Sink In Your Claws

  “He’ll get over it.”

  “He did, immediately. That’s why I own a pig skull.”

  Michael stepped to the hall table where it glowered. He picked it up and turned it upside down, opening and closing its jaws, teeth knocking as he roared. He held it at thigh level for Loki to sniff. “It’s creepy cool. Great teeth. If I was a kid, I might’ve thought it was a monster. We’ll use it for Halloween. Scare the crap out of kids when they come for candy.”

  Of course he’d love it. “It’s yours. Have fun.” She refilled their glasses and headed to the kitchen. Picked up a colorful printed card on the counter and handed it to him. “Okay, detective, before you go upstairs to change yesterday’s clothes, I have a favor. Remember, I gave you a pig skull.”

  He groaned. “Not a social event.”

  “Yes,” she wrapped an arm around his waist. “The museum ball. This is fair warning. You have two weeks to steel yourself.”

  “Come on, Kait,” He gave his best spare-me-this-torment look. “Crass social interaction. A circle of hell.” He drank more wine. “I’d rather chew my leg off than be trapped in that vortex.”

  She smiled. “No melodrama.”

  “The lady demands so much.” He wound his fingers with hers. “Let's spend the evening here instead.”

  “Romantic, but no. I’m asking for a reason. I want you to assess my new boss.”

  “Crazy Eyes?” He hadn’t met him yet but had heard stories.

  “Yes. Undercover assignment. Please. And moral support. Watch the guy and tell me what you think.”

  He sighed. “Okay. On one condition.”

  “What?”

  “Ply me with liquor all night long and dance with me at least once.”

  “Deal.”

  *

  The museum gala was the fall highlight of the city social calendar, ornate columns decorated in white lights for the occasion. City leaders, business heads, the political elite, posturers, and flouncy society types flocked to the event like vultures. They donned formal attire, snapped on jewels, and greeted each other effusively. Men and women circulated in the galleries, drinking, talking, and pretending to know something about the objects on exhibit. A few did. In reality most of them were there to see, be seen, eat, get drunk on top shelf liquor and make out with someone who could move their career forward.

  Kait walked into the lobby with Michael following, looking like a house cat surrounded by wolves. In high heels, she was taller than he was.

  He took their coats and handed them to the coat check volunteer. Michael looked around, uncomfortable in the fancy crowd, and returned to Kait. She smiled, watching him fuss with his tie and pull at his sleeves.

  “I hate these things,” he whispered in her ear. “Feel like a trained monkey. I don’t belong here.”

  “You look distinguished.” She pushed an errant strand of hair out of his eyes. “And very handsome. Need to find excuses to get you in a tux more often.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You look hot.”

  She laughed. “Men. You sound like a horny-ass high school kid.”

  “Well, that’s how some of these folks think. Remember three years ago—we found two drunk trustees’ kids making out on a file cabinet in the administrative office?”

  She shook her head, smiling. “That was bad. For them. We laughed for a week.”

  “Can I say you look gorgeous?” He bent and kissed her. “Is that a save?”

  “Sounds more sophisticated, at least . . . ”

  “You clean up fabulously.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  “No problem.” He smiled. She was gorgeous. Why was she was there with him, of all the movers and shakers in the room? She could've had any of them. The deep green fitted dress and silk jacket brought out the color of her hair and accented her curves. It was a slam-dunk.

  “You do, too,” she said, “clean up nicely.”

  “I know.” They laughed, co-conspirators against the social world. Neither gravitated to formal attire or large gatherings except under duress. Or when work demanded it.

  “Crazy Eyes ahead. Time for reconnaissance.”

  “Where?” Michael scanned the crowd.

  “By the bar, entrance to Canadian and Arctic artifacts exhibit.” She motioned her head in his direction. “Tall man, white bow tie, dyed hair, patent leather shoes, martini glass in hand.” They wove through the crowd, stopping every so often for her to greet a trustee, be congratulated on a recent project or give an awkward hello to another uncomfortable staff person.

  Michael tried to focus on her boss. People clustered around the bar like a corral of bleating alcoholic sheep, mouths waiting for booze to be poured down their throats. God, he hated society affairs and groveling crowded parties. Maybe he’d become a homicide detective because he preferred working with the dead. He frowned. He was there to support her. She’d assigned him a task.

