Deadly Charm (5 page)

Rocky, having the misfortune of being seated next to her, put a reassuring hand on hers. Her icy glare caused him to quickly pull it back.

“Praying for you, Carly,” he said sheepishly. He gave her a powerful hit of the puppy eyes.

I cleared my throat to get everyone's attention. “Will somebody please tell me more about Jazz?”

Souldier raised his hand, though nobody required that kind of decorum. “He talks about you constantly. Day and night. He's driving everybody crazy.”

“Really?” My heart did a little dance.

Jack offered, “You gotta be kiddin' me, baby. If you don't go back to him, we're gonna have to shoot him.”

Addie Lee nodded. “Put him out of his misery.”

The image did not please me. “You all seem to have forgotten that
he
walked out on
me
.”

With the exception of Rocky and me, all eyes in the room shifted to my former pastor, who furiously blushed.

He sputtered. “I…um…I didn't mean to kiss her.”

Everyone glared at him.

“I mean, I meant to, but now I'm sorry.”

Mason offered, “The question is why did she let you?” He and I had been through the whole sad story already. I knew he wanted me to put everyone else's mind at ease. I so didn't appreciate his comment.

Rocky came to my aid like the fine man he is, and by fine I mean he's a great person, not just a blondie-locked cutie. “She didn't kiss me back,” he said. His earnest expression assured even me.

Now all eyes on me. “Well, I did. I mean, I didn't jerk away from him, but I didn't kiss him in the way he kissed me. I wanted to let him down easy.”

Mason challenged me. “And?”

“And maybe I happened to be a bit self-sabotaging because I didn't feel like I deserved Jazz.”

My mother looked outraged. “That's nonsense. That man is lucky to have you.”

Addie nodded her head. “Honey, my son definitely met his match in you. You had no reason to feel that way.”

I looked at Mason, who also nodded in the affirmative. “I told you, pumpkin. The only one who believed you weren't worthy of him was you.”

“She tried to tell me how she was hurting,” Rocky said. “She only wanted me to help her sort things out.”

Mason spoke to Rocky. “She wanted the familiarity of your love because she knew you wouldn't fail her. Don't forget that, Rocky.”

“I know that, sir, but with the things she's been through, I didn't mind offering her all the love I have. She's my friend. I should have been thinking more about her than myself.”

The conversation pricked my heart. I felt a little weepy, but I held it in. “I still love my husband.”

Addie chimed in, “It's not
us
you need to convince.”

I crossed my legs, my defenses going up like gas prices. “I tried to let him know how I feel.”

Jack laughed. “You mean when you ripped his bodice? Funniest thing I ever heard in my life.”

Carly's eyes widened. “You ripped
his
bodice?” She looked confused. “You didn't tell me that. When?”

Kalaya brightened. “On Christmas Eve. First she kissed him like they were in the movies or something, and then she grabbed his shirt and ripped it off like she was gonna have her way with him right there in the doorway. It was totally major.”

Carly whooped. “Way to go, baby sis. And she did this in front of you, Kalaya?”

Kalaya nodded. “Let's just say I stood at a discreet distance from the action.”

I had to correct Kal before my legend grew any more. “I didn't rip his shirt
off
. I ripped it from the top button to his waist, but I never tore it off his body.”

Souldier looked at Kalaya. “How come you never rip my bodice?”

“Because Jazz and Bell are married. And, um, we're not.”

Jack couldn't resist. “Hint, hint.”

This time Souldier blushed under all that cocoa brown beauty. He put his head down so his dreads covered his face.

I sighed. “Is there anything else I should know about Jazz?”

Addie said, “He needs you. You have to go back to him.”

Souldier shot straight. “He's drinking too much.”

I thought about the night Jazz had come to my house—the night before Kate's funeral. He'd had more than his share of alcohol. It concerned me then, but I assumed he'd buckled under the extreme stress of his situation.

My mother rolled her eyes. “An alcoholic husband. Fabulous. You married your father.”

Her comment seemed to miff Addie. “He's not an alcoholic. He's just…”

Pastor Rocky supplied the appropriate word. “Lost.”

Carly rolled her eyes at him and quipped to me, “Thanks to you, Bell.”

By the time this intervention was over, I'd have put out more fires than the Ann Arbor Fire Department put out in a year.

