13. Tallus

13

Tallus

W ednesdays at the office were quiet without Kitty’s presence, and quiet was the last thing I needed when my thoughts were loud. I couldn’t call Memphis. It would mean sharing my feelings about Diem, and I wasn’t ready for his unfiltered opinion. Besides, I had a bet to win, and if he knew Diem and I had been randomly hooking up for weeks, he would consider it an unfair advantage. If he only knew how not true that was.

At ten past five, while gorging on saltine crackers and peanut butter and skimming a serial murder investigation that had been closed in the early 2000s, the door to the records department opened, admitting the six-and-a-half-foot tall man who’d been on my mind all day.

His body language conveyed wariness. Without saying a word, Diem screamed his discomfort with tense muscles and a locked jaw.

One kiss. What had I done to the poor guy?

He carried a takeout cup from a local café, an unmarked brown paper bag, and about eleven tons of despair. Guardedly, as if journeying through a minefield and not crossing the twenty feet of tiled flooring between the door and counter, he approached.

I was convinced if I had yelled boo , he would have tucked tail and run.

Cautiously, he set the takeout cup by the file I’d been reading, placed the brown paper bag beside it, and backed up like he was feeding a wild beast who might snap at his hand unexpectedly.

The whole time, he avoided eye contact.

“Let me guess. Latte?” I asked.

Diem grunted and nodded.

We were back to incommunicado mode. It was the only response I was going to get. I had a hunch I’d destroyed the solid ground beneath the poor man’s feet the previous night, if not with the kiss than with my words. Any progress we’d made had been shredded. Who knew I had such power?

I pointed at the paper bag. “Peanut butter cookie? Please say it’s a peanut butter cookie. You have no idea how badly I’ve been craving one.”

Another grunt and nod.

I dramatically groaned and shoved the stale crackers and no-name peanut butter I’d been eating aside. “You are the best nonfriend, nonlover, nonpartner, and nonboyfriend this world has ever known.”

Diem didn’t seem to know what to do with that and shifted his weight, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans, taking them out again, glancing at the door, then settling on crossing his arms over his chest instead. The bear behind his ribs awoke.

Suppressing a smile, pretending I saw none of it, I opened the lid on the coffee and sipped. Hot and deliciously sweet. I couldn’t make out the flavor—something nutty with caramel—but it didn’t matter. It was heavenly.

After enough of his silent squirming, I set the drink aside and leaned on the counter, propping my chin on an upturned hand. “What’s up, D? I wasn’t expecting you.”

A grunt.

“Pardon me?” I cupped an ear.

He offered an indiscernible mumble.

“Nope. No good. Still don’t know what you’re trying to say. Words, Guns. We’ve talked about this. I’m not a mind reader like Madame Rowena.”

“The case.”

“The case what? Two words does not a sentence make. I’ll wait.” I dragged the paper bag toward me and unearthed the cookie, taking a hefty bite. It was soft and chewy. Exactly how I liked my cookies.

Diem uncrossed his arms and stuffed his hands into his pockets again as he shifted his weight. “I… got a name and address for the neighbor.”

“Oh? Allan’s neighbor?”

I earned a grunt and nod.

“Keep going.” I took another bite of the cookie.

Diem noticed and became instantly entranced watching me eat. Enough he didn’t respond.

I snapped my fingers, and he blinked from his daze. “Aww, you poor thing. My mouth’s got you all messed up. Focus, cuddle bear. We can talk about the kiss later if you want.”

His neck turned crimson, and god love him, he tried really hard to look me in the eye as he spoke. “Winifred O’Neil. Fifty-six. She… um… She…” I salaciously licked my lips of crumbs, and Diem growled, “Stop doing that.”

“What?” I couldn’t contain the smirk. “I’m not doing anything. I’m eating a cookie.”

“She lives, rather lived, above Allan in a shared house on Ridley Boulevard. She’s a retired librarian. No kids. Never married.”

“Did you call her to see if she’d talk to us?”

“No.”

“Are we going to head there when I’m done with work?”

“Your case, your call.”

I ate more of the cookie, smirking. “Anything else you wanted to talk about?”

