“Hello there, muffintop,” I said, and stooped down, running my fingers through her white coat. “How did you get down here?” She looked up at me, fluffed out the end of her tail, then, eyes half-closed, blinked slowly. I picked her up. “You want some kisses, sweetie?” I said, knowing it was me who needed comforting. She rubbed her cheek up against mine. “Thank you.”
Holding her, I walked around to the back area where the stairs led to Rivkah’s apartment and called up. No answer. “She must still be at the restaurant.” I looked at Felice. “Did you just come down for me? To make me feel better?”
“Mrrao,” she said.
I met her forehead with mine, but only for a moment. She didn’t have time to be gracious. She jumped out of my arms and ran up the steps. I watched as she strutted up the stairs. I didn’t know how she’d gotten out. Rivkah never left the door unlocked.
Tonight I was glad she had.
I went over to the prep table and stuffed everything back into my bag, grabbed the bowl and scooper and headed back outside. By the time I got out there, a police cruiser was pulling up in front of the store. The officer got out of the car and walked over to me.
“Are you the person who called 911?” he asked.
“I am,” I said.
“What’s going on?”
I pointed toward the falls. “There’s a guy down there. I think he’s dead.”
“You wanna show me?” he said.
We walked around the corner, past the overlook to where I’d climbed back up.
“How did you get down there?” He looked at me. His face was red from the cold, vapors shooting out as he spoke.
“I made a sled out of a cardboard box.” I pointed. I was sure it was still down at the bottom where I’d left it.
“That’s pretty dangerous to do.”
I nodded, not mentioning I’d done it hundreds of times before.
“Stay here,” he instructed, and went down the steps at the boardwalk. The easy way down. He was gone for about five minutes. When he came back up, he clicked the radio perched on his shoulder and spoke into it. “I need backup and an ambulance at the overlook.
“C’mon,” the police officer said. He took my arm, gently guiding me back around the corner. He pointed to Grandma Kay’s bench and I sat down.
The police officer took out a small notepad and, for what seemed like an eternity, asked me the same round of questions, rehashing what I told him over and over again. It was exhausting, and I was tired and still freaked out about the dead man and upset that we hadn’t had any customers in the store that day. I wanted to go home and regroup.
But even after telling him everything I knew, repeatedly, he said I needed to wait for the detective to come so I could speak to him.
I guessed I’d be telling my story again.
My mind was swirling around in a whirlwind. I couldn’t even feel the bite of the cold any longer. Still, out of habit, I tugged at the zipper on my jacket, zipping it up to my neck, and pulled my hood over my head. I clapped most of the snow off my damp, glove-clad hands and stuffed them inside my pockets.
Backup arrived. That first officer who arrived on the scene seemed to get assigned to me. He got a bright orange blanket out of the back of the EMS truck, wrapped it around my shoulders and stood, it seemed, guard over me so I wouldn’t bolt. But that wasn’t my plan, not even when I saw the metal-framed gurney emerge from the side of the hill on the pulley system they’d set up with that black body bag bouncing on top. It made my stomach lurch into my chest, but didn’t make me want to bolt and run. I still stood waiting for that detective.
Soon people began crawling out of their homes, the movie theater and stopped cars—everyone, I think, within earshot of the sirens. The throng of onlookers snaked around the parked emergency vehicles pointed, stared and muttered among themselves. I was doubtful if any of us villagers had ever seen anything like it. I knew I hadn’t.
The next call I made, after giving all the pertinent information to the police dispatcher, was to my parents. I had to let them know what was going on. My mother answered, and in her frantic my-child-is-in-trouble voice, told me to hold on, she was on her way.
“Bring Daddy, too,” I said. But I think she’d hung up by then. I could just picture her scrambling to get her clothes on, coming down the steps one at a time, my father holding his arm out to brace her.
“Here. I thought you might need this.” I turned to see Ms. Devereaux, owner of a clothing boutique across the street catty-corner from our shop, pushing a cup toward me. She was dressed in a full-length furry coat, her hands covered in knitted gloves. The steam rose from the mug into the cold night air. As I wrapped my hands around the sides of it, I could feel the heat through my gloves, and took a sip.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You told them what you knew?” she asked, her high voice strained.
I nodded, swallowing the warm, aromatic flavor of the lavender tea she’d filled my cup with.
“Surely he got what he deserved,” she said, then took a sip out of her own cup.
I looked at her, not sure what to make of her statement.
“Who?” I asked.
She peered at me over the rim of her cup. Taking her lips away, she said, “Drink up. It’ll do you good.” Then she turned and walked away, heading back to her store, Exquisite Designs, not bothering to clarify what her words meant.
It wasn’t like her. Deborah “Debbie” Devereaux was an undercover purveyor. It never seemed she sought out information—I’d never heard her going around asking questions—she just always knew what was happening around town.
Nearly seventy, she was slim, shapely and savvy. Well-dressed, she was always sparkling—dangling rhinestone earrings, bedazzled baseball caps, crystal stones on the sides of her overly large Wayfarer-rimmed glasses, twinkling brown eyes—although she claimed there was nothing fake about her or anything she wore. I found it hard to believe that all her “dazzlingness” was real. Not everything she owned could truly be diamond-encrusted.
I also didn’t believe her real last name was Devereaux.
She and her sister, who ran the village’s sole B and B, were the only other blacks in our community. Debbie lived over her store. And tonight, despite the bad weather, she appeared to still be hanging out and had more information about who I’d found at the bottom of the hill than I did.
Before I could call out to stop her so she could tell me what she meant, I got a tap on the shoulder. I spun around and came face-to-face with a man. Black leather jacket. Houndstooth apple cap. Black slacks. Rubber-soled shoes. Lines etching out the corners of his eyes. Brown facial hair. Musk cologne. He was so close that everything about him was amplified. I had to take a step back to keep our noses from touching and bring him into focus.