The Mystery of Nevermore (10 page)

I closed my mouth and considered an answer. “Very little.”

“Smartass.” He walked up to the counter and leaned over it. “Did you guys break up?” he whispered, for the sake of privacy since the shop wasn’t empty.

“I think we should put up the holiday decorations.”

“It’s less than two weeks before Christmas.”

“Better late than never.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Max warned.

I let out an annoyed sigh and leaned down to whisper. “We had a fight. I don’t know what’s going to happen, okay?”

And I really didn’t.

CALVIN NEVER
returned my text about that murder. Had I really expected him to? Sort of. Or at least I was hoping he would, which was stupid of me because he was a cop and wasn’t going to divulge information via freaking
text
.

I planned on going to the bank and grocery store before seeing myself home but ended up diverting toward Thirteenth Street, the location of the East Village murder. Quiet, clean, lined with bare snow-covered trees, just like my street. There were a number of little restaurants and a few dry cleaners, but the buildings were multiuse and had three or four floors of apartments above the shops.

It was already dark, and the temperature was dropping fast. I stopped halfway down the block, looking up at the brightly lit windows of those already home. I must have looked out of sorts, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, shivering, and wearing sunglasses.

A woman walking a big golden retriever stopped nearby. “Are you lost?” she asked, maybe pegging me for a very confused tourist.

I glanced over at her and smiled awkwardly. “Oh, no. Actually, do you live around here?”

She looked me over, but I guess I appeared harmless enough, or she trusted her dog to guard her, because she nodded. “Yeah, sure. Why?”

“This might sound really, really strange,” I warned, “but have you heard of any murders in this area?” You know—get right to the point.

She covered her mouth with a gloved hand. “Oh my God, yes, but you’re not a reporter or anything, are you?”

I shook my head. “No, no. I live nearby. And am just a nosey jerk.”

She laughed at that, but slowly put her hand to her chest. “It was about two weeks ago, I think. People around here know, but the police are keeping it really quiet. I heard it was
terribly
gruesome.”

“Who’d you hear that from?”

She shrugged.

So, fifty-fifty on it being true. “Did it happen inside one of these restaurants?” When she hesitated, I could tell I might have been making her uncomfortable.
Shit, shit.
“I’ll never be able to eat pasta again,” I joked, glancing toward the closest shop.

She chuckled again and smiled. “It wasn’t in a restaurant, but one of the chefs from 1-2-3 Sushi told a friend of mine that it happened in one of the apartments above his shop.” She pointed with her free hand toward the building in question. “I guess the police had to close everything down for the day.”

“That must have sucked.”

She hummed and nodded in agreement.

“It’s scary,” I said quietly. “It’s such a good neighborhood.”

“Oh, I know,” she agreed. “I made my boyfriend spend the night for a week. I was so freaked out.” She sighed and switched the dog leash into her other hand. “Anyway, I better go.”

“Yeah, sorry, have a good night.” I smiled and stepped aside, letting her and the dog walk by.

I looked toward 1-2-3 Sushi, and a smile crossed my face. I felt—hell, like a detective, for lack of better description. I knew Mike’s murder and the break-in at my shop had something to do with Edgar Allan Poe, and the look on Calvin’s face had confirmed it. He seemed to have known a lot about the writer too, which could have been personal knowledge or something recently researched. And why? There had to be something afoot, and according to the NYPD crime statistics, there was only one murder in the neighborhood that wasn’t all that far from both Mike and myself.

Serial literary murders? I had no idea what to expect, but there was no way I could quell my curiosity except to keep moving forward. I felt a surge of excitement as I ran across the street toward the restaurant and entered. It was tiny and busy, but luckily there was a seat open at the bar where the chefs worked. It was only after I sat and started looking around that I began to second-guess my plan. There were a few chefs working—how was I to know which one the woman was referring to? Were they even working tonight? What was I going to ask?

Had any murders lately?

Shit.

“Can I help you?” a woman behind the bar asked.

