Kate Carlisle - One Book In The Grave

Some of the wafer-thin slices fluttered straight up like a fan. Others were flat and layered, with ruffled edges. The dried-plum ring looked like a rich, dark red rose with its petals rippling gently in the wind. Many of the rings had the vintage look of a plump fabric rose pinned to a forties-era cocktail dress.

I picked up the plum ring and slipped it carefully onto my finger. It wasn’t my style, but I admired it against my skin. “It’s beautiful, Crystal. Where did you learn to do this?”

“I’ve always made jewelry for me and my sisters,” she admitted, suddenly shy. “My parents aren’t ones for spending money on frivolous ornamentation, so I found ways around them. The dried-fruit designs are my latest experiment.”

“Well, these are really unique. You should make a bundle on them.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I hope so. Enough to pay for my classes, anyway.”

Mom picked up on the conversation as she admired a green-speckled kiwi ring. “Where do you take classes?”

“Over at the Art Institute. I’ve been taking jewelry classes off and on for a few years.”

The Art Institute? I wondered immediately if Crystal knew Solomon. Or Angelica. Before I could grill her, her sister, Melody, still in conversation with the customer, flashed Crystal an impatient look.

Crystal got the message and scurried over to the table where a few more customers were lined up to sample the edible dried fruit.

I leaned close to Mom. “This jewelry is amazing, but I’m not sure I’m capable of hanging dried fruit from my ears.”

“I find it strangely compelling,” Mom whispered, and slipped a rose-tinged chunk of desiccated fruit onto her finger.

After a few minutes Crystal turned back to me and Mom and held out a plate piled high with round and twisted dried stuff. “These are pineapple. They’re my favorites. Try some.”

I examined it first to make sure it wasn’t jewelry, then took a small bite of the overly sweet, chewy fruit. “Thanks. But that’s it for me. I’m starting to get full.”

“Dried fruit will fill you up, but in a good way,” Crystal insisted. “Much better than potato chips.”

I ignored that blasphemy as she forced several more types of fruits on me. Finally I grabbed my stomach and begged to take a break.

“She’s always had a delicate system,” Mom murmured to Crystal, who nodded sagely.

“It’s all delicious,” I lied, “but I think I’d rather wear your dried fruit than eat it.”

Pleased, Crystal clapped her hands. “I love to hear that.”

“OMG, we have our first dehydrator sale,” Melody whispered, surreptitiously waving a check at her sister before shoving it into her pants pocket.

“OMG,” Crystal whispered back, tittering with excitement. Then she somberly pressed her hands to her chest and gazed heavenward. “Thank you, great Ogun.”

“Congratulations,” I said.

“Dried fruit for everyone!” Melody cried, shoving plates out toward the people passing by.

After a few minutes of giggles and text talk between the sisters, my mother was finally able to corner Crystal to ask if she’d talked to Bennie about teaching her how to load ammo.

“Oh, I meant to tell you first thing,” she said. “Yes, we talked, and Bennie will be happy to show you how to do it. But he said he’d have to come over to your place.”

“It’s simple enough for me to drive out to his house,” Mom said. “I hate to inconvenience him when he’s doing me a favor.”

Crystal made a face as she held up her hand. “Let him come to you, Mrs. Wainwright. His place is always a mess. I’ve been there, so I know it’s true.”

“Crystal, do you think Bennie’s a good teacher?” Mom’s tone was confidential. “I don’t have a clue what I’m doing, so I don’t want him to get too frustrated with me.”

“You’ll be fine.” Crystal patted Mom’s forearm. “I know for a fact that he recently taught one of our church deacons how to reload ammo.”

“Well, if he’s patient enough to teach your deacon, he should be perfect for me.”

“Oh yes,” she assured Mom. “Our deacon is very demanding. A wonderful man, but demanding.”

“I’m not sure I know who that is,” Mom said artlessly.

“He keeps to himself so you probably don’t know him, Mrs. Wainwright.” Crystal arranged more pineapple slices on a plate and began to munch on them herself. “His name is Solomon and he’s a professor out at the institute. Have you heard of him?”

I just about fell over onto a plate of dried apricots, but I managed to keep my cool as I jumped into the conversation. “I taught a bookbinding class out there a long time ago and I met Solomon. He’s really something, isn’t he?”

“Oh yes.” Her sigh was close to orgasmic. “So you know how virile he is. I shouldn’t say such things about a church deacon, but I confess I’m half in love with him.”

“I remember he was very handsome,” I said, biting my tongue. “How did he and Bennie get to be friends?”

“Well, they’re both Ogunites, of course,” she said offhandedly. “But also Bennie and Stefan work in the stock-room of the Art Institute’s museum store, so they see Solomon every day.”

“That’s convenient,” I said lightly, but inside I was reeling from the revelation that Solomon was a member of the Church of the True Blood of Ogun. And he was a deacon . I knew the Ogunites weren’t particularly religious-they were more wrapped up in the worship of nature and earthly arts-but this was ridiculous. If what I suspected of Solomon was true, the man was a cold-blooded killer.

“Yes,” Crystal said, slipping another fruit slice into her mouth. “A number of our people work for the Art Institute and, of course, some of us take classes there.”

“That must be nice for you,” I said. “I remember there was a real sense of community at the institute.”

“I love taking jewelry classes there and I’ve sold a lot of my fruit jewelry to the other students.” Crystal smiled softly as her cheeks turned rosy. “And it doesn’t hurt that I get to see Solomon every day.”

I said with some surprise, “You really like him.”

Her eyelashes fluttered. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to us,” Mom said with a wink. Sobering, she asked, “Is he a nice man, Crystal? Is he good enough for you?”

Crystal wiggled her finger at us. “Come over here and look at this.”

Mom and I followed her like two puppies.

“This is the Monarch 5000.” She ran her hand across the top of a boxy white plastic dehydrator. “It’s the very same model that Solomon bought last week. The top of the line. Deluxe. It’s got a timer and temperature gauge for all your food groups, and it comes in five- or nine-shelf models.”

“Nine shelves,” Mom said. “That’s impressive.”

“Isn’t it? Solomon took the nine-shelf unit.”

Mom nodded. “Of course he did.”

“It works with meat and fish, and makes the best squirrel jerky you’ve ever tasted in less than six hours. Nobody can touch that time. Solomon knew it and grabbed it. He’s smart, he’s strong, and he has the best taste in everything.”

Mom gave a thumbs-up. “He knows his dehydrators. That’s for sure.”

“He does indeed,” Crystal said, then flashed a smug smile. “I also sold him the newest water-filtration pen that all the Ogunites are excited about. My point is, Solomon will survive wherever he goes. And what woman doesn’t find that an attractive quality in a man?”

“The survivalist instinct,” Mom said, pondering the words. “It certainly speaks to our most basic needs as women.”

Cave women , I thought, but didn’t say it aloud.

“I know!” Crystal beamed. “I’m so proud to be a small contributor to his evolution. He’s a budding naturalist and, oh, such a deep thinker.”