I saw her hips in the curve of Clemens Boulevard; I saw her hair in the steam from the Central Station. Her legs curled around the giant stacks of the Bowery Ironworks, warming themselves in the smoke.
And, in the goddess’s flesh, the thousand, thousand boxes — windows, doors, co-ops — every square with a square inside and, inside each, a story.
People and animals and machines moved and spun, sang, and died, loved and killed and lived out there, all of it in little boxes.
It was Jenny I was seeing, the real one, the one I’d missed and in missing, killed.
It was my fault, just as India had said.
It wasn’t just that last list or the cryptic note that had finally led me here. Everything Jenny had ever shown me had been a clue. Every note, every structure, every scrap of pleasure we’d shared had been meant to pull the veils away. She’d tried to show us, in that crazy corkscrew way, the path through her personal maze. We’d both missed it but I was the fallback, the last chance. When I failed, it killed her.
So I stood there, cold and shaking from the rush of grief. I stood there as the sun dipped slowly away and the sleeping goddess became a range of mountains made of stars. I watched the people milling and doing in their little boxes of light.
Follow me, her ghost seemed to say. Follow me down.
I wanted to. For a lot longer than I care to admit, I seriously considered stepping off that ledge. But when it came to actually moving my feet in that direction, I couldn’t.
Stepping off was the quick payment for what I’d done to her, the cheap way out. I owed her more than that.
I edged back into the dank little hallway and closed the door behind me.
Then I peeled After Me off the ugly steel door. Yes, there was an album inside the yellow-speckled cover. Vinyl, of course, probably the only one ever cut.
Mine now.
Mine for her.
It went home with me.
How often I play it is my secret.
And I’m keeping it.
Wine on Ice
by Cheryl Rogers
Cheryl Rogers is a former journalist who is currently raising a family and working on her family’s vineyard and orchard near Perth, Australia. She makes good use of her experience on the land and her knowledge of horticulture in this new story. Her short fiction has won many awards, including three Henry Lawson Society of New South Wales short story awards. Two of her stories have won Queen of Crime awards from Partners in Crime (Sydney) and are reprinted in the recent Queen of Crime anthology.
Knocks me senseless, opening the paper to an eyeful of Ginnie Dimond-Billing leglless on page three. Not a good look for a member of the glitterati usually dripping bling on the social pages. “Winery chief dies after plunge down cellar steps... Appeared drunk at harvest brunch,” the headline screams. Puts me right off my crumpet. That’s when my mobile starts.
“Get down to the station, Spanner.” DS Rod Gudgeon’s not strong on preliminaries. “Unless you’re doing something worthwhile on your RDO. Like colouring your ever-changing hear.”
“Was planning to drain the sump on my new Rover actually, Sarge, change the oil in the transmission, maybe move on to the diffs as a chaser if—”
“Rhetorical question,” he cuts in before I can breathe mention of my plans for the front swivel housings. “Double-barreled socialite had one too many sherries, nose-dived down her cellar.”
There’s the faintest pause, then the boss cuts to the chase.
“Close personal friend of the police minister,” he says gruffly. “He wants the investigation wrapped up pronto, no hint of scandal.”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“Hinting at funding cuts, Spanner,” he chokes.
I’m already out the door, kicking the chocks free of the Rover’s wide Pirellis with the steel-capped toes of my snazzy kitten heels. It’s not even gone eight, yet the morning air hangs heavy with heat.
“Starter motor’s kicked in, Sarge,” I sign off in a bid to smooth Gudgeon’s worry lines.
A DS firing on three cyls talks to me like... well, like a Citroen DS with a fit of the sputters. Undignified. Besides, word’s out our division’s up for the chop, and there’s a science-buff DC muscling in on my job.
The rival in question’s undoing his bicycle clips in the stairwell when I burst into the station via double doors leading from the staff car park. His sandy helmet-hair clings, damp with sweat. His usually pale cheeks are flushed.
“Limped in, in your old banger, did you, Spanner?” gasps Jack Darwin, B.Sc. (Botany), Hons. (Forensic Palynology), stooping from a lofty height to lift his sit-up-and-beg into a recess near the bins. “I noticed a pall of black smoke enveloping the city.” He forces a couple of coughs and starts securing the rear tyre with a battery of combo locks on chains.
“New wheels, Charlie,” I say grandly. “Got myself a Rover.”
No need to mention it’s a Land Rover, is there?
Clacking upstairs, two at a time, I resist glancing back to witness his envy.
The sacrifice is worth it to be first to the drinks vending machine. Used to have a staff canteen. Then a tea lady with a wonky trolley. Now this robot. Still, least it delivers more choice. Filtered water, tea (regular, green, and an assortment of herbals), and coffee (drip brew, espresso, or cappuccino) on tap. It’s where we brains in Major Crime chew a serious amount of fat in our relentless quest for truth.
I’ve ditched last week’s grounds, switched filters in the drip brewer, and have a fistful of Reggae blend beans on the go when Darwin makes it to the second floor.
Just as Gudgeon shuffles out of his lair, mopping his brow. He joins us at the font to bring us up to speed.
“Virginia Dimond-Billing, widow of former Sergeant Frank D-B, whose family founded Billing Estate Wines when Adam was still in Snugglers. Wife took over the reins after her husband fell off the perch six years ago.”
Darwin already has his hand up.
“Former sergeant, Sergeant? As in ex-police? Or ex-army?” he says, then jets iced dandelion tea into a personalized floral mug.
“Sharp question, Charlie,” the boss concedes and I feel my teeth ache. “Vietnam vet. Earned a couple of gongs. Took over the family business in the late seventies and added to a tidy fortune selling headaches in bottles. Not long after he died, the Australian wine industry did a belly-flop.”
“But Frank’s widow jump-started the company, if my memory serves me, Sarge,” I chip in, trawling the depths. “Installed their son, Leeuwin, as winemaker. Carbonated some of the cheaper fruities. Launched a new range of fizzies.”
“Ice Maiden’s Surprise, Peasant Girl’s Blush,” confirms the DS, naming the two top-sellers in the range. Considers himself a connoisseur, at least of the cheaper lines. “Mrs. D-B was able to resume her very active and public social life on the strength of sales.”
“A classic tragedy then, surely?” pleads Darwin, who really ought to know. “News reports said she’d over-imbibed. It’s logical to deduce that she tripped on her killer heels on some rickety cellar steps, missed her footing, bingo.”
“But totally out of character,” I feel obliged to protest. “Ginnie D-B was a patroness of the arty-farts, benefactress of kids’ charities. Never any hint she was ever tired and emotional in public.”
“I agree, with you both.” The chief’s holding up his hands like he’s the ninth Marquess of Queensberry. “Fact is, the death was sudden and unexpected and we need to investigate whether or not she was pushed.”