Midnight Crossroad

12

Creek and Connor went directly to Gas N Go. Creek had begun crying on the way back to Midnight, and her brother had put his arm around her. He had looked almost proud, Fiji thought, at being the one who was standing up to adversity. She hadn’t known Creek had ever talked to Aubrey, but maybe it was the sudden face-to-face encounter with death that had shaken the normally serene Creek.

“The rest of you, come to the diner,” Madonna said from the window of her truck. “We got to eat this food, might as well do it there.” Fiji went over to Home Cookin with the rest of them, since she couldn’t think of anything better to do. She wasn’t ready to be alone yet. The sight of the horrible remains of Aubrey Hamilton—Aubrey Lowry—were still too much in the forefront of her mind.

Functioning on autopilot, Fiji helped unload the truck and spread out the food on the diner counter as it had been on the table at the riverside. Everyone filled a plate and found a place at the round table, including the Rev. The need to huddle together for comfort affected even the minister. He hadn’t spoken since Fiji had made her discovery, but now, as the last person sat down, he raised his right hand. They all fell silent.

“In the name of the God who made all of us, man and beast, bless this food and those who prepared it. Bless the soul of our departed sister, Aubrey. Despite her shortcomings, may she rest in peace. May we see her at the last rising and greet her with joy. Amen.”

“Amen.” The response was ragged, but it seemed to satisfy the Rev.

For all of half a minute, Fiji felt ashamed of her earlier rage against the dead woman. But when she recalled the look on Bobo’s face as he’d discovered Aubrey’s true identity, the rage surged back. She looked down at her plate, suddenly realizing she was hungry. Everyone at the table seemed to experience the same appetite. There wasn’t much conversation, but there was some serious food consumption.

After all of them had finished, they divided the remaining food. Fiji, walking home with a take-out container, found her thoughts scurrying around in her head like hamsters in a cage. She wondered if she could use witchcraft to help Bobo. She wondered how long Aubrey’s body had lain down by the river. She wondered who had killed her and how it had been done. She imagined, somewhat vaguely, a séance conducted by Manfred, the ghost of Aubrey appearing in the darkened room. What would Aubrey say from beyond the grave? Fiji tried to remember a single memorable thing Aubrey had said when she was alive . . . and couldn’t come up with an instance. And the gun . . . how had it found its way to the river from Midnight Pawn? Fiji knew that if Bobo had used it to kill Aubrey, he would not have left it for anyone to find. Bobo was dumb about people, but he was smart about things.

Mr. Snuggly was waiting for her, curled up picturesquely at the foot of the birdbath. He rose and stretched in the sunlight as she approached.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she snapped. “Stop being so damn cute.”

The cat looked up at her with golden eyes, his brushy tail adorably wrapped around his pristine paws.

“Yeah, right, it’s your second nature,” she said, and the cat walked beside her to the front door. As she unlocked it, she said, “Wait till you find out what you missed today, Mr. Snuggly. And Rasta was there for it.” Mr. Snuggly gave her a contemptuous cat look and went to sit in front of his food bowl.

Fiji got some kibble and dumped it in.