8 DAYS AGO
The winding paths of the jogging trails in Audubon park are mesmerizing, but at night can get a slight bit confusing. With the sliver of a waning moon shining incoherently off the emulsified fog-drenched path before him, the robust man in the grey and orange sweatpants pedaled furiously along the path trying to escape the etouffee he had devoured just hours before.
The steel framed antique ten-speed bike carried the heavy-set man through the moss-covered Southern Live Oaks and past the lagoon in fiery determination. The one point seven mile loop took him by the World War I Monument Gardens, the Newman Bandstand, the Hurst street bridge bisecting the upper and lower halves of the Olmstead Lake, although clearly more of a lagoon, and around a golf course that was all but indecipherable nestled in the middle of the park behind the hundreds years old trees and encompassing fog.
He particularly liked riding in the wee hours of the morning since there was far fewer eyes to ridicule his appearance. He often wondered though if the night herons that he could plainly hear up in the trees when passing the avian rookery on the appropriately named Bird Island, or the opossum that sometimes scurried along his path were laughing in wild-eyed amazement at such a big man on a small bicycle. On this particular night he could swear he could hear deer running along with him. This brought a huge smile to his face as he pridefully pedaled on feeling like he was flying through the forest with the wildlife. He felt invincible.
- <> -
The underneath of the lifeless girl's wrist was soft to the touch. Wren moved her middle finger up and down subconsciously trying to illicit a response from the tickling of the sensitive area while her head lay on the bed beside her silent friend. Any response, any movement would give her hope. Wren was about to leave again, and she just wanted a sign that it would be the last time she left without hearing Macy’s voice in her ears.
Wren had made this trip up to Mercy Hospital in St. Louis a couple of dozen times over the last decade. She usually stayed a week or more to give Macy’s family a break from the constant Vigil. During visitor hours there was never a break in the watch standing from family and close friends keeping guard and waiting for a miracle.
It's been almost ten years of little to no activity. A few twitches or brain wave spikes here and there, but, except for a rising heart rate when certain people spoke up around her, nothing more than that. Until about six months ago that is. There was an episode of sleep talking. It was mid-way through Wren's last visit when a bouquet of Jasmine and honeysuckle was anonymously delivered just after visiting hours.
Miss Gloria, the night nurse who had been taking care of Macy over the last six years, signed for the delivery and said that they smelled so good that she went ahead and put them in her room. It "filled the room with aromatic pleasures," she said. Late in that same night, as the nurse was making her rounds, she heard talking coming from the vicinity of Macy’s room. She couldn't make out the words, but it was definitely a feminine voice.
Never hearing what Macy's voice sounded like she could not be certain it was hers. However, the brain wave scans showed significantly increased activity through most of the night.
When Wren returned the next morning, she found the night nurse waiting for her. It was two hours past the end of her twelve hour shift, but the nurse felt it was important to the family for her to stay and relay the events first hand.
Wren was laying half on the bed, half in the chair while she was remembering that moment when the nurse recounted the events during her last visit. The girl remembered the mixed feelings of joy and sadness that she had missed the event. At the time, she was so excited of the progress Macy made, that she didn't even stop to think about the flowers that had mysteriously arrived.
- <> -
He had made three laps so far and he was still getting faster each one. He could almost feel the fat dripping off of him as he sweat, adipocytes creating a faint trail behind him. Tonight was the night he would break his record, he could feel it. 'Only six and a half more laps' he thought through labored breathing, 'and my time is fast, I could do this!'
The sounds of the inner city forest seemed to be cheering him on.There was an owl hooting, crickets chirping, the occasional rustle of leaves coming from the center of the park, and an occasional bullfrog croaking a congratulations every time he passed through the thick clump of trees by the Hurst Street Bridge.
Another lap down, 'I'm really nailing this time.' The reality was surprising him. He was over half way when he began to wish there was more than just him and the local wildlings to witness his feat. Nevertheless, the owl kept hooting, the woods kept rustling, the catbirds kept howling, the frog... 'huh, no frog this time.' The loss of the frog's congratulations as he passed the bridge was disheartening, but his spirits and his heart rate bounced up when he heard the rustling of the leaves continue louder and closer to him. 'It must be a deer,' he thought. 'That's why the frog stopped. It was spooked by the deer.' He was elated.