“How about if we all remain calm and civil? I'm speaking mostly to Ma and Carly.”

They grumbled.

“And don't you start up either, Maggie.” I don't think she heard me. She'd pulled out her portable television and was probably waiting for the
Maury
show to start now that they'd switched it to afternoons. She'd already stuffed the earbuds into her ears.

“
What?
” she asked. Loud.

“Let me ask all of you this. If Jazz is the one who left me, and he's the one drinking excessively, why didn't you do the intervention with him?”

“Because all of this is your fault,” my mother said.

“Ma, I warned you.” Not that I'd do anything to her. She frightens me.

“Well it
is
your fault, and you're a lot easier to pick on than cranky Jazzy,” Carly said.

“How is all of this my fault?”

“If he hadn't fallen in love with you, he never would have needed to tell Kate he was getting married. And Kate wouldn't have gone to his house, so she wouldn't have been killed. And Jazz wouldn't be a drunk.”

“My son is not a drunk,” Addie said, her voice like steel.

My mother chimed in, “And if you had stayed in the bed with your husband, instead of calling”—she frowned in Rocky's direction—“for backup, you—”

“Ma! I needed to process the experience. That's the only reason I called…”

Carly glared at Rocky. “Heaven knows what you thought virgin boy could do.”

Rocky spoke up for himself. “I happen to be proud that I have stayed pure.”

“Unlike Carly,” I said in Rocky's defense. She had it coming.

I gave her a pointed look. “Maybe all of this is
your
fault, Carly. If you hadn't taken me to the crime scene, I never would have met Jazz.”

“Then it's
your
fault. If you hadn't turned thirty-five and planned on sitting home being antisocial, I wouldn't have had to drag you kicking and screaming out of your apartment while I was on call.” Carly picked up another cigarette and lit up. I could tell she still stung over my comment about her virtue. “I should have stayed pure.”

“Can you keep your
lungs
pure by not smoking in here?”

She ignored me.

“How 'bout keeping
my
lungs pure?”

I felt sorry for her. I really did, but I didn't think it was the
time or place for an impromptu counseling session. Actually, we were in my office and I'm a psychologist, so it
was
the
place
. But not the time.

“I expect a succession of my clients to begin arriving any time now. We can talk about you and Tim later, Carly, I promise. Even though you weren't supportive when I had love troubles, and you kept calling my husband ‘murder boy,' even after he was cleared.”

Addie shot a hard look at Carly.

“Maggie cancelled your clients,” Sasha stated.

“What?”

“You can't see people after an intervention. You have to go to rehab or something right away.”

“What kind of rehab, Ma? I'm not the one with the drinking problem!”

“Just go see your husband. And think of it as a long weekend. Your neurotics will be back Wednesday.”

It's a sin not to honor your mother. It's a sin not to honor your mother. It's a sin
…

I stood. If I didn't get them all out of my office, I
would
start drinking and need that rehab after all.

“So, to conclude this intervention,” I said, giving them all my “I mean business, meeting adjourned, and please go home” look, “what I'm hearing you all say is that Jazz is exhibiting classic indicators of a major depressive episode—situational, of course—and possibly posttraumatic stress syndrome, with a maladaptive pattern of alcohol abuse.”

Everyone stared at me. Dad spoke. “Uh. No, baby. You're hearing us say he's acting crazy and drinking too much.”

Rocky gave me a manageable hit of the puppy eyes. “He needs you, babe.”

Everyone present shouted, “Don't call her babe.”

“Whoa,” he said. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

Maggie bolted up from her chair, clutching the miniature television in her hand. Her face flushed. “It's a breaking news story. The reporter is at Rocky's house.”

“M-
my
house?” Rocky stuttered.

Everyone shot out of their seats and crowded around Maggie. She held out her portable television so that we could all see the screen and snatched the headphones from the jack. We could barely hear the reporter through the tinny speakers.

“Ezekiel Thunder, the once-disgraced television evangelist, staged a glorious comeback…”

Rocky turned ashen. “Whoa. Did something happen to Ezekiel? He's staying at my house.”

Maggie shook her head. “No. Not him. It's one of his kids. A drowning.”

Gasps and “oh no's” rippled through the room. Mason and Addie began to pray.

