All right, all right,” said the man opening the chapel’s heavy door. “I’m here. I’m here.”
The wedding was over and the white chairs were folded and put away, leaving the room with a dim and dusty odor, a tired scent, like stuffed animals left on high shelves their entire lives.
“What did you need to talk about?” he asked, walking down the aisle toward me. “What was it again?”
Lanky except for a potbelly that made him look like he’d stuffed a volleyball under his black shirt, the chaplain was trying to smile. Bloated jowls hung over the Nehru collar.
“Reverend Dennis?” I asked, making sure.
“Please, call me Den.” He sat on the carpeted platform, crossing his legs, directly under the stained glass medallion.
I sat down beside him and he smiled. A reflexive gesture. Like my official FBI smile.
“So. What did you want to talk about?” he asked.
“My mother,” I said. “The ship’s doctor, Dr. Coleman? He believes she suffered a psychotic break. She’s in the medical clinic, sedated. And I can’t talk to her.” I paused. “She won’t talk to me, but I thought she might talk to you, since you’re a chaplain.”
“Okay, okay.” He nodded, graying hair brushing the black collar. “Is this the woman who broke down in here?”
I nodded. “She was praying and then—”
He tossed his thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the medallion. “The cross got knocked down. That one?”
So it did happen. MJ wasn’t lying. “You heard about that?”
“Oh yeah. The ship thought I’d be upset. The cross was pretty broken up. But I said, hey, it’s just a religious symbol.” He nodded again, agreeing with his own wisdom. “And your mom’s the one yanked it off the wall? She must be strong for her age.”
“No, sir. Different incident.”
“Man.”
“Pardon?”
“Man, oh, man.” His hand rubbed the round stomach, circling its contours. “Two really bad happenings. What’s up with that?”
His brown eyes, almost circular in shape, went perfectly with the jowls and belly. With the shaggy hair, he reminded me of a strange teddy bear. Youthful yet graying. Enthusiastic and still lethargic. Well-fed, still malnourished.
“Perhaps you could reassure her,” I ventured.
“Right, reassure her.”
“She’s a strong believer. If you could let her know she’s going to be okay. Remind her that God’s in control.”
“And hey, look around. This is God’s country.”
“Yes, except she can’t look around. The medical clinic has no windows.”
“Oh. Got it. Okay, got it.”
“Her strongest foundation is her faith but—”
“But you want me to build on that. Build it up. Make something of it.”
I wasn’t sure what to say and in the silence he stole a glance at his wristwatch.
“Sir, I don’t mean to offend, but . . .” I struggled for the correct words.
“Hey, no offense taken. That’s what this room is for, nonjudgmental release. Like when I heard about the cross getting knocked down. I thought, We’re probably better off. Crosses tend to really bum people out.”
A second silence followed. He gave the watch another glance.
Dinner, I decided.
That was the hurry. His next cream-sauced meal and nice bottle of red, followed by coffee and cognac and conversation with people from Arkansas. What a great gig, what a cozy way to shepherd a flock. A parish that revolves weekly, requiring only one sermon, endlessly recycled every Sunday through the Inside Passage or the Mexican Riviera, the Bahamas, Australia. At worst, two sermons, for when the cruise lasted fourteen days. A riff on Jonah, the whale. And something about Noah, because we’re on an ark. Ha-ha holiness, pass the potatoes, please.
He stood up, shaking out his legs as if he’d been sitting a long time. “Right after dinner, I’ll go see her. Right after dinner.”
Maybe that was why he said everything twice, the recycled pabulum a habit now.
I stood up with him. “On second thought, before you go to any trouble, let me check with her doctor. I want to make sure your visit is okay with him.”
His muddy brown eyes showed their first hint of depth. Relief poured into them. Pure relief. Visiting a wounded sheep like my mother could cause all-night indigestion. Shaking my hand, the reverend told me good-bye twice and left the room, letting the heavy wooden door close behind him.
I felt too tired to walk.