'Holy shit, holy shit...' "ho-ly shit!" That last one was out loud. 'I'm riding with the deer.' He could hear what sounded like hoof beats through the dried leaves getting louder. "I'm one with nature, I'm one with the earth, I'm a leaf on the wind!" He was elated and began to pedal faster around the first curve at the top of the park. He looked left, then right to try to catch a glimpse of the deer that he could still hear, but to no luck. 'The steps were closer though,' he thought. He could hear breathing. Then he saw a glimmer out of the corner of his eye. It was just for a second, but enough for him to decrease his pedal speed because of the out of place distraction.
The slowing in speed was just what she needed to over take him. Just past the St. Charles entrance, only seconds before reaching the second curve to head back towards the zoo, a wildling with bubblegum hair and cat like dexterity jumped out of the bushes and attached herself to the fat man's head. Swinging her legs around with the ease of a stripper on a greased pole, she circumnavigated his contorting body, and with the knife in her left hand, she cut a small chasm in the man's neck. She jumped off the man and the bike just as it started to veer off the path and careen towards the water. The man's feet were still peddling, unable to receive the message from the brain to stop. The big man's body crashed into the shallow water giving off an internal guffaw that ignited the sky with hundreds of scared birds. The wildling strode towards the carcass with a lovers waltz to her step as her one-eyed companion looked on from the shadows , chops salivating, and tools in hand.
- <> -
"I think this shade of corvette bright red will get all the male nurses attention." Wren was putting the finishing touches on Macy's left pinky. "Of course," she began blowing lightly on the polish. "If any of them touch you in this current state, I'll kill 'em. But, they can look all they want." The heart monitor started pinging faster signaling an uptick in heart rate that didn't get by Wren.
"So you like the thought of them watching you do ya? Ms. Holmes, you minx you." The survivors of the USS Crescent City tragedy endured copious amounts of publicity as well as political and foreign extremists trying to say that karma had paid the ship a visit. This included a few death threats as well. After Wren's tussles with pushy reporters, she convinced Macy's parents and the hospital administrator to admit Macy under Wren's Godfather's last name. They all agreed it would be safest for Macy.
Wren thought it was important to keep the happy banter up like nothing had happened. "I saw Jenni today, she is so funny, and that hair! How on earth did she get that curly blond hair? She said she was planning on taking you to career day on Friday. She says you have the best job, laying down all day and letting people take care of you. When I asked what she thought your job was she said you must be a princess because you have lots of servants. She's a trip." Wren kept a smile, but couldn't hold back all the tears.
She sat there for a minute in solitude dreading the end of her last block of visiting hours for a while. "I have to go soon, it's almost closing time. But as always, before I bid you adieu, I will sing your request, whatever you'd like to hear." Wren brought her ear down to Rowe's lips. "You always request that one, are you sure? OK, OK. But, just because you asked nicely." Her pulse spiked on the machine in seeming anticipation.
"Summer-time... And the livin's ea-sy," her voice was smokey with waves of seductive raspiness. "The fish are ju-um-pin, and the weather is hi-gh!" She was soft and powerful at the same time. "Your daddy is rich and your momma's good lookin'" that was always the hardest part of the song to sing for her. "So hush lil' baby-," she whispered with a tear coming to her eye, "do-n't you... cry." Her cheeks were saturated with a salty substance that she had spent most of her life keeping at bay.
There was a cacophonous quiet in the large room. Wren held the coma patient's hand, not noticing that Macy's nighttime charge nurse had quietly slipped in the door.
"She likes that."
The break in silence visibly startled Wren.
"I'm sorry, I heard you singing down the hall and wanted to come see you. I'm glad I didn't miss the performance this time. She really does respond when you sing to her."
Wren smiled graciously.
"She's got a long way to go though. Are you about to leave child?"
"Yeah, but I'm glad I caught you. I wanted to see if she had anymore sleep talking episodes. Any more night terrors?"
"She did say a few things the other day. Just saying letters and numbers, gibberish. Some, ahem, coworkers had burnt some popcorn in the lounge a couple of doors down. Thought we were going to have to evacuate, the smell was so bad. I guess some of the smoke irritated her nose and she started coughing and then spouting off these letters and numbers."
"That's weird, Gloria. Almost as weird as those flowers."