Good thing I liked sushi, because I guess I was having it for dinner too. “Uh, sushi dinner plate,” I said, after quickly scanning the menu taped to the glass in front of me.

“Tamago or ebi?” Egg or shrimp for my cooked sushi option.

“Ebi is fine.” I watched her nod and start expertly crafting my meal. I drummed my fingers absently and read her nametag. “Worked here a long time, Ann?”

“No, I don’t want to go on a date,” she replied.

“What?”

She looked up at me, narrowing her eyes and giving me a look that warned I was about to be dickless.

I quickly waved my hands. “Just making polite conversation. I’m gay. I don’t want to date you.” I winced and started to rephrase the statement so it didn’t sound like I was insulting her.

To my surprise Ann laughed. “Oh thank God. I get asked at least once a week. I hate men sometimes.”

I nodded. “So do I.”

She held up a bare hand. “I can’t wear my wedding ring when I cook, you know?” She sighed and shook her head while placing the completed sushi on a long narrow plate. “I’d rather have no tip than be hit on.”

“Well, I promise not to make any moves, and I’ll tip before I leave.”

“Best customer all day.”

“You flatter me,” I replied.

She looked up as she started forming the next sushi in her hands. “So are you a secret agent or something?”

“The glasses? No, nothing cool. I have a light sensitivity.”

She hummed quietly and nodded.

I watched as she finished the next sushi. She was liable to walk away and see to another customer once done with my meal. I didn’t have a lot of time. “I heard what happened here,” I said quietly. “What was it, like a week or two ago?”

Ann looked up, pausing from placing the ebi on the rice. “Here?”

“Well, upstairs.”

“What happened—oh.” She looked grave. “Yeah… God.” She shook her head and made a funny sound while shivering in an exaggerated manner.

“That bad?”

“I didn’t see anything exactly. I don’t want you to lose your appetite.”

“I’ll be okay,” I insisted.

She narrowed her eyes again, giving me a once-over like she would be able to tell if I were the squeamish sort. “Some lady upstairs was murdered,” she whispered, leaning close. “I liked her. She got takeout here a lot.”

“I heard from—er, my neighbor that it was pretty gruesome,” I said, trying to get Ann to keep talking.

She nodded. “That’s what I heard too. Hiro, the head chef here, said he saw the paramedics bring her down. That’s how I know who she was.” Ann finished the last pieces of sushi.

“But it was never in the papers, was it?”

“Hmm… I don’t know. We had to stay closed for two days. I think the police are trying to keep it quiet.” She picked up the plate and handed it over to me. “Don’t tell anyone,” she whispered while leaning close, “but Hiro told us he overheard one of the paramedics saying, ‘They wrote on the walls in her blood.’”

I wasn’t hungry anymore.

MAYBE I
didn’t have the stomach for this detective work.

I stood at one of my bank’s branches after hours, depositing checks into the ATM and trying not to think too much about a murder where something had been
written
in the victim’s blood.

I still had no way to know if I was chasing something even remotely connected to Mike’s murder. I didn’t know the woman, nor the details of her passing. All I knew was that hers and Mike’s deaths were both terrible.

Would you like another transaction?

I reached into my pockets, checking to make sure I’d deposited all of my checks. My fingers brushed a folded envelope, and I pulled out the late letter that Daphne had dropped off. Max must have stuck it into the check pile for me, and I grabbed it without noticing.

I hastily tore the top open and pulled out a single sheet of paper. No check.

I must not only punish, but punish with impunity.

What the fuck?

I turned the paper over, but nothing else was written on it.

This transaction will cancel in thirty seconds.

I looked at the ATM screen and ended my deposit, took my receipt, and moved away. I stared at the slanted, scrawled words, reading it over and over.

Punish with impunity.

Punish who—
me
?

I took out the envelope. No return address, but it was addressed to the Emporium. Not me specifically, but I was the owner, so it was safe to assume it was meant for my eyes.

Now that my hands had been all over the letter, Neil and evidence collection came to mind, and I carefully folded the paper and gently stuck it into the envelope again. I tried not to handle it too much, like it would make a difference. It had already been through the USPS sorting facilities, Daphne, Max, and myself.