Sitting down again, elbows on my knees, the fatigue weighted my shoulders and rolled down my spine. My mind filled with hard thoughts, uncharitable thoughts. Cold notions about sterile seminaries and simplistic sermons and Christian clichés. Angry, disgusted, betrayed by the over-fatted calf who had waltzed in here, refusing the sacrifice that might taint his next meal.
Dropping my head, I tried to evict him from my mind. Plucking the bitter seeds from my heart, I thought about a veil torn in two, a vacant tomb offering me the right to speak directly to God. No minister was needed to sieve my petition, though all I had to give right now was sadness and humiliation.
And that was enough.
Even in this dark moment, I knew there was light, somewhere.
Somewhere, light was shining.
I opened my eyes, suddenly, gasping at the idea.
Light.
Of course. That was it.
The lights.
With nineteen minutes left before the ship pulled out of Skagway, I ran down the gangway and sprinted across the dock. Wind at my back, I raced around the Whitehorse Yukon train station, then turned down Broadway. The streets were deserted, the boardwalks waiting for some shootout to begin. Hanging a fast right, I whipped open the door to the hardware store.
The man behind the cash register stared, slowly chewing his gum.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I panted. “Black lights, you carry them?”
He nodded and ambled from the cash register. I danced on my toes behind his dusty denim overalls, wanting him to shuffle faster down the wide-planked floor. I checked my watch. Fourteen minutes. And they would leave without me.
The man had no hurry in him. Staring at a small lighting display near the spools of chain and fishing lines, he pointed to one shelf, then another. “I know we got some somewhere.”
“Yes, where?”
“Ah.” He pointed to the lowest shelf. “There.”
I saw rows and stacks of white boxes with small UPC labels. “I don’t see any black lights.”
“In there, somewhere. You want flood or reg’lar?”
“Both.”
He nodded, chewing. “I figured. How many?”
“All you’ve got.”
He stopped chewing. “I knew it. You’re the new health inspector?”
“Pardon?”
“Don’t worry. I won’t say anything. You can go incognito.”
Most crime kits contained a small black light. It was used for investigating body fluids. The proteins within would glow like neon under UV light. A health inspector could use the lights for documenting rat urine.
“You think we got another rodent problem?” he asked.
“Sir, I’m not the health inspector.”
He stepped back, curious. “But you still want all the lights?”
“Yes, sir.” I took out my wallet. “It’s a different kind of rodent problem.”
The Ninjas had emptied the Sky Bar, and now the one with the pencil mustache stood on a wooden ladder, screwing purple floodlights into the ceiling above the dance floor. I was standing beside the ladder, still sweating from my run back to the ship.
“You should wait,” Geert said. His eyes looked as sharp as blades on ice skates.
I gazed out the window, pretending not to hear him. Sailing south out of Skagway beneath a sun that had ripped through the clouds with no intention of setting, I finally shook my head.
“Sparks says the party is in the pub,” Geert continued. “Put the lights there.”
“No.”
Tonight at seven, the movie crew would have its wrap party, despite not finishing the movie. It was scheduled for the English Pub, but I wanted it moved to the Sky Bar.
The last place anybody saw Judy Carpenter alive.
“Technical difficulties,” I said. “Lack of adequate services. You can think of something.”
“I already told him. He is still insisting.”
“I’m insisting too.” I handed the Ninja another lightbulb. Four floodlights, one 60-watt lightbulb. I bought them all, uncertain which would work for my plan. If they worked. “I want those people back in here, just like they were that night.” And now they would be standing under black lights that exposed any and all benitoite.
I glanced over at the bar where a second Ninja waited.
“Cover the skylights, please. And windows.”
A vibration thrummed across the bright space and the room began to darken. Steel shutters rumbled over the Plexiglas skylights, the picture windows, the clear floor, sealing everything as if a bad storm was battering us at sea. The place was a cave.
“Perfect,” I said. “Hit the lights, please.”
The Ninja on the ladder, wearing all-black clothing, seemed to disappear. All except his epaulettes. The glowing white shoulders seemed to float in thin air. On the dance floor Geert’s white uniform beamed below the handlebar mustache, now shining like the enigmatic smile of the Cheshire Cat.
