’t do, Bird,” I said.
The cat studied me, still wary of the vacuum.
“I should do something to lift my spirits.”
No response from the lofty height of the Sub-Zero.
“Chinese,” I said. “I’ll order Chinese.”
Bird repositioned his two front paws, centering them under his upraised chin.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said. “You can’t constantly sit home eating out of little white cartons.”
Bird neither agreed nor disagreed.
“Good point. I’ll go to Baoding and order all my favorites.”
And that’s what I did.
And the day really hit the mung heap.
Though restaurant dining is among my favorite activities, I’ve always felt the need of a social component. When alone, I eat with Birdie, in front of the TV.
But Baoding is a southeast Charlotte end-of-the-weekend tradition. On Sunday evenings I always see faces I know.
That night was no exception.
Unhappily, these were not faces I wanted to, well, face.
Martinis are a Baoding specialty, particularly for those awaiting takeout. Not very Chinese, but there it is.
When I entered, Pete was at the bar, talking to a woman seated on his right. Both were drinking what I guessed were apple martinis.
Quick reversal of course.
Too late.
“Tempe. Yo! Over here.”
Springing from his stool, Pete caught me before I could escape out the door.
“You have to meet Summer.”
“It’s not a good-”
Beaming, Pete tugged me across the restaurant. Summer had turned and was now gazing in our direction.
It was worse than I’d imagined. Summer was overblond, with breasts the size of beach balls, and far too little blouse to accommodate them. During introductions, she wrapped a territorial hand around Pete’s upper arm.
I offered congratulations on their engagement.
Summer thanked me. Coolly.
Pete beamed on, oblivious to the hypothermics.
I asked how wedding plans were progressing.
Summer shrugged, speared an apple slice with a red plastic swizzle stick.
Mercifully, at that moment their order arrived.
Summer popped from her stool like a spring-loaded doll. Snatching the bag, she mumbled, “Nice to meetcha,” and made for the door, leaving a gale of fleur-de-something in her wake.
“She’s nervous,” Pete said.
“Undoubtedly,” I said.
“You OK?” Pete studied my face. “You look tired.”
“Rinaldi was killed yesterday.”
Pete’s brows did that confusion thing they do.
“Eddie Rinaldi. Slidell’s partner.”
“The cop shooting that’s been all over the news?”
I nodded.
“You’ve known Rinaldi forever.”
“Yes.”
“You were there?”
“Yes.”
“Shit, Tempe. I’m really sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“You holding up all right?”
“Yes.” I could manage only monosyllabic replies.
Pete took my hand. “I’ll call you.”
I nodded, faked a smile, afraid speaking would unleash the pain that was a tangible presence in my chest.
“That’s my Tempe. Tough as a lumberjack.”
Pete kissed my cheek. Then he was gone.
Closing my eyes, I gripped the back of Summer’s empty bar stool. Behind me, conversation burbled. Cheerful diners, enjoying the company of others.
My nose took in sesame oil, garlic, and soy, smells from the happy years, when Pete, Katy, and I made