“No.”

“Nothing?” I licked my lips again.

“Stop it.”

I laughed. “Stop what?”

“You’re doing it on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“You know what?”

“I really don’t.”

“Just stop.”

I chuckled. “Oh, sweetie. Would you rather pretend yesterday didn’t happen and keep this nonpartnership strictly platonic? That’s too bad.”

Diem opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again, then shook and nodded his head somehow simultaneously while growling, scowling, and kicking at invisible dirt on the ground.

“Succinct as always.” I popped the last bite of the cookie into my mouth as I glanced at the clock. “I’m locking up in five minutes. I can meet you in the parking lot if you want.”

Diem made an indiscernible gesture and violently bullied his way out the door like it had insulted his mama. If the poor guy hadn’t been a complete mess to begin with, I’d have thought kissing him had broken his brain.

Why was it so hard for him to admit what he wanted?

On a separate note. What the fuck was I doing? Did I want this, or was I fucking with the guy simply because it was fun and challenging? Was Kitty right? Was I being a manipulative prick? Using my powers for evil instead of good? I’d all but told Diem we could date if he found the nerve to ask. Dating implied monogamy. Monogamy implied no more random hookups at Gas. No more variety. I liked variety dammit. I liked my random hookups.

Dating meant settling down. With Diem? There were ten thousand more eligible bachelors in the city, but for some reason, the awkward, socially crippled giant of a man who could barely touch me let alone hold a conversation or eye contact for more than three seconds was the one I wanted.

Nothing made sense.

***

Winifred O’Neil was a spunky fifty-six if her appearance told us anything. She answered the door wearing three-quarter-length hot-pink leggings, an eighties-style sweatband in the same color, and a tie-dye T-shirt that boasted If Only Sarcasm Burned Calories in bold black text across the front. Jogging in place, bright blue Nike runners on her feet, and a workout video of some kind blaring from the living room TV, Winifred greeted us with a beaming, white-toothed smile.

“Well, howdy-do.” The woman wasn’t even out of breath, her eighties-style perm bouncing on her shoulders. “I thought I heard someone tap tap tapping at my door like the raven. Not often I get visitors. You gentlemen selling something?”

The soft twang in her voice made me think of someone’s southern grandma. Winifred checked a fitness watch on her arm and picked up her stationary running pace as the instructor on the TV counted, “ …five, six, seven, eight. ”

“I’ll tell you boys what. Y’all got three minutes to run your spiel. I know it ain’t much, but I’m trying to keep my heart rate up, see?” She flashed her watch. “And my girl Jane won’t wait forever. I didn’t pause the machine, so she’ll keep trucking along without me. Are you sales folks? Don’t get many of them anymore. Used to be a big thing when I was a girl. You could buy almost anything at the door. Magazines, Tupperware, vacuums. Saw a guy selling household gadgets once. Mom bought a fancy vegetable chopper from him. Ah well, we all gotta work for a living, don’t we? I get that, but I gotta warn you, I’m not easily conned into making purchases willy-nilly. Got the internet for that now. Boy oh boy, my credit card gets more of a workout than me some days. But hey, can’t be too cautious. I don’t mean to judge. Anyhoo, you knockity-knocked, and I answeredy-answered. So watchya’ll want?”

Winifred jogged as she waited for an explanation.

“And you think I talk a lot,” I said to Diem. “I’ve met my match.”

The television screen was visible over Winifred’s shoulder, and the workout instructor, wearing dated workout clothes coupled with the cringy background music, made me think her girl Jane was none other than the famous Jane Fonda from the eighties. My mother had gone through a Jane Fonda kick a while back until I’d convinced her to return to the twenty-first century before they took away her license.

Diem didn’t crack a smile as he glanced between me and the jogging Winifred. His body language spoke volumes. The woman was verbose, and he wanted nothing to do with her. It was up to me. My case. No problem.

I offered Winifred my most winning, boyish smile. The one that often got me whatever I wanted. “Good evening, ma’am.”

“Now, don’t you ma’am me. I’m not that old. Fifty is the new forty or something like that. You can call me Winnie, like Winnie the Pooh, except I ain’t tubby.” She patted her flat stomach. “Sit-ups,” she explained, even though I didn’t ask.