It was starting to snow again as I stepped out of the bank.

I must not only punish, but punish with impunity.

I ducked into a corner shop. I needed to buy food, but more importantly, I needed to be surrounded by other people. That note gave me worse heebie-jeebies than Ann’s murder-mystery story. I looked around. Not many people—an elderly woman at the register, a stock boy putting away drinks, and one pregnant lady with an armful of chips.

The overhead lights were obnoxiously bright, and one flickered like an eye twitch. I grabbed one of the tiny baskets near the door and hastily tossed in a few cans of soup, granola bars, and several yogurt containers from the refrigerated area in the back. I grabbed a carton of chocolate ice cream while I weighed the pros and mostly cons of calling Neil.

Would he care that I was sufficiently freaked out and needed, well,
someone
? Would he come home if I asked him to? I knew if I asked, apologized, pleaded—of course he’d come back.

But did I want…
him
?

My gut rolled. It knew the answer, even if my mind wouldn’t admit it.

Would I have said what I had to Duncan earlier in the day if I wanted Neil to come back?

Screw it. I grabbed a second container of ice cream and a frozen pizza for good measure. My basket looked like my diet from college. Guilt made me grab a few bananas from a box beside the loaves of bread before I brought my items over to the counter.

“Flowers?” the woman asked as she slowly counted up each item.

“What?”

“Half-off, all die soon,” she said in broken English while pointing one gnarled hand at the flower display that had been brought back indoors.

“No thanks.”

“Take, half-off,” she insisted.

“I don’t need flowers.”

“For girlfriend.”

“No.”

“For boyfriend.”

“No.”

She gave me a look like I’d just insulted her parents. “Bad attitude. Thirty dollar.”

“What, for ice cream and soup?” I asked defensively.

“Twenty-five with flowers.”

“That makes no—fine.” I turned around and grabbed a bouquet of carnations.

She gave me a cheeky smile and slowly bagged my purchases.

With my cardboard-tasting pizza and half-dead carnations that granny told me to “give to handsome boy, so get sex,” I flagged down a stray taxi and got a lift home.

Up the rickety, creaking steps to the third floor, I glanced up over the rim of my sunglasses in time to see a big, dark mass standing at the top landing.

“Oh God—!”

“Hey.”

Not Neil. That voice….

“Calvin?”

“Are we on a first-name basis now?”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry. Are you coming up?”

“Yeah, let me just pick my heart up off the floor first.” I trudged up the last steps and stood beside him, looking up. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you to get home.”

“I can see that. I mean, how’d you get inside?”

He pulled out his wallet and flashed his badge at me in response.

“Oh good, which of my neighbors think I’m being arrested?” I asked, maneuvering both bags to one hand as I fished for my keys.

“The ones upstairs,” he answered, taking my groceries for me.

“I—you don’t need to hold those,” I protested.

“I’d like to go inside sometime this century.”

I scoffed and muttered what might have been
asshole
under my breath before unlocking the door. I pushed it open with my shoulder, the ever so slightly crooked doorframe always causing the door to stick.

“Make yourself at home.”

“I take it Mr. Millett isn’t coming home tonight,” Calvin said, shutting the door behind himself.

The apartment had been dark before I turned a lamp on. Neil had certainly not been here. “Probably not,” I agreed absently. I kicked my boots off and hung up my coat before taking back the bags. “Thanks.” I hurried into the kitchen, turning on another lamp and setting my sunglasses aside for regular lenses. I could hear Calvin walking around the front room and tried to ignore his curious examination while I put away the ice cream and other junk I had bought.

“Nice flowers.”

“What?” I turned suddenly to find Calvin leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen. I looked back at the carnations and laughed. “Oh. Yeah. Long story.”

“You know what’ll be shorter? You explaining why you’re butting into another murder case of mine.”

“Ah….”

“How did you know about the murder at that street address?”

I shut the freezer door. “Hey, that’s public information.”