LITMIR.BIZ

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the chicken coop by the family dog. Even if she’d reported the incident the baby wouldn’t have been less dead.

      Then came the stabbing of Louise Crowley, a girl who’d been left to die in a remote section of the cold, rainy woods. Because she believed the girl might still be alive, she risked coming forward and her information was instrumental in saving the girl’s life. Even the most skeptical cop had to admit, there was something to the mysterious visions of Madame Zarina.

      Joe climbs the inner staircase and Cookie invites him in. He’s an industrious, handsome man, tall and fit with silver hair at the temples, kind brown eyes and a straight solid nose she finds very sexy. He’s considered quite the catch among the growing population of local widows.

      Joe looks approvingly around the cozy parlor with its over-stuffed velvet sofa and chair. A flowered rug covers the floor and gold tassels secure the soft scarlet drapes. On a round table in the center of the room, a crystal ball rests on a cloth of midnight blue brocade. There’s a grandfather clock in the corner and Maxfield Parrish prints on the papered walls. Cookie is really quite the gal. He walks over and hands her a pink donut box.

      “Your favorites,” he says. “French twists with cherry frosting.”

      “You are so naughty,” she says. “You know I love all things French, including perfume, lace and kisses.” They share a moment of laughter and she gives him a peck on the cheek. She opens the box. “Look at all these. You’re going to make me fat.” She looks up and sees that he’s wearing his top coat. “Don’t tell me you’re closing early.”

      “It’s the storm, Cookie. I’m going home to make sure Cooley’ delivered my sandbags. The Saddle Shop closed an hour ago because nobody knows how bad it’s going to get. Why don’t you come home with me? I hate leaving you by yourself.

      “I don’t think so, Joe. If the creek goes over I’ll be stranded out there. Besides, the weatherman says it might not get as bad as predicted.” It’s really about her headache but Joe already has enough on his plate.

      “You shouldn’t be living alone anymore, Cookie, especially with your heart condition,” he says.

      “It’s just a little irregularity, Joe. That’s what the pills are for.” He studies her face. A beat or two passes in silence and she knows what’s coming.

      “What?” she says, taking a bite of donut. “Do I have frosting on my nose?”

      “What about my proposal, Cookie? I hope you’ve given it some serious consideration this time.”

      “Believe me Joe, I’m thinking as fast as I can, but what’s wrong with things the way they are?”

      “Cookie, I’m lonely in that big house. Sometimes I wake up at night and feel like the last person on the planet. No one to put my arms around. No one to talk with. You’ve had five years to think.”

      “You do have Pumpkin,” she says, with a bewildered look.

      “Yes, a cat is very nice, but he doesn’t keep up his end of the conversation.”

      “I don’t mean to be so stubborn. You know how I feel about you, but after Skip died, I swore I’d never get trapped like that again. I wasted so many years putting up with that cad.”

      “You were young, Cookie. You made a mistake. Besides, I’m not Skip.”

      She laughs and rolls her eyes. “Skip wasn’t Skip either until I married him! Then I found out who he really was.” Her head begins to throb just thinking about her disastrous marriage.

      “Alright, you win.” Joe throws his hands up in surrender. “The armory is opening its doors in case it floods, but you can’t wait until the last minute. If you like, I can drive you over.”

      Cookie bristles. “With all the Shanty Irish piling in from across the tracks? I’d rather be hit by lightning.”

      “You are one stubborn woman,” he says, patting her shoulder. Then more seriously: “I know a lot of ladies who’d give anything if just one person cared if they lived or died.”

      “I’ll call if I need you.”

      “Not tonight,” he says, a cool note of resignation creeping into his voice. “At least I know where I stand.”

      “Now Joe, don’t…”

      He turns abruptly and goes back down the stairs.

      * * * *

      As Joe warms up the car he looks up at Cookie’s apartment where a ruby lamp glows behind the pane. She’s been part of his life since they played kick-the-can as kids. He was despondent when she eloped with that handsome rascal, Skip Millstone. Skip probably broke her heart a million times with his philandering ways, people pitying her and laughing behind her back. A year later Joe caved in to parental pressure and married Mildred Lovisoni. He never made her feel second best, although the torch he carried for Cookie continued to flicker in secret.

      Seven years ago Skip was killed behind the wheel of his roadster, a foot on the gas and his eye on a pretty young thing swinging a tennis racket. Pow! Right into a tree. Joe figured he had it coming.

      Cookie reclaimed her maiden name, something unheard of in her generation. She said that Millstone was a bit weighty and she couldn’t lug it around anymore. The judge laughed and granted her request. A few months later, Mildred lost her struggle with lupus, and after a reasonable period of mourning, he set his cap once again, for Cookie.

      After all these years she still fascinates him. He’d asked her once if she could really tell fortunes, if she could see into the future when she gazed into her crystal ball. Her response was surprisingly candid. She told him the ball was merely the focal point of her intuitive energies. Her talent was reading people, analyzing their concerns and knowing what kind of advice they needed to hear. It usually involved romance, money or guilt. How complicated is that? In the process, she’d become privy to more sins and secrets than Father Doyle at St. Finnbar’s or Chief Garvey down at the station. People are more inclined to confide in someone who lacks the power to relegate them to hell or jail. As for the visions? They’re the real McCoy, beyond her understanding or control.

      Rain taps on the roof of the car and Joe turns on the windshield wipers. He pulls into the street and heads toward home where his fat orange cat waits in the window. He’s not getting any younger and he’s tired of lying alone in bed listening to the clock tick away the hours.

      Something’s got to give and it looks like Cookie isn’t going to budge.

      * * * *

      I head home as soon as Angel calls the station and tells me that Lulu is unaccounted for. Jake is unlocking the Barker’s room with a passkey when I arrive. We hear a moan and Angel, Jake and I rush to the bedroom where Lulu’s husband Roland is cussing up a storm. Weighed down by a heavy plaster body cast, he’s wedged awkwardly between his bed and the wall with Lulu nowhere in sight.

      “I pounded on that blasted wall half the night before I realized 307 was vacant,” says Roland. He’s a big man who stumbled off the curb four weeks ago, broke his femur and cracked his pelvis. Now he’s 275 lbs. of dead weight.

      I look at Jake. He looks at me. He’s a tall colored man with shoulders like a bison. “Okay, let’s do it,” he says. He takes Roland’s upper body and motions for me to take his legs. One, two, three and we hoist him onto the bed, the patient grumbling all the way. My bad leg makes a popping sound at the hip and I pretend not to notice the pain that shoots down the sciatic nerve into my big toe. Angel fluffs his pillow and gently tucks the blankets around him.

      “Are you comfortable now, Mr. Barker?” she asks.

      “Do I look comfortable, Missy?” Angel turns her head and bites her lip to keep from smiling.

      “Where is Lulu?” I ask. “Angel found Bo in the rain.”

      “Oh, you mean the crazy woman I live with? She took off during the night. I tried to stop

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