“ Five, six, seven, eight… ” yelled Jane in the background. “ Again. ”

“Winnie it is. I’m Tallus Domingo, and this is my partner, Diem Krause. We’re private investigators, and we’re looking into your neighbor’s death.”

Diem’s bear had something to say about that statement. He hated it when I stole the title of PI or implied we were partners. Too bad.

Winifred didn’t stop jogging, but her smile dimmed. “Allan? You’re here about Allan?”

“Yes. Do you have a minute? We saw you were interviewed for a magazine, and we’d like to ask you a few follow-up questions.”

Winifred checked her watch again and glanced over her shoulder into the living room. Jane was doing something provocative with her hips that I wasn’t sure passed for exercise—or a PG rating for that matter—but what did I know?

“All right. I suppose we can chat. Let me turn off Jane.”

Winifred turned and jog-bounced toward her TV. She got three steps and pivoted, not missing a beat. She had barely broken a sweat and breathed easily. “Now, hold on. Don’t take this wrong, but I shouldn’t invite strange gentlemen into my house without seeing some ID. You understand? Anyone can claim to be an investigator, but I think I’ll need to ask for proof first.”

“Absolutely. No problem.” I nudged the brick wall beside me, but he didn’t move. “ID,” I hissed under my breath.

“What? Forget yours again?” he mumbled.

“Diem. I will sit on your lap and make you discuss your feelings if you don’t show this lovely woman your ID.”

Diem couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable if he tried. Without arguing, he unearthed his wallet and displayed his credentials.

Still jogging in place, Winifred examined them.

“I left mine in the car,” I explained. She didn’t seem all that concerned.

“Did someone hire you to look into Allan’s death?”

“No, ma’am.”

“It’s Winnie, sweetie pie. Ma’am makes me feel like a grandmother.”

“It’s a personal investigation.”

“Are you family?” She seemed skeptical.

“No. We’re looking into a few incongruities.”

Winifred handed Diem back his ID and waved us in. “Have a seat in the kitchen. I’ll be right there.”

Jane’s obsessive counting stopped as Diem and I took chairs at a four-seater dinette. Winifred appeared, no longer bouncing, and aimed for the fridge. “You don’t mind if I make myself a smoothie while you talk, do you?”

“Not at all.”

“All you have is your health, boys. Gotta take care of your body. Life’s too short to begin with. I told Allan that all the time. He was hard to convince.” She piled a bunch of spinach and a handful of strawberries onto a cutting board before plucking a banana and mango from a nearby bowl. From a high cupboard, she removed a glass jar of honey.

“Were you friends with Allan?” I asked.

“Oh, we were more than friends, if you know what I mean. Now, don’t be thinking we were a couple. It wasn’t like that. It was casual as you please. In my younger days, that would have gone over like a sinking ship, but it’s acceptable today, and Allan and I had an informal agreement. What do you kids call it?”

Fuck buddies , but I wasn’t about to say that out loud. “Um… I don’t know.”

Winifred snapped her fingers. “Friends with benefits. That’s it. We were friends with benefits.”

Diem groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“That’s… great. So, um… Yeah, moving along. You told the magazine reporter that you didn’t think Allan killed himself.”

“Well, of course he did, but not without influence. No siree-bob. Not my Allan. He wasn’t suicidal.” Winifred added the chopped spinach, strawberries, banana, mango, and honey into the blender before digging almond milk from the fridge and free pouring.

“Now, see, Allan was having some minor health struggles. Arthritis can be a real bitch to deal with, pardon my language. You never know who’s going to get hit with those types of problems, and Allan’s joints would swell up something fierce. Especially if the weather changed. The heat was particularly bad. So, I introduced him to healthier eating and exercise. People underestimate what a good diet and cardio can do for the body. But poor Allan suffered regardless. I won’t lie. Sometimes, when we were having a little roll in the hay in the middle of the afternoon, he would complain about my being too rambunctious. He said his old joints couldn’t keep up.”