  He steeled himself.

  They stepped to the white tablecloth-covered bar, arrayed with a limited selection of top-shelf liquors and wines. Michael slid between Kait and the bow-tied man.

  “Miss Jenret,” the man lifted his glass, tilting it in her direction. A diamond cufflink sparkled at his wrist. “So pleased for you to be here this evening.” He gestured at the crowd and kissed her.

  Michael narrowed his eyes. She had to be there. It was a work function.

  Stop kissing her.

  “Dr. Ellery Smith Thompson, I’d like you to meet Michael Lewis.” Kait stepped back and locked her arm into his, pressing her fingers into his sleeve.

  “A pleasure.” Thompson extended a manicured hand. His blood shot eyes didn’t focus on Michael. His hand was papery, clammy. Not a good sign.

  “Dr. Thompson is our new Executive Director,” Kait said. “He’s been here for two months. Getting used to being in the United States.”

  “Hmmm.” Michael looked up with renewed interest. “Where were you before coming here?” Why would a man accustomed to international travel want to work in Seward City? Mental note—research Thompson’s background.

  “Overseas, in a wide variety of postings. I’m a seasoned international scholar. I study cultural norms and superstitions.” Thompson gestured to the galleries. “I am interested in working with this collection. It has unique and wonderful artifacts.” He smiled at Kait. “We’ll be able to do wonderful projects for the community.”

  “Kait’s already done great work here,” Michael said. She squeezed his arm and then angled closer to the bar. Maybe that was a bit defensive since he’d just met the man, but two previous bosses had downplayed her role. And Thompson was off-putting. What'd he mean by cultural norms and superstitions? His urbane attitude and drug addict eyes were unsettling.

  “Ah, Mr. Lewis,” Thompson said. “She has a champion. Point taken.”

  “Michael.” Kait touched his sleeve and handed him a whiskey on the rocks. “I promised drinks. Here’s the first.” Thompson watched. She ignored him. “I have to make sure the tech person’s got the images for my PowerPoint presentation. I’ll be back.”

  “No problem,” Michael said. “I can fend for myself.” He returned her smile, faking nonchalance.

  Hurry back before I run for the exit.

  She squeezed his hand, then headed to the security door, ID at the ready.

  “So, Mr. Lewis, is it?” Thompson said, “Kaitlyn is one of our most impressive staff members. I appreciate your advocacy. She’s accomplished. Has great potential. Board wants her more involved in the community, to promote her work as part of the strategy to put the museum on the cultural map.”

  “I’m proud of how hard she works,” Michael said. It was true. She put long hours into research and writing, often through weekends and late into evenings.

  “Tell me.” Thompson peered down with bloodshot eyes. “I haven’t seen you at my meetings with cultural leaders. What do you do for a living? Are you an anthropologist? What is your specialty?”

&nbs
p; “The dead. I’m a homicide detective.” He watched for a reaction. Death cop probably wasn’t the expected answer.

  “Hmmm.” Thompson hesitated. “A policeman.”

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t know Miss Jenret gravitated to law enforcement.” He ordered another martini and narrowed his eyes. “Interesting.”

  “How so?”

  “Just . . . an interesting choice for a cultural woman.”

  “What’s interesting about it?” Thompson was a pompous snob.

  “Nothing I can pinpoint.” Thompson sighed. “I pictured Miss Jenret with a lawyer, doctor, or upper level academic.” He waved his hand with a flourish. “Someone educated. Sophisticated. Worldly. A policeman . . . is an unexpected choice, shall we say.”

  “You mean I’m not the right status.”

  “Perhaps.” Thompson smiled, eyes opaque. “You see through me, detective. But I speak the truth . . .”

  “No accounting for taste.” Michael drank his whiskey and ordered another. Surprising how often people assumed police lacked education. “I consider myself lucky.”

  “Agreed, Mr. Lewis.”

  Another tall man moved to the bar, ordered a vodka tonic and stepped between them, interrupting.