My heart thundered—no pun intended. “A child?” Oh dear God, not the baby. Not any of them! “How many does he have?”

Rocky answered. “He has five, but only three are with him on the trip.”

A picture of Zeekie, my sweet little Thunder boy, appeared on the tiny screen.

“Zeekie…” Rocky said, with a sharp intake of breath.

I froze.
Oh, God. Noooooooooooo
.

My stomach sank while my mind whirled. How could this child die? Where did it happen? The Rock House took excellent precautions to protect small children.

It's murder
.

Immediately I tried to talk myself out of that notion. I had no factual basis from which to draw that conclusion. I wondered if I'd been infected by my husband, who believes all deaths are murders. Were my zillions too tight? Were the tiny braids affecting my brain?

Moments later the reporter showed the senior Ezekiel Thunder looking somber, but still working the camera, saying, “I believe God will raise my son from the dead.”

I sighed.

I had work to do.

N
OTHING LIKE A TRAGEDY
to disperse an intervention. Yet while that child's death horrified me deeply, God knows I couldn't wait to get rid of my loved ones.

We made quick work of saying good-bye, and I received several admonishments to get rest, see a doctor soon, and take prenatal vitamins.

I tried to follow Rocky to the Rock House, but like a good intervention participant, he urged me to go see Jazz first. He'd find out what happened at the house and would have a full report for me when I came by.

I could go back to the Rock House! An unexpected, undeserved grace, since six weeks ago Rocky practically told me to never darken the doorway of his church again.

Maggie and my mother locked up my office, and I headed to Detroit to see Jazz. I hated to see him at work, but everyone thought it best that I ambush him in the same way they did me.

I dreaded going to the Detroit Police Department. I had a bit of a reputation ever since all my business regarding my relationship with my husband had been published in a newspaper feature story in the
City Beat
. And the fact that I'd sorta taken down one
of their own, proving their best detectives wrong—well, let's say I didn't win friends or influence people there.

I hurried out of the February chill into the building and marched right into the department, feigning nonexistent confidence. I identified myself to the uniform manning the front desk, a harsh, dry-looking man who inspired unfair comparisons to a Brillo pad. He called Jazz on the phone, heralded my arrival, and chuckled at whatever hurtful thing Jazz said to him about me.

Brillo Boy led me to the area where I could find my husband. He pointed, said, “Straight back,” and returned to his desk. A buzz started as soon as someone recognized me. I heard it spread among the detectives and uniforms, making me as nervous as Jenny Craig on Fat Tuesday. I finally found Jazz standing, as he always does whenever I enter a room.

I saw his desk first; my poor eyes. It made me think of Bobby Maguire, the disheveled detective whom I drove crazy trying to prove my husband's innocence. If detective Bobby Maguire's desk was like the Grinch's heart, three sizes too small, Jazz's desk—a hulking monstrosity of steel and yellow formica—compensated. Horrid!

“Well, well, well, if it isn't my wife. Hast thou come to torment me before my time?”

“You might want to keep in mind that a demon said that to Jesus.”

“Maybe it's
you
who should keep that in mind.”

“Is that supposed to scare me, Jazz?”

“Not if you're the Jesus person.”

We had no privacy. The men and women who usually milled
about looking cranky and bored now stood at attention, waiting for the drama between us to either come to blows, bodice ripping, or both.

He pulled out the chair beside his big honkin' desk for me, and I took his cue and sat.

My gorgeous husband, his fair skin somewhat slick and pasty, had seen better days. He looked unusually unkempt, like he'd taken hygiene tips from Bobby Maguire. I couldn't take my eyes off him, and the feeling seemed to be mutual. I felt my cheeks warm under his gaze.

I couldn't help asking, “Are you okay?”

“Are you?”

“You look different.”

“So do you, not that I'm complaining.”

Another expanse of uncomfortable silence stretched between us. When I could stand it no more, I tried to fill it with the free-floating monkey chatter occupying my brain.

“You're looking at me like I'm a figment of your imagination.”

He gave me a sly smile. “I could touch you to make sure you're real.”

Before I had a chance to protest, he reached out and grazed a hand through my braids, then buried his face in them.

“Actually, that's the only thing about me that's
not
real.”

Into my ear, “That's the only part I can touch and be a good boy at work.”