“And I’d like that same bartender here. Jessie. The one who worked the night she died. But he’ll have to start earlier and stay all night.”
“And if Sparks does not go along with this?” Geert asked.
“The man loves money. Make him a deal.”
“Ach. You think we have unlimited funds?”
“No, but it’s cheaper than replacing that bracelet.”
The mustache twitched. “You don’t even have the right one.”
“No, I don’t.” I smiled, sensing the white glow coming from my teeth. “But tonight I’m going to find out who does.”
The nurse on duty in the medical clinic was the nice one, Nurse Shannon. She was writing notes at the desk and checking off names on a list. When she saw me, she picked up the phone and told somebody I was here. When she hung up, I felt something cold at the back of my neck.
“Is she any better?” I asked.
“The doctor wants to speak with you.”
I guessed that was who she called. I tried to smile. “May I have some petroleum jelly?”
She looked startled, her large blue eyes growing even larger. “Vaseline?”
“It doesn’t matter which brand, but I need about half a cup.”
“Half a—what in the world for?”
Again, I smiled. “I need to take it with me.”
She hesitated, then closed the folder that she was working on. In the small lab, she opened a locked drawer and squeezed a tube of petroleum jelly into a small plastic bag. When the phone rang at the desk, she handed me the bag. “Don’t leave just yet.”
She left the room and I took the fake bracelet from my pocket. Depositing it in the petroleum jelly, I kneaded it for several seconds, then put it in my pocket. As I was leaving, the nurse cupped the phone.
“Dr. Coleman wants to speak with you.”
“It’ll have to wait,” I said.
Around 6:30 PM, I walked up the enclosed ramp from the ship’s top deck to the modern marvel known as the Sky Bar.
The Bird Girl who’d written the press release about Judy’s death waited at the top of the ramp, clutching her ever-present clipboard. The Sky Bar’s neon and Plexiglas atmosphere stretched like a spaceage landscape behind her, but above that the real sky was cloudless, abraded by the wind, so blue it looked as fine as tourmaline.
“Where do you think you’re going?” said the Bird Girl in her flat tone of voice.
But she didn’t wait for an answer. Extending a talon, she snatched the white jacket of a passing food service employee. He wore heavy-duty oven mitts and carried a stainless steel bin covered with foil. As she hooked his sleeve, he reeled back, trying to keep the hot container from spilling.
Bird Girl peeled back the foil. “I smell broccoli.” She fanned the clipboard over what appeared to be fried rice. In the rising steam, her nose wrinkled. “Broccoli, it’s in there. I said no broccoli.”
The guy didn’t seem to speak English. Glancing over his shoulder, he searched for reinforcements. Nobody was behind him.
“Take it back,” she ordered, pointing with the clipboard. “Tell them no broccoli. You hear me?”
He turned automatically and rushed across the room where another peon came, carrying white plates. As the men passed the neon-lit Plexiglas counter, the bartender named Jessie glanced up as if uninterested. I felt a small relief. Not only was he observant, he could be depended on to cover the windows and skylights, darkening the room for the big surprise: black lights over the dance floor. Benitoite black lights. Because these people would recognize the gem. The same way somebody recognized Judy Carpenter’s blue bracelet and wanted it so badly, they had a fake made, ready for the switch.
The fake I now had in my pocket to be used like a human fishing lure.
Bird Girl was another problem.
“This is a private party,” she said, quirking her head at me. “And you’re not invited.”
“I’m helping the psychic.”
“What?”
I pointed. Claire was wheezing up the ramp, the tails of her bright-yellow sari flapping about her ankles. Once again the third eye peered from her forehead.
“She’s reading auras and palms tonight. I’m her assistant.” Lifting my arm, I displayed the swath of folded black velvet and a small banker’s lamp in my hand. The lamp borrowed from Geert’s desk. I called over to the bartender. “Where are we supposed to set up?”
Jessie looked up from slicing the lemons, as if he just noticed me. With the paring knife, he pointed to a card table by the dance floor. As if I didn’t know.