  “Dr. Thompson, great evening, excellent evening.” The man spoke fast, boisterous. He shook Thompson’s hand with enthusiasm. “Pleased with the turnout, very pleased. You should be proud. What a fine event.”

  Thompson looked from the man to Michael. “Michael Lewis, this is Mac Lazski, board president. Mac, Mr. Lewis is a police detective.”

  “Oh, detective! Hope you’re not here tonight because of anything I did.” The board chair laughed, loud, manic or perhaps drunk. “On my best behavior this evening. No sex, drugs or rock ‘n roll. No hookers. Least not tonight.”

  “No Mac,” Thompson said, “Mr. Lewis is here with Ms. Jenret.”

  “Oh.” The board chair eyed Michael. “Good thing I didn’t bring my two new account executives with me. I was going to set her up. Told them to wear clean shirts and everything, and then they bagged the invite. They’re good-looking young men. Too bad. She’s bright and her being eye-candy doesn’t hurt.” He winked at Thompson, who laughed.

  “Too bad.” Michael looked for Kait or exit signs. God, he hated these events. It took all his self-control to maintain a polite facade.

  You can dress them up, immerse them in culture, and bless them with money. Assholes are still assholes.

  “Detective.” Lazski changed the subject. “You working the kiddie killer case?”

  “We don’t discuss active—”

  “Terrible case, terrible.” Lazski rambled. “Absurd it could happen here. Know how many kids have died on that river? Why haven’t you caught him? Must be gruesome. Bloody and gruesome. Did you walk the crime scene? What’d it look like? Horror movie? How bad? Who’s gnawing on those kids?”

  “You believe something is eating children?” Thompson said. “Isn’t that far-fetched?”

  “Or what’s gnawing on them. Might not be human,” Michael hoped she’d return soon. He rubbed his neck. Sweat dripped down his back.

  Lazski stared at Michael like he’d sprouted six eyes. Thompson took a step back and shook his head. He was sure he could see disdain oozing from their pores. What did they know about dead kids on the river?

  Kait walked through the security door and caught his eyes. He excused himself and hurried to her. Imagined himself a drowning man grasping at a life ring, hands flailing in an alcoholic pond.

  “Save me,” he whispered. He took her arm, leaned close. “Please.”

  “That good, huh?” She laughed and kissed him. “How can a silly party scare you?”

  “You own me.” He put his arm around her shoulder. “Board chair wanted to set you up with two employees. Had them wear clean shirts. Your boss believes me below your station. Apparently, in addition to being talented, you are, and this is a direct quote, eye candy.”

  “Figures,” she said. “Lazski is a raunchy child in an adult’s body. I’ve heard appalling stories out of his mouth. I pity his wife but don’t understand why she stays with him. Thompson is a pompous ass with delusions of grandeur.” She sighed. “Now you understand why I need you here.”

  The gala guests made their way to their seats, hovering, greeting and preening, posturing for attention. The Communications Director stood and tapped the microphone, announcing the start of the program and dinner. The board chair, tipsy from too many vodka tonics and reeking of cigarette smoke, opened the evening with a short gushy speech about the new director and the fabulous, fabulous, fabulous job he was doing. Didn’t mention other staff. Michael watched a few staff members react to the speech. He felt for them.

  Those who do the work are the least recognized. Their pissed faces show it.

  Kait was next. She spoke about new donations accepted to strengthen underrepresented areas of the collection from cultures in South America and the Philippines. After moving through a brief series of slides, she closed by quoting Cicero, ‘to remain ignorant of things that happened before you were born is to remain a child.’

  The board chair downed another large vodka tonic.

  Thompson stepped to the podium, gave Kait a large floral bouquet and planted a lingering kiss on her cheek. Michael downed a slug of whiskey. The man was creepy and unprofessional. She returned and grasped his hand under the table. “Thanks for being here. You’re my sanity at this clown car event.”

  Thompson gave a rambling speech, beginning with the not-so-astute observation that almost everyone in the room was more interested in eating and drinking than in the museum’s mission. ‘It is our role,’ he expounded, motioning to staff members who shrank back in their chairs, ‘to bring your higher senses to life.’ He wove in ideas of exotic artifacts, ancient history, curses, mythology and grand expanses of history. He postured for the benefit of big donors who basked in the attention. His voice rose as he neared his speech’s end. ‘We will engage, excite, arouse, and titillate you . . .’ he concluded in sonorous tones. Society members applauded. The board chair giggled, drunk.