And speaking of being a good boy at work
…

I could smell way too much mouthwash on his breath. An old, completely ineffective game alcoholics play to mask their drinking.

“My hair is real, but it's not mine. Well, it's mine. I bought the hair—real, uh, human hair. Extensions.”

He released my hair, his glassy eyes studying me. “You abandoned the blond braids.”

I nodded, even though it wasn't a question.

He cocked his head and regarded me with a smirk. “What's the matter, baby, Rocky blond enough for both of you?”

“I wanted to get back to black.”

He gave me a wicked grin. “That's reassuring.”

“I meant black hair.”

“Of course you did.”

I scooted my chair away from him. “I don't want to spar with you, Jazz. Nothing is going on between me and Rocky.”

“So you said. I'm sure his tongue fell down your throat by accident.”

“His tongue wasn't down my throat.” I crossed my arms. Looked around to see if anyone heard and might be gawking at us. “I shouldn't have come here.”

“You're right. You shouldn't have. This is my job.”

“On second thought, yes, I should have.” I whispered now. “It's bad form to drink alcohol at work.”

“So I've been told, more than a few times.”

“Jazz…” I didn't know what to say to him, where even to begin. I thought it might be a good idea to start over. I took another deep breath. “Jazz, do you know why I'm here?”

“Yes.”

“You do?”

“What took you so long?”

“I didn't want to do this. Other people put me up to it.”

“
Other
people?”

I waited for whatever biting response he'd have, but instead he shook his head. “Spare me the details. Do you want to go somewhere we can talk privately?”

I looked around. “And where would that be?”

He raked his hand through his brown curls. “Come on.” I stood, and he put his hand on the small of my back, arousing the tingling he always stirs in me.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere private. You've already ruined my street cred by telling the metro Detroit area I gave your pet sugar glider CPR.”

“I asked Kalaya not to print that part. She couldn't resist.”

He led me to the interrogation room.

I stepped in reluctantly. A uniformed cop sat at the table positioned in the center of the room. He'd been listening to the radio and apparently filling out reports. When Jazz and I entered, he bolted upright.

“Sorry, Lieutenant Brown.”

The cop looked at me and a smile played about his lips. Jazz glared at him.

“Out,” he said, and the uniform scurried out of the room. Jazz closed the door behind us, the radio still blaring.

“Would you like to have a seat?” he asked. He stepped over to the table and flipped a number of switches underneath. “I'm making sure no one records us. We have the room set up for it.”

Thanks for sharing. Now I feel really comfortable
.

“I'll stand,” I said.

When he was done securing our privacy, he came back to
me. Stood impossibly close. He shrugged. “Do what you gotta do, but don't be surprised if I do what I gotta do, myself.”

I froze. I wasn't expecting him to say that, and I couldn't imagine what he'd want to do. Well, yes, I could, and what annoyed me was I'd probably want to let him. Jazz looked irritated at my hesitation.

He leaned into my ear. “Maybe I deserve something
good
from you before it's all said and done.”

I'd lost control of the situation already. “I'm sure you do deserve something from me, Jazz.”

“I said something
good
.”

He moved closer still, the space collapsing between us in his swift movement. Oh, man. I loved him. I needed him. And I didn't think I'd have any power left in me to resist him. The truth was we weren't ready for that kind of love. I think we both knew it.

The uniform had been listening to Detroit's public radio. They played amazing jazz. My husband stared at me while the DJ rambled on about Lady Day. The sound of Billie Holiday singing Gershwin's “Our Love Is Here to Stay” followed the man's velvet voice, the irony of the lyrics mocking us.

He slipped his arm around my waist. “Can you dance?”

“Uh—”

“You know what dancing is, don't you? Or maybe you don't. I know you're one of those brainy types—”

“I can dance, Jazz.”

His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, but we're in the interrogation room. At the police station. Forgive me if I'm not wanting to play Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers with you.”

But he had already grabbed both my hands. Jazz pulled my body flush with his, ignoring any whit of decorum. He didn't have his jacket on, and he pressed so close against me that I could hear his heart pounding, as if he felt the same way I did. A tremor went through him and subsequently through me. He whispered into my ear, “I know you feel it, too.”

I did, maybe more than he did.

I smelled his liquor breath, and the coarse whiskers of his unshaven face scratched me. Again, he nestled his face in my hair.