Diem made a choking noise in his throat, and because I knew the surly man well enough by now, I stepped on his foot before he made an unsavory comment. I didn’t want to imagine fifty-six-year-old Winifred rolling in the hay any more than he did.

Winifred pointed a paring knife in our direction. “Now don’t you laugh. I’m a firecracker in the sack. Did you know some women don’t hit their sexual peak until their early forties?”

“Can’t say I did.”

“It’s true, and mine came late and never simmered again. Been a randy one ever since. I could go seven days a week without batting an eye.”

Oh my god, TMI.

“Poor Allan,” Winifred continued. “Could hardly blame the guy when he struggled to keep up. Men at his age have long past their peak. How old are you, sweetie?”

“Um… twenty-six.”

“Right in the thick of it, aren’t ya? You know what you need? An older woman. Do you have a healthy sex life?”

“I… don’t want to answer that.” Before Diem threw the table and left me on my own, I added, “I think we’re getting off topic.”

“I’m sorry. Gosh, listen to me go on and on. I’ve been told I need an edit button.” She retrieved an ice tray from the freezer and dumped a handful of cubes into the blender. “We were discussing Allan’s arthritis. Well, anyhoo, I introduced him to my naturopath, Janek Piotrowski—Do you know her?”

“Can’t say I do.”

“Lovely woman. She knows her stuff. I’m a big fan of keeping things natural.” She gestured to a lineup of bottles on the counter, displaying labels of various supplements. “No artificial crap for me, thank you very much. Well, Janek set Allan up with a treatment plan, and let me tell you, I think it was doing the trick. He wouldn’t admit it, but I saw a difference. Now hang on a toodley doodle while I run this here machine.”

Winifred secured the lid of the blender and turned it on. It whirred and ground the ingredients until it became an unappetizing green sludge smoothie. She poured the thick liquid into a tall glass and took a sip. I wanted to vomit.

Diem jabbed my ribs with an elbow, and I stopped making an ick-face, finding the smile I usually wore so easily.

Winifred displayed the concoction. “Would y’all like a glass?”

“No!” A laugh exploded from within me, and if it was half-maniacal, Winifred didn’t seem to notice. “No, thank you. I ate earlier.” A great big fat cookie that was likely packed with enough unpronounceable chemicals to fill a dictionary, but I didn’t care. It was delicious, and I would rather die young than subject myself to whatever the crazy woman was drinking.

Winifred glanced at Diem, who grunted in the negative.

“Um, Ms. Winifred.”

“Just Winnie, darlin’. Plain old Winnie.”

“Winnie.” I unlocked my phone and drew up the article that had brought us to her house. “You did an interview with Viewpoint Magazine, is that correct?”

“It’s a fucking tabloid,” Diem grumbled.

I shushed him.

“I certainly did.”

“And in the magazine, you claimed”—I checked the wording so I wouldn’t misquote it—“your neighbor had been acting paranoid in the days leading up to his death.”

“Yes, he was.”

“And you stated he was possessed and manipulated by a supernatural being.”

“Sure seemed that way to me.”

The bear in Diem’s chest rumbled.

I stepped on his foot again to shut him up.

He didn’t shut up, and the second growl was directed at me. I licked my lips salaciously, and he stopped.

“Do you think it was related to his suicide?”

“Yes siree-bob, I do.”

“Can you explain what made you think these things?”

“I sure can.”

Winifred set aside her glass of green juice and leaned back against the counter. “Now, Allan’s family was a real piece of work. So much drama. He didn’t get along with most of them. In fact, they have yet to come and do anything with his stuff. Can you believe that? The whole downstairs is exactly how it was when he died. Not the blood. Oh heavens, could you imagine? The landlord ensured they got that cleaned up right smart, but the rest is untouched.

“Poor Allan. Anyhoo, he was close to one of his cousins. She told Allan he needed to go to one of those therapeutic healers. The ones that get inside your head. You know the kind I mean?”

“Yes.”