"The flowers? Oh yes those flowers. Did I tell you? Ends up they were delivered to her by mistake. They were supposed to be for a different Macy, a Macy Rote or Rowe or something, not like our girl here, Macy Holmes. Nowhere close. We didn't have anybody by that name so we just left them there. No sense in letting them go to waste. Anyway, she seemed to enjoy them."
The shock was not evident on her face, but it was steadfast in her mind. 'How did they find her?!'
- <> -
TODAY
"I'll have it for ya faster than it took that suit to go outta style." The professor pulled no punches with his customers. No matter if he was talking to royalty or family, made no difference at all.
The detective casually looked around and settled in a stool a next to Wren at the end of the bar. It was a failed attempt at aimless selection. He glanced over and nodded in Wren's direction issuing a "hallo" to go with it.
“Nice hat."
"It's a necessary evil. It's my thinking hat. MacGyver has his duct tape, I have my hat."
The lack of enthusiasm to chit chat was evident in Wren's profound silence.
Tom-tom drums could be heard in the background lightly being struck in increasing pitch. The detective looked back to investigate the noise.
"Here ya go brother, English breakfast tea with a dollop of milk." The professor set it down with an erect pinky for show. The detective turned back around with a sideswept mouth and a disapproving glare. But the gentleman he is, he still said thank you.
"You doing OK chére?" The Professor often showed that Wren was special and no one was to mess with her in his establishment when she was being harassed by strays off the street.
A momentous crash arose from the monotonous tuning of the drums on the stage pulling the Professor's attention elsewhere. "Is that drumset ready for takeoff son?"
"I'll fix it, I'll fix it," came from a determined Malik.
Wren giggled into her sleeve-wrapped hands holding the gigantic cup of cappuccino. She turned her attention to the detective, blue eyes castrating his impatient glare.
"You didn’t stumble in here detective. You came to ask me a question. Let's have it."
"Check 1-2-3. Check. Mic Check."
"Captain Toussaint told me that you may have more information for me. About another murder? Now where would he get that from?"
"I'm innocent copper," in her best gangster voice. Her smile hid pains protruding from her past.
"Is that sound system set up yet?"
"How did you know about the other body?" Wren looked straight ahead into the mirror to observe the comedic relief from the conversation.
"It's ready, but Wren's not feelin' it right now. You wanna do yo thang?" Malik's conversation could be heard with the cheshire grin he had without even turning around to set eyes on him.
"Well alright, alright, alright. Now we talkin'. Lemme get my axe."
"Nobody calls it that anymore!" Malik called after him as the Professor disappeared out the door to the patio. "Mind the bar!" The Professor rebutted from half-way up the outside stairs.
"Wouldn't have to mind the bar if you'd hire some help." Malik could be heard muttering while refilling a coffee carafe.
"You know, you roll up off the street with your blue tweed suit and trilby hat and start to demand answers from me in that terrible British accent without even so much as buying me a drink. Now how is that right? I mean, I don't know you from Adam, and I never met him. Who are you?" She was so having a bad day, and a detective stepping on her cappuccino time was not going to bode well for answers.
The detective thought for a minute watching apprehensively as the Professor brought in a long black box and headed to the stage. "Let's just say I'm sought after when a deeper understanding needs to be attained."
"Well at least someone is thinking about the bigger picture. Don't know about their choice of SME, but who am I to judge."
"You are deflecting."
"I'm having a bad day."
The bell on the door rang again signaling the arrival of the next patron. "LEFTY!" Everyone in the coffeehouse turned to greet the voluptuous sundress that just walked in. She made her way to the stage touching the hands and backs of all the smiling regulars on her way. "Right on time Lefty. Soundcheck?"
"Sure thang boss, whadowegot?" The southern drawl was strong with this blonde-haired bombshell, and the four word question was shortened to almost one syllable. She sat down on the cushioned swivel stool and pulled her curly hair into a loose bun while he thought. Her flowery sun dress inched toward her mid-thigh while fumbled with her headband. Eyes and tongues wagged awaiting her offering to the stage.
"Summer Solstice Blues?"
"Oh, Hale yesss." Under Lefty's aforementioned hand, bled a bass riff that set a call to attention in the makeshift jazz club. This piece was strung together with a song written by Nat Adderley and the most popular tune, in the Professor's opinion, from Porgy & Bess.