Every cell in my body wanted to merge with him until there was no more him and me, just some glorious, ineffable
one
.

Our dance began.

Jazz moved like a dream, even though he was intoxicated, and for once I let myself follow his lead. No, we weren't playing Fred and Ginger, for just a moment we were Jazz and Bell, our dance in that room revealing more truth about the two of us than a full-blown interrogation would. He'd led me in a simple waltz, but never had the dance been so sexy. I closed my eyes and surrendered fully to him. Rockies and Gibraltars crumbled and tumbled on the radio, but my heart soared to new heights.

The music went on, but Jazz stopped dancing to hem me against the glass and trail kisses up and down my neck. I grabbed his face with both hands and found his mouth with mine. His hands sought the waist of my skirt. He tugged at my blouse until his hands roamed freely inside.

“
Whoa
,” I said. “Isn't this a two-way mirror?”

He didn't answer. For a moment I didn't care. I missed him so. I ached for him, hungry for his scent, the rough texture of his brown curls between my fingers. I knew the alcohol he drank
and his simmering anger most likely fueled this passion we'd gotten caught up in. But I felt bereft without his laughter and the toothpaste-model smile that had captivated my heart when we first met.

Still, his hands had gotten a little too busy. We didn't have that much privacy!

I pushed Jazz away, and again, he stared at me like he'd dreamed me. “Baby—”

“I can't do this, Jazz.”

“Nobody is watching.”

“You don't know that.”

“Oh, yes, I do.”

He tried to step toward me again but seemed to pause, perhaps doubting what his next move should be.

Tears sprang to my eyes. I had no control with him. “I have to go.” I thrust my hand into my coat pocket and grabbed my car keys before I could make a bigger fool out of myself. I tried to hurry away from him, but like I always do around Jazz, I tripped in my heels. My ankle twisted and pain tore through my tendons. I yelped in agony, blind through my tears. I didn't crash into his chest this time. I fell on the hard ground.

For an intoxicated man, he moved quickly and made his way to my side in an instant, his arms reaching out to hold me. I slapped them away, near hysterical now. I kicked the offending high-heeled shoe off my left foot, pulled myself up, grabbed my keys off the floor, and ran as fast as I could out of that wretched place amid the laughter of his colleagues.

They
had
seen.

Jazz called my name.
Bell
.

I made my way outside, hobbling. The sidewalk stung my shoeless foot, and my ankle throbbed, hot with pain. I willed myself to keep going, too humiliated to stop until I got myself inside my welcoming yellow Beetle, still warm from my trip to Detroit. I slammed the door and tore out of that parking lot as fast as the law and the Love Bug would allow, still crying out my embarrassment and grief.

When I was a safe distance away, I pulled over into a parking lot, lay my head on the steering wheel, and wept until my eyes were sore.

The oddest thing came to mind when I stopped crying. I thought about my work. My clients never cease to amaze me. They hurt, but somehow they find it in them to seek help. What they don't realize is that I don't do much. Most of the time I simply remind them of what they already know.

So…physician, heal thyself.

I hurt, badly. In the interest of my own healing, I asked myself what
I
knew to be true. First things first: I knew God loved me, and I needed Him right now. I may not have been in mortal danger, but when it came to Jazz, my heart felt perched on a precarious precipice above a bottomless ache that I could fall into at any moment.

Next, I knew Jazz to be a good man—someone trying hard to do what's right—but I also knew that when Kate betrayed him, he cut her off without mercy. Although they divorced, for months they'd continued to enjoy a sexual relationship. I didn't want to go to that same place with him. Finally, my thoughts went right back to God. I needed Him to be my firm and loving Father. My own father left me to navigate my teenage years on
my own. I hadn't had his crucial protection when I'd needed it most. He should have been there to say, “This young man isn't good enough for you” or “That one doesn't respect you. You deserve better.” I may not have been a teen anymore, but I needed my daddy. God knew that a part of me was more than willing to be “easy” when it came to Jazz. Yes, we were married. I loved him. It felt right to be in his arms, but like Ma Brown would say, “If you want to drink the milk, you've gotta buy the cow.” We'd be married in every way, or we'd be separated, and only one of those came with conjugal rights. I didn't trust myself with Jazz unless we were ready to reconcile.