X. Atkins - Richmond Noir

I shook my head and laughed. “So, you’re Lou’s little spy? Looking for lost treasure?”

“Lou is a horse’s ass,” she said. “Anyway, would I find it?”

“It was a storm window, for Christ’s sake. Kid put a baseball through the old one a few days before. Once the cops were done demolishing my house, they were kind enough to look into it. Your uncle hates me because he made a fool of himself at the end of his career. He went out a laughingstock.”

Rebecca shrugged. “He thinks you have it. Still.”

“Do you think I have it?”

“You have my perfume,” she said. “And I want it back.”

Rebecca avoided me the next few days, which was fine, as the restrictions placed upon the non-staff made my job difficult enough. Gone was my key to the storage rooms and cases; gone the days I could work without staff watching over my shoulder. Rebecca had sealed her own fate too; she was back sanding walls all day. John hadn’t ruled it theft, but neither did he believe the missing perfume an inventory list blunder. He simply called it “Missing.” I could feel the growing weight in his eyes when he looked at me.

Lou found out about the perfume through his museum connections. That’s what Rebecca told me a week later, when she appeared at my door again. She’d heard Lou speaking of it on the phone, invoking my name more than once to John and others she didn’t know. I listened to her, weighing the veracity of what she said. I doubted Rebecca would tell Lou or John about my having the perfume; she wanted it for herself, and ratting me out wouldn’t accomplish that. No, given the opportunity, she would steal back the perfume. Probably it was the only reason she was here now. I told her as much.

“I won’t have to resort to that,” she said, stepping close. “I think you’ll give it back.”

“Why, because John and your uncle are hot on my heels?” I said, cockily.

She considered it. “Maybe because you like me?”

I watched her eyes for sarcasm, but she closed them and burrowed her face into my neck, running me through with chills.

“And because I like you,” she added.

One thing nagged me: if Lou had spoken with John and learned of the perfume, wasn’t it likely he’d also heard of Rebecca working with me in the storage room? Uncle Lou knew plenty of the staff — hadn’t anyone put his niece with me? We were careful, but there’s only so much one can do. It’s a small city. By Rebecca’s account, though, Lou was clueless about us.

In bed we made love. She pressed herself close and said, “Smell. Not as nice, is it?”

I smelled rose, but it was sugary and cheap. She wanted the real stuff, just a drop — a molecule.

When I took the perfume from my dresser drawer, she said, “Not much of a hiding spot.”

“That’s what I thought of yours.”

Then she grabbed for it. I held tight and we crashed back onto the bed. She was giving me a good fight, biting my ribs, pulling my hair. When exhaustion wore us down, I tipped the vial onto my finger and applied it to her neck. We lay in bed deep into the night, the perfume high upon the dresser. She was in my arms, and I knew I had to hide the vial before I fell asleep. Then I heard her voice, low and hypnotic.

“I’m going to turn you in.”

I roused, tightened my embrace as though it was lovers’ talk.

“You can’t. I didn’t steal it.”

“But you have it.”

“Darling,” I said, “if you turn me in, I’ll tell them the real story. Then John knows you’re a thief, and your kindly uncle knows you’ve been cavorting with the likes of me. You lose both ways — and you don’t get the perfume.”

“If I turn you in, your life becomes a living hell.”

I pinned her, gripped her neck with my hands. “I could kill you now,” I said. “And that would be the end of this nonsense.”

There was a flash of real fear in her eyes, but only a flash — something had come to her. “I’m at Trina’s tonight,” she said. “When I don’t come home, Lou calls Trina.”

“And?”

“And then Trina tells him about you.”

I was suddenly so pleased with her, with her cunning and forethought, her tenacity. I lowered my head to kiss her, all the while feeling that I was losing myself to her, about to give her something she hadn’t even asked for. I snatched the perfume and took her to the basement, where I pulled boxes away from the wall. When I removed a section of the fake wood paneling with a screwdriver, she laughed and said, “So, you’re going to brick me up back there. I should have figured.”

Then she saw the vault. She stood wide-eyed, the sheets in which she’d wrapped herself slinking down her shoulders. The dial spun swiftly under my fingers, right-left, left-right, and then there was the clean, cold click of the lock giving way. The massive door opened noiselessly. I reached into the darkness and drew out what was inside.

“I knew it!” she screamed. “You sneaky bastard!” She hurled a string of delightful profanity at me, then reached out to touch the painting. She held it while I flicked on a series of mounted spotlights that came together on the opposite wall. I hung the portrait in that pool of radiance — it was alive now, the woman who raised Edgar Allan Poe. She was depicted young, and had a small nose and mouth, large dark eyes and roseate cheeks; her black hair was pulled up, and long strands of it curled past the edges of her eyes down to her jaw. There was a ghostly light about her long neck and her gauzy white dress.

I lost track of how long we stared into it.

Eventually, Rebecca asked, “What’s the point? I mean, it just sits in there. In the dark.”

“What should I do,” I said, “put it up in the living room? Rebecca, having this painting in the vault is dangerous enough. But it’s worth it. It does something to me. Every morning I wake up and remember what’s here, in my house. I’m sitting upon a great secret, and it makes everything... vibrate. But it’s a crime.” I brought my fingers to her neck. “And you don’t wear your crime.”

I put the painting back and the perfume in with it — now she couldn’t rat me out without exposing herself as an accomplice who knew where the secret vault was. I swung the door shut and met Rebecca’s contemptuous gaze. She apparently got the point.

“I want to trust you, Rebecca. And you to trust me. This assures that trust.”

“That’s not trust,” she said. “That’s mutually assured destruction.”

The longer the perfume stayed missing, the more my hours diminished. The museum’s auxiliary technicians were increasingly around, assigned to projects that ordinarily would have gone to me. I was not outright expelled, but more like a child faced into the corner. The cloud of suspicion that had loomed over me eight years before was above me again, and it was dark.

When I confronted John, he said, “Emery, there’s just a lot of talk.”

“Since when do you believe talk?”

“Let’s give it some time,” he said, “let it blow over.”

“Is it Hamlin? Are you listening to Lou Hamlin now?”

“Emery,” he said sharply, “you were the last one with the... People are suspicious.”

Christ, I thought, he defends me when I’m guilty, and condemns me when I’m not — not completely, anyway.

The only bright thing in my life was the source of my troubles. I found it strange that Rebecca’s uncle didn’t try leashing her. Was he duped so easily, believing she spent all her nights at Trina’s? In the basement I’d retrieve the perfume from the safe and trace the oil along her curves. We’d sleep upon the daybed with rose and sweat in the air. Rebecca was surprisingly agreeable to the situation, washing off the perfume dutifully before she left my house each morning, not arguing when I put it back in the safe. If we didn’t make love, or study the painting, Rebecca would pose and I’d manipulate the lights so that I’d swear she floated in them, my treasure.