Neon Blue E Frost (speld decodable readers .TXT) 📖

suspicion that Rowena has Solomon’s Seal are all banging around in my temples like jackhammers.

I finally stop turning the coffee cup around and pick up the phone.

She answers on the first ring. “Hi, Zee-Zee. I’ve been wondering when you’d call.”

“Ro,” I say warily.

“Did you get lost last night or something? What were you doing in my bedroom?”

I opt for the subtle approach. “Ro, do you have Solomon’s Seal?”

A moment of dead silence. Then her bright laugh. “Of course I do, goosey. I get it mail order. Do you need some?”

“The ring, Ro, not the herb.”

Another silence. Then her voice. Quiet. Composed. “I guess we need to talk.”

I rub my free hand over my face. This isn’t what I wanted to hear. A derisive laugh. A flat denial. Anything but an admission. “Yes, I guess we do.”

“Do you want to come down to the shop? Do lunch again?”

“I can’t really see talking about this over Caesar salads. Can you?”

She sighs. “Okay. Look, I’m tied up tonight, but how about tomorrow? I close at eight. Is that too late for you?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Zee-Zee?” Her voice sounds very small. “It’ll be a relief to finally be able to talk with someone about this.”

“Oh, Ro—” Please, let her have a good explanation. But in the pit of my stomach, where the truth curdles, I know she won’t.

A forced laugh. “Bring a bottle of wine and I’ll get us take-out.”

“Ro—”

“See you at eight,” she says brightly. Then the line goes dead.

I sit and stare at the receiver for a while before putting it back in its cradle. She has the ring. But has she used it for anything other than attracting Andy Smith? I hope not. Please, by the God I’m not sure I believe in, please, please don’t let her have used it for anything else.

I pick up two bottles of wine at a liquor store on the corner of Boylston. The goateed slacker behind the counter looks down his nose at my selections and sneers when I offer him a credit card that isn’t gold or platinum. I’m tempted to spit at him between my fingers. See how superior he feels with a really good case of the clap. But that would probably get me arrested in this part of town. So I endure his snobbery, tuck my bottles of wine under my arm, and ignore his falsely cheerful ‘have a nice day’ as I leave.

Newbury Street twinkles in the dusk. The brightness makes me feel smaller, shabbier, even more tired than I am. I walk down the block slowly. Wood smoke winds through the air from somewhere. They probably import it from the suburbs.

I stop in front of Rowena’s Closet. The door opens, emitting a clutch of Newbury Street women carrying bags emblazoned with the shop’s corset logo. Three of them descend to the street without looking at me. Behind them, the door remains open and from it, the last Newbury Street woman calls softly, “Hi, Zee-Zee.”

I reluctantly pace up the steps, my Keds squeaking on the marble. Ro gives me air-kisses and I hand her the bottles.

“Ooo, Sutter Home,” she says, pulling one bottle out of the brown paper bag. “Well, we can fix that.”

She winks at the bottle and the label changes. Ravenswood. I looked at some in the liquor store but shied away from the price tag. Nothing tastes good enough to cost thirty dollars a bottle.

“Ro—” I start to protest.

“Oh, live a little, Zee-Zee.” She waves a hand airily and locks the door behind me. “Come on, I’ve laid on a feast, since I know you won’t celebrate Mabon properly.”

Dread’s dried my mouth, soured my stomach. I don’t think I could eat anything if I tried. But I follow her to the back of the store. She leads me through a door marked ‘Staff Only’ with a tasteful little brass plaque and into a surprisingly large office with two desks, one of which bears the promised feast, still sitting in Styrofoam containers.

“Chinese?” I ask, guessing from the smell.

“You used to like it,” she says, and there’s just an edge of uncertainty in her voice. I glance at her and find her twisting her hands together around the bottle of wine. Then she smiles brightly. “Let’s eat.”

She bustles around, finding a corkscrew. Opening. Pouring. Avoiding my eyes. I put some egg rolls and General Gau’s Chicken on one of the china plates she’s laid out. The smell of good food penetrates my worry and my stomach stops listening to my brain. I bite into an egg roll.

Ro hands me a glass of wine and sits down across from me with her own plate. No salad now. She eats like a normal person and I smile at her despite myself.

“Try the wine,” she says and I do. It’s rich and oaky and perfect with the food.

“Okay, better than what I got.”

“Goose.” Her bright laugh. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I have other things to worry about, don’t I?” I ask. I don’t want to sound accusatory, but I’m too tired, too worried. Ro’s gaze drops back to her plate.

“I couldn’t believe it when you called,” she says softly. “When you asked me whether I knew anything about Solomon’s ring. I should have known it was too much of a coincidence from the beginning. Did they send you?”

They who? “No one sent me. A friend’s been accused of taking the ring and he asked me to help him find it. Ro, this is serious—”

She chokes on a small laugh. “Oh, yes it is. You have no idea—”

“Ro, do you have the ring?”

She holds up one of those long, white hands that aren’t really hers. The air around her hand shimmers. Something peels away from her fingers like a glove. And a huge, black-and-silver ring appears.

“Jesus Christ, Ro.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in the Judeo-Christian thing.”

“Don’t try to sidetrack me. How’d you get it?”

“The ring? Oh, it’s funny, you know. Life’s coincidences. Like you showing up after so many years looking for it.”

“Just tell