A snake among flowers, p.1
A Snake Among Flowers, page 1
Copyright © 2020
Richard A. DeVall
Richard a. DeVall is to be identified as the author of this book. A Snake Among Flowers and has asserted himself in accordance with the copyright laws of the United States of America.
Furthermore, no part of this book can be reproduced in any form, electronic or otherwise, without his expressed permission.
A Snake among Flowers
Part I
Chapter One
March 23rd
Sandpoint Virginia
It was a small get together with a couple of friends in their newly rented three-bedroom cape code. The house was once a factory home for a thriving oyster business a few blocks over. The factory was demolished years ago and replaced with a hotel and restaurant. This three-block area was protected from commerce. A city ordinance was created to help the long time residences, predominantly African American, remain in their homes and not be burdened with high taxes.
The intention was well-meaning; the owners stretched back several generations. As things turned out, those folks sold high and scattered to who knows where. The houses were swept up in the general transformation and gentrification of the town of Sandpoint. Each home was brightly colored in beach hues of varying themes, sky blue, sand beige, and oyster white. New porches and decks were decorated with boat paddles, plywood seagulls, and plastic fish hung from the siding. White shelled walkways meandered around cactus gardens from the driveway to the entrance door. This was all a futile attempt to reflect year-round summer warmth, which seemed out of place when covered with 6 inches of snow in February.
Myra and Heather were celebrating their recent move to Leaning Pine Lane. They'd lived apart while dating for three months and decided to take a leap of faith and cohabit in this trendy area. The distant sound of crashing ocean waves could be heard when the traffic was light. They talked about the salt air clinging to their skin in summer, and how they were going to walk along the beach each evening. The back windows offered an unobstructed view of a marsh, and a distant peek at the Sandpoint Bridge a few miles away.
Myra invited Sandra, a dark-haired beauty from Columbia that was soon to sit for her test and become a U.S. citizen. Her status was that of a permanent resident. She couldn't be deported unless she really screwed up. After a minimum of two years as a permanent resident, a person is eligible to become a U.S. citizen. Sandra had lived in the United States for almost seven years. Her dream to one day vote and stop worrying about deportation would soon be realized. She was explaining the whole process to Heather. It wasn't without a steep cost, nor was it easy. Having cleared the application requirements, it was now about memorizing the 50 state capitals, the longest rivers, and the different legislative branches.
"I'm on anxiety pills, isn't that ridicules? But with ICE going crazy, I'm always looking behind my neck."
Heather smiled because of the way Sandra botched the American saying, it was cute, and also, the wine was powerful and hitting Heather like a sledgehammer. She was not herself; the vino had her wobbled, and she felt a sexual pull toward Sandra while Myra was in the kitchen. If not for Myra, Heather thought, I'd grab this girl and kiss her. "Oh my God," her brain screamed, "You're more than a little tipsy, slow down," she gulped in air and pushed a fingernail into her palm. "This is a celebration of Myra and I finding each other, nothