Dead by Any Other Name Read Free

pieces—hanging cherries, the iconic mahjong bracelet, geometric pins, rings, earring. This stuff sold easy-peasy. Then there was a Noah’s Ark of animal pieces—charming, kitschy, and they sold, too (chicks still go through that retro phase). Finally there were the dramatic silver pieces, all swoopy and mid-century, some with large inlaid stones—this stuff flew out of the store and was tough to find.
    â€œThis is great stuff,” I said.
    â€œI love it all. It’s gonna be hard to let it go. But I need to. Fast.”
    â€œSo you’re not interested in consignment?”
    â€œI need cash.”
    I wanted to give her a fair price but wasn’t sure I could afford to. I’d brought along two grand in crispies, but this stuff was worth at least double that wholesale.
    â€œWell, how does five grand sound for the lot?”
    â€œIt sounds fair.”
    â€œI can give you two now and the rest on Monday. I’ll pick up the stuff then.”
    â€œNo, take it now. I trust you. And here, have one of my CDs.”
    As Natasha walked me out to my car, she scanned the street.
    â€œI hope things work out in LA,” I said.
    â€œThere’s a man I’m leaving behind. We love each other, but he’s trouble. And so am I. Which adds up to a bad moon rising. Someday he’ll understand.”
    She looked at me and for a second I thought she was going to burst into tears. Then she hugged me. Too tight.
    I got in my van and as I drove away I looked in the rearview—Natasha was waving goodbye.

four
    When I got back to Sawyerville, I decided to drop into Chow for a quick bite before I took over from George. The joint was crowded with its usual menagerie of retirees, loafers, lowlifes, and hipsters, swelled by Saturday shoppers. I sat at the counter and waited for Pearl to show up. Abba really needed to hire another waitress. I mean, shuffling shell-shocked old Pearl with her gray hair, gray eyes, gray teeth, and gray skin gave the place a certain surreal quality—she reminded me of a character in one of those incomprehensible theater pieces they do in the East Village; you know, all striking tableaus and eerie nonsequiturs that add up to something profound and headachy—but as a waitress she was a bust.
    Abba saw me through the pass-through and waved me into the kitchen. I joined her. She was putting together about four orders at once, but one of her many talents was the ability to talk and work at the same time. Abba was a few years older than me, a Hudson Valley native—from one of the early black families who settled here in the mid-nineteenth century—and a free spirit who had traveled all over the world. About five years ago she had found herself pulled back, deciding that the valley was where she wanted to be, home again. She was a self-taught chef with a real gift for making magic in the kitchen, drawing on the spices and skills she had picked up in her wanderings. She was also one helluva friend.
    â€œYou need to hire some help,” I said.
    â€œHey, Pearl is my good-luck charm, she came with the place and she’s staying. But I am looking for a little back-up. How are you?”
    â€œGood, could I get a Cuban sandwich?”
    â€œComing right up.”
    â€œI scored some amazing jewelry this morning.” I told her a little about Natasha and then showed her the CD.
    â€œOh yeah, Natasha Wolfson, George and I saw her perform down in New Paltz about three years ago, she was fabulous. I mean really good. There were articles in the paper about her moving up here, she was a rising star. I wondered what happened to her.”
    â€œWhatever it is, I don’t think it’s good. She seemed really desperate, scared, and probably high, I got the feeling her life was off the rails. She’s selling everything so she can move to LA.”
    â€œYou know her parents are those famous shrinks you always see on TV, what are their names,