“She said he should have a treatment done and see if it didn’t improve his joints. Now, can you believe that garbage? You ain’t gonna cure arthritis with magic, am I right? It’s not possible. I told Allan, and he said he wouldn’t go, but gosh darn if he didn’t lie to me. Right to my face. That man was a terrible liar. I think he went several times for treatments. You can’t trust those people, and with the way Allan suddenly changed, I know that doctor—if you want to call a mind-manipulator like that a doctor—got inside Allan’s head. He started acting strange. I didn’t like it. Not one bit.”

“Strange how?” I asked.

“Well, you see, Allan was sharp as a whip. He used to teach high school physics. Brilliant man. Then, out of the blue, he starts acting… detached. Like his mind was elsewhere, and I said, ‘Allan, what the hell’s wrong with you?’ Pardon my language.”

“Believe me, I’ve heard worse from this guy.”

Diem glared.

I grinned and offered a wink.

He found something interesting on the table’s surface to stare at instead.

“Go on, Winnie.”

“Allan claimed there was nothing wrong. Bullpucky. Over the following few days, he started acting antsy. Paranoid. He complained about nausea and dizziness. He snapped at me a few times, too, and that wasn’t like him. Allan was always nice as pie. Never raised his voice. We got in a scuffle one afternoon. I told him I didn’t want his company anymore unless he pulled himself together and started behaving like a proper gentleman. He didn’t like that, but I stood my ground, and we didn’t talk for the rest of the week.

“Now mind you, I kept an eye on him. I’m not evil, and I cared about Allan. More than once, I caught him taking off at night. You could tell he was up to no good because he was acting nervous and, I don’t know, guilty-like. Didn’t have a clue what he was up to. He’d be gone for about an hour and come back. Then I didn’t see him at all for a few days. I worried, but I was also still angry, so I didn’t go see him.

“Then, about a week or so after the last time we talked, there was this awful smell. I thought an animal died near the house, and in all this August heat, it was out there rotting away. Had my windows open but couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from, and no matter how many times I went outside, I couldn’t find it. The smell got worse and worse.”

Winifred frowned. “Then I knew. I think I knew long before I called the landlord.” She clutched her chest. “Oh god. I didn’t want to be right. I knocked on Allan’s door, but there was no answer. I have a key, but I’d be damned if I was walking in knowing what I knew. When they found him… I felt awful. Like it was my fault.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Winnie.”

“Well, you know, can’t turn back time. Can only move forward.”

“Do you know who his cousin referred him to?”

Winifred tsk ed and shook her head. “Oh, I don’t think she referred him to anyone in particular. I think she made a suggestion, and Allan did his own research. Once he knew my position on it, he wouldn’t tell me a darn thing. The police didn’t want to hear what I had to say either. I just hope his poor soul isn’t suffering.”

Diem spoke for the first time, his tone drenched in contempt. “So you don’t believe in magic, but you think someone brainwashed your fuck buddy?”

Winifred wasn’t offended by Diem’s bite or language and aimed her response in his direction. “I don’t think you were listening, young man. What I said was I don’t believe magic can cure physical ailments like arthritis. Manipulating the mind is a different matter, and I absolutely believe someone with those skills can warp a person’s thinking and compel them to act in ways that aren’t typical.”

“Told you so,” I muttered under my breath.

The heat of Diem’s glare hit the side of my face. I smirked but wouldn’t look at him.

“Okay, smartass. This is your fucked up rodeo. Where do we go from here?”

Unless we knew for sure that Allan was seeing Madame Rowena, we had no connection. The way his neighbor talked, it could have just as well been Dr. Hilty. He and his ex-wife both claimed they could heal chronic illnesses with unconventional methods.

“Winnie, do you still have the key to Allan’s apartment?” I asked.

“I do.” She eyed Diem.

“And you said his family hasn’t cleaned yet?”

“They haven’t.”

“Would you be willing to lend us the key so we could poke around? Maybe we can unearth something that would lend credit to your theory.”

Winifred finished her glass of green grossness while she seemed to consider. “I suppose I can allow that. But I’ll supervise. You’re strangers, so far as I’m concerned. Investigators or not, I won’t have anyone disrespecting Allan’s property.”

“Fair enough.”

“Let me get some proper clothes on. I guess Jane and I aren’t going to get around to our workout any time soon.”