Of Blood and Sorrow

One I smelled her perfume before I saw her. It was heady and sweet, like ripe peaches left out in the sun to rot. The lady sitting next to me at the funeral this morning had worn the same scent, and I'd wondered then what madness would drive a woman to wear something that smelled so bad. I guess if you tack a fancy enough name on a perfume, hype it big, sell it high, some poor soul will drench herself in it, even if it sends dogs howling into the night. First came the perfume, then the tapping of heels and tinkling of bells as she sashayed her way to my office. She walked like somebody who knew where she was going, which surprised me since I'm the only tenant on the floor and didn't have any appointments. Business had been slow, as it always is in midsummer. Luckily, I'd scored some good-paying clients in the past two months along with the usual losers who darken my door and waste my time. A hotel chain had hired me in May to catch the light-fingered thief swiping money from the till, and they were keeping me on retainer. In June, a local she's-all-that had set me on the trail of her no-good fiance, who was doing the do with her father's ex-girl. I had two assignments lined up for the end of the month. And this afternoon, I had an appointment with Treyman Barnes II, a big-time mover in my small-time town. For once in my life, things were sweet. I had a nice man named Larry and money in my pocket. My son, Jamal, bless his heart, was plucking my nerves with teenage angst but was doing okay despite some recent traumas. Except for this morning's funeral, the day was going fine. I'd opened the door because my air conditioner was broken, and I'd grimly accepted the fact that a cracked window and an open door would be my only relief against the summer's heat. But an open door is an open invitationany old thing can come crawling through. When I first smelled the perfume, I half expected to see this morning's funeralgoer. The funeral had been for Wayne Peters, who had been Johnny's mentor when he first joined the force. The woman was Molly Holiday, an old girlfriend of my long-dead brother. She was a gentle soul with a soft, aging face that reminded me how young he had been when he killed himself. I'd be the same age myself in a couple of years, and that thought choked me up bad when I saw her. We hugged like good friends and promised we'd meet for a drink sooner rather than later. I prayed she'd change that perfume before we met again. But it wasn't Molly Holiday who came through my door. "Well, here we are, Miss Tamara Hayle with a y, you and me together again, just like them Delany sisters or somethin'. I know you remember me from all them years back. You spend all that money I gave you?" If I were a smoking woman, I'd have lit a cigarette. She had a pretty, nut brown face and a mop of fake red hair that screamed twenty-dollar hooker. Her build was slight yet muscular, and she rocked her compact body back and forth like a bantam fighter eager for a match. Except for her voice, which pops up in my nightmares, I might not have known her. "It's Lilah Love, isn't it?" I said after a minute. "In the flesh. You don't look as happy to see me as I am to see you. What'd you do with all that money?" "Do you want it back?" She threw back her head and laughed, a cackle midway between a crazy old lady's and a kid high on meth. When she was finished, she glanced back at the man in sneakers who had crept in behind her. "This here is Turk," she said, and the man lifted his head like a dog does when hisWesley, Valerie Wilson is the author of 'Of Blood and Sorrow' with ISBN 9780345492715 and ISBN 0345492714.