And with that bass intro, the tenor sax's melodic pleadings broke through the rest of the ambient chatter of the coffee connoisseurs. As soon as the Professor jumped to the next register of his stylings in the second verse of "Work Song," a round pair of merlot-colored glasses under a grey slouchy beanie awakened from the dead in the booth closest to the stage. Without words or excess movements, she placed herself down behind the DW trap set and adjusted the placement of the hi hat and toms. She waited for the climax of the session then brought the brushes up and flowed like a quiet hurricane with the other band members. Her timing was impeccable, the drums were a metronome that spoke sentences, asymmetrically weaving through the chorus and bouncing off the edges of the piano's phrases like a teacher educating a class.
"Do you have any information to help me find this murderer?" He was straining to keep her attention of the desirous sounds emanating from the stage. It was hard for him to keep focused as well with the quality that the Professor was playing. Subtle yet strong in emotion.
Archar shook it off, "I don't want to have to pull you into the station." Wren cut her eyes to his. “Poser.” She mumbled under her breath, but just loud enough for him to make out the words. A slight grin formed on Wren's lips. The playfulness was rubbing off on the detective. This place was distracting. Her lips were distracting.
The song transitioned from "Work Song" to "Summertime" in such a way that it was near impossible to determine where each song started or ended. Wren's ears perked up to the tune that reminded her of Macy. The detective, also quietrly intuitive, picked up on her inevitable flightiness. Archar forced himself to snap out of it, and tried one last attempt to goad a meaningful response from her.
"I know about your time on the ship. I know about... the accident." She took a deep breath in as she stared at the table. The saxophonist was coming back around to the second verse in the background.
Wren stood, both hands planted on the bar. "It was no fucking accident." She turned and headed for the stage.
"Looky here, I knew she couldn't stay away! Woo-Woo!" Malik catcalled while wiping down a glass for no reason.
Wren stepped up to the mic, and like the timing of her entry had been planned the whole time, joined a duet with the saxophonist: "SUMmer... TIME..."
Malik leaned down to the detective. "Hey, why you here?"
"I came in here to get closer to solving a murder and i find myself, now, with more questions than before."
"Hmmm. Yeah, she'll do that."
"Yeah, I'm starting to get that."
Shortly after Wren started in on "Summertime", in walked Ike and Blue. They were inseparable from birth, but starkly different in every way. Ike wore a thin black tie and a heather grey suit. He carried his mouthpiece in his left hand and set his clear coffee mug next to the trumpet and the trombone cases on the table previously occupied by the honey skinned, but not so sweet, drummer preoccupied with the contrapuntal pulse of the song being eaten up by the coffeehouse's full audience. The 90's inspired pinstriped black high-waisted suspender pants with a purple bandeau top were fashioned onto the redhead named Blue. She was holding a trombone like a girl in trouble taunting her parents to take away her toy for playing out of turn, seductively swaying back and forth as she blew quiet life in the horn and waited for her compatriot. They marched in unison to the stage finding a place behind the piano and cued in with a soft blended backup as the tenor and the singer danced with their melodies in front of the now complete troupe.
"She's great isn't she?" Malik wore the biggest smile he'd ever seen. Archar turned to the stage and with a grin he agreed helplessly.
Malik leaned in closer over the counter to wrangle his attention. "Hey," he said with a nod. "If you fuck with her... they'll never find your body." The eyes were wide, and smile had faded. Malik bussed the detective’s cup and pointed his eyes, still wide with gravity, to the door, then back at Archar. "She'll talk when she's ready. No man rushes Wren."
With those words, Malik threw the drying rag frivolously to the counter behind and mounted the stage completing the cadre of seven. He slipped in behind the upright bass and walked the bass line like he was there the entire time. He added a layer to the bottom that you couldn’t tell the song needed until you heard it. It was a welcome late entry.
Moments later, the song ended as softly as it began with a parlay of whispers between the tenor and the piano, dying out into a dream. The bell of the door could be heard between the last notes and the roar of the applause as Archar slipped into the early twilight.
"Heh, heh..." The professor quietly chuckled into the microphone to take command of the room. "The BlueSol Coffeehous proudly pre-sents:" A short pause for effect. "Beneath... the Underdog." Hands murdered hands wildly.
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