Bird Girl still didn’t like it. Her brown hair was pulled back in a severe style, revealing dendritic blue veins under pale skin at her temples. She squinted. “Did this get cleared with Sandy?”
“Sandy asked her to do the readings. His wife wants her aura read.”
The same food service guy was trying to sneak behind her. He was almost tiptoeing, carrying another bin of hot food. But she was uncanny. Without turning her head, she reached out and snatched his arm. As she pulled him toward her, I grabbed Claire almost the same way and shuttled her to the card table.
“Raleigh, thanks for helping me out,” she said.
I draped the black velvet over the Plexiglas table. When I went to plug in the lamp, I wondered if God would slay me on the spot, some deadly electrical shock that I deserved.
“I’ll read your aura for free,” Claire said.
I glanced out the picture windows. Not yet dusk, the sun burned deep gold, gilding the rocky peaks. The mountains stood elegant and cold and looking at them, I felt a heartache similar to what I felt standing beside my father’s grave in Richmond. Those times when I understood the smallness of my life, the insignificance, and the absolute need to keep going. No matter what.
I plugged in the light. No deadly shock.
“Claire, I’ve been rude to you.”
It seemed appropriate that she wasn’t listening. When I finally got to the point of making things right, Claire was on another plane. She stared over my shoulder and I turned to see Jessie offering me a white plate with two foil packets.
“Some guy ordered this for you,” he said.
The first packet contained a cheeseburger with everything but pickles. The other packet, fries.
“And extra mayo.” Jessie set down a ramekin between the packets. “He said you’d drink a Coke, no crushed ice.” He turned to Claire. “What can I get you? Drinks are free for anybody with the movie.”
“I’m an alcoholic,” she said, honestly. Then pointed to her third eye. “I got sober after I realized I had this special gift.”
“Yes,” said Jessie, sounding Filipino.
“Large iced tea. Lots and lots of sugar.”
I said grace and dove into my burger. Claire stared at my fries; I pushed them toward her, showing her how to dip them in mayonnaise. All the while, I shoved back the treasonous thoughts wandering through my mind. DeMott hated this food. Especially fries with mayo. White trash wonders, he called them. But that wasn’t the most treasonous thought.
It was this: Jack had known exactly what I wanted.
Somewhere right now, he was with Milo, trying to surreptitiously search the cabin one more time for that jewelry box.
Babysitting a drunk, and he still managed to order me dinner.
Claire had polished off the fries and had closed her eyes, making that weird humming noise. The skin on her forehead wrinkled around the pink stone. I wondered how long I could stand it. Claire’s real assistant, my aunt, was coming later. First she was trying to get my mother to eat something.
Claire’s eyes opened halfway. “I almost had a heart attack walking up here.”
“Sorry.”
She pointed with her arm. “How come they get an elevator?”
I swiveled to see what she was talking about. More kitchen employees. They toted the racks of desserts while others pushed large trash cans on wheels. Bird Girl was inspecting the buffet table and coming up the ramp was the Forehead. He walked over to her and I balled up the foil packets, pretending to go throw them away. But as quickly as possible, I headed in the other direction, following the kitchen employees who walked around a back wall. I didn’t think Vinnie would throw me out, once the party got started. But before anyone arrived?
On the other side of the wall, inside a tiny alcove, an elevator waited, keyed open. The stainless-steel walls were dented, the embossed metal floor worn from heavy use. And inside a large plastic trash can rested on wheels. I lifted the lid to deposit my trash. The can was perfectly empty, ready for the party, lined with a heavyduty black plastic bag.
“Get out.”
I looked up. Vinnie filled the door.
“Get out,” he repeated. “You’re not with the movie.”
“I’m with the psychic.”
“And she’s what—working in the elevator?”
I smiled. “She tends to go up and down.”
“Get out.”
He followed me back to the table. Bird Girl stood with her clipboard talking to Claire, who now had all three eyes open.
“When does Charlotte get here?” asked Bird Girl in her flat tone.
“I’m not sure, want me to read your aura?”
“Do I look like I want you to?”
“No. But that means you really need it.”
Narrowing her beady eyes, Bird Girl turned to me. “Sandy says he never invited you.”
