A Glimmer of Death by Valerie Wilson Wesley

Author:Valerie Wilson Wesley [Wilson Wesley, Valerie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Books
Published: 2020-10-14T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

I tucked Vinton Laverne’s final words where all disturbing thoughts go when I bake—midway between the measuring and mixing. I had cakes to make before tomorrow morning, and it was late. I took eggs out of the refrigerator, softened butter in the microwave (praying it wouldn’t liquefy), and combined all the tasks I could—greasing the cake pans, measuring the flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and cocoa (for the chocolate cake), putting all the ingredients into separate bowls. Luckily, both cakes could bake at 350 degrees (although I had to keep an eye on the 7-UP cake). By midnight, everything was done. I set the cakes out to cool. I’d make time to frost and glaze them in the morning. When I dropped into bed, I was dead to the world. Nearly dead to the world.

Thoughts of Vinton, along with that whiff of nutmeg, and of Tanya, obviously hiding something, wouldn’t let me go. Vinton’s tone had been mocking, mean-spirited, verging on angry, when I left him. As for Tanya, she was clearly waiting for somebody with whom to share the rest of that cake—and something else. Dennis Lane. I should try not to mess with him, Vinton had said. What did he mean by that? Except for Juda, Lane was the one member of the staff I’d had few dealings with. I’d need to talk to him sooner or later, but the more I learned about the man, the more I dreaded being alone with him. More problematic, I’d need to convince him to talk to me. He wasn’t the kind of man to be tempted by chocolate cookies or a cake. It might be wise to ask Aunt Phoenix for an herb or spell for protection; I needed a powerful one, although I knew she’d be suspicious since I’d never asked before. Then there was Miss Juda Baker, one of Vinton’s innocents. Innocent of what? And Avon Bailey, whose name kept popping up.

I drifted off to sleep with his name on my mind, except “Avon” didn’t take the form of a person but of a beauty product, the kind my mother used to sell. When I was a kid, she was the Avon lady, and I was proud of her. She’d let me try her sample lipsticks—pale pink and crimson red—nail polish and colognes that smelled like roses, always special to me because of her name.

In my dream, glass bottles of Avon products were stacked in front of me in a sparkling, crystal tower. Suddenly, it crashed to the floor. The shattering glass woke me with a start. From somewhere in the distance, a creature began squawking like a bird, then mewling like a cat. Half awake, I realized what had happened. I bolted into the guest room, expecting the worst . . . and nearly got it. I should have known the gift would have its way with me one way or another, that dreaming about my mother would foretell some future event. As Aunt Phoenix might say, I didn’t listen.

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