  Grow up.

  Michael found the speech unnerving. “Need a drink,” he whispered to Kait.

  “Need a bottle,” she said.

  They made it through dinner and the small talk of tablemates, including two orthodontists comparing top prices for braces and joking about dating a porn star, an accountant board member relaying tales of dating an education staffer, and a balding lawyer from a local family making googly eyes at the museum Finance Director, decked out in pale blue cocktail dress and sparkle-dust eye shadow.

  Michael yearned to escape the social claustrophobia. Maybe his phone would ring, beckoning him to a murder. Kait poked him under the table when he checked his watch or turned to the exit.

  “You’re here for the duration,” she said. “Einar promised me.”

  He glanced at her with raised brow. Collusion.

  Finally, meal over, prominent local DJ SWABY Electric Man stepped up to his array of electronic equipment to get the music going. He moved in rhythm with the sound, ramping up the volume booming through the speakers. Guests rose, some tipsy, others drunk, glasses and bottles in hand. They headed for the dance floor.

  Rising last from their table, Michael pulled Kait away from the crowd and the noise. He took her back to the bar.

  “Another whiskey, straight,” he said.

  The bartender poured. “For the lady?”

  “A good bottle of red,” Michael said. Kait eyed him.

  “Whole bottle?” the bartender asked.

  “Long evening. She’s off duty. I’ll give you a $50 tip.”

  The bartender winked, pocketed the cash, opened a California cabernet and gave him the bottle and a glass.

  He bowed and handed them to her with an exaggerated flourish. “Your bottle, Miss Jenret.”

  “You’re a lifesaver.” She laughed, hair falling forward on
her face. Filled her glass to the rim and drank. “I promise.” She locked eyes with him. “I won’t force you to this next year. Hell, won’t force myself next year. What a shovel of bullshit.”

  “You owe me.” He crossed his arms, head tilted.

  She looked at him.

  “One dance.” He extended a hand.

  “I promised.”

  With whiskey soaking his brain and saturated by high society overload, he made her set aside her glass. Took her hand and pulled her into the exhibit. She kicked off her shoes. Music wafted through the galleries as he hugged her close. She pressed into him. They moved together, alone but for Inuit masks and ivory animal carvings. He smelled the scent of her hair, wound his fingers tighter with hers as Gary Jules’ version of Mad World spun its dark vision . . . ‘All around me are familiar faces, worn out places, worn out faces . . . She placed her cheek against his. He sang the song lyrics in her ear.

  “Can’t you add that green-eyed dragon into the refrain?” she whispered.

  He laughed. Her breathing slowed and she relaxed in his arms.

  ‘“Let’s get out of here.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to maul you,” he said. “Don’t want anyone to find us on the filing cabinets.”

  *

  “Thank you, Miss Jenret, for fitting me into your schedule.” Thompson’s eyes tracked her as Larinda Morisa, his executive assistant, escorted her into his office. Kait avoided gossipy Larinda when possible—news traveled fast in the museum because Larinda spread things as soon as she heard them. Her location, ass entrenched at a desk outside the Executive Director’s office, meant immediate viewing of all comings and goings. Basement staffers claimed she could hear through walls.

  Thompson shut his door. Kait sat in an overstuffed armchair opposite his polished walnut desk. On top of it sat an elongated skull with wide mouth of sharp teeth. Why'd he keep a Halloween prop in his office?

  Thompson fussed with a stack of papers.

  Being on the upper level twice in three days at Crazy Eye’s behest rattled her. Basement dwellers were uncomfortable in the light.

  “I’ve made contact with a donor who’s offering a generous gift for the collection.” He perched on his desk front, crossing his arms, wrists flashing gold cufflinks.

  The man had a bauble fetish.

  “This donor is interesting. A possible collaborator, a chemist. Has in his possession jars of eighteenth and nineteenth century antique pigments unattainable today. A wonderful addition to our art collection. I told him you would pick up the objects.”