“What did I tell you?” Vinnie said, smug.
“But I need her help. After a couple readings, my mind starts to fry.”
“Yes. But when is Charlotte coming?”
Claire nodded.
Exasperated, Bird Girl looked at me. “The minute Charlotte shows up, you’re gone. Understand?”
Claire said, “I think your aura might be black. That’s not good.”
She turned, walking back to the ramp to stand with Vinnie. He had now positioned himself at the entrance, but kept looking over at me. I glanced at my watch, wondering how long before Aunt Charlotte showed. Not long. Not when my mom thought her food was poisoned.
“Do you think we could ever be friends?” Claire asked abruptly. “I know, I’m not really a normal person. My family always told me that. But I can’t help it. All this stuff goes on inside my head. People don’t understand how crowded it is up there, nobody gets it. I really wanted to help your mom. I think she’s got kind of the same problem.” She pointed to her third eye. “Dead people keep talking to me.”
Her eyebrows were slanted up, like a snapped teeter-totter, and the crazy asbestos hair looked like it was trying to leap from her troubled mind. And in that moment, I felt pity for her, a woman whose spiritual quest was destined to circle back to hopelessness and despair. She searched without listening. She wanted truth, only if it was convenient. But something bothered me even more. Who was more despicable, Claire the lost soul or the one manipulating her?
“Claire, one day maybe we can be friends.”
“Can I read your aura?”
“No.” I took a seat at the table and pulled the chain on Geert’s lamp. It held the 60-watt black-light bulb. Glancing at Vinnie and Bird Girl, I reached into my pocket. Inside the plastic bag, the bracelet continued its petroleum jelly bath.
“I need a favor, Claire.” Keeping my hands under the table, I wiped down the bracelet with a napkin, then held it under the lamp. The glass glowed, almost as good as the real thing. Among its other ingredients, petroleum jelly contained various rare earth phosphors that absorbed ultraviolet radiation and produced blue and green light. I’d just made cheap glow-in-the-dark gems.
“Whoa,” Claire said.
“Hold out your wrist.” The clasp felt slippery from the jelly. And the bracelet was large. It even slipped over Claire’s hand. I tried to recall Judy Carpenter’s arms and wrists. She was a big woman . . .
“Are you giving this to me?” Claire slid her wrist under the lamp, transfixed.
“For the night. I want you to wear it all night.”
She was leaning down close, inspecting the glass. “It must have special powers.”
But the bracelet wasn’t what caught my interest. The pink stone was glowing on her forehead. Glowing just like blue benitoite.
“Claire, where did you get that stone on your forehead?”
She sat up, touching the third eye. “From Charlotte.”
“My aunt had that?”
“In her collection. And pink is good. Pink auras mean love.” She smiled sheepishly. “And now that we’re friends, I can tell you a secret. I picked it mostly because the back is flat. Sticks better.”
I tried to smile. “Did Aunt Charlotte say what it was?”
“Sure. Rose quartz. Increases my self-esteem.” Claire leaned back, once again examining the long bracelet. The pink stone lost its fluorescence.
Rare pink benitoite. I’d read about it on the website. Rarest of all benitoite were the pink, orange, and colorless varieties.
“What’s on this, grease?” Claire took the velvet, about to wipe down the bracelet.
“No—!”
She looked startled.
“It’s a protective coating. Please be careful.”
“That valuable, huh?” She turned her wrist back and forth, gazing at it curiously.
Across the room, Bird Girl was greeting arrivals and my aunt stood, waiting to get past her. I shifted the lamp to the middle of the table, where the black light would glow on both her forehead and wrist. “If anybody asks, Claire, the bracelet is mine.”
“What makes you think they’ll ask?”
“Consider it my version of being clairvoyant.”
“Now you’re talking,” she said.
My aunt had reached the front of the line, and Vinnie was escorting her toward us, no doubt so he could take me away. His mansard brow was lowering like a boom. I stood up and made my way toward the exit, moving past the clear tables and space-age chairs, giving Jessie the silent signal to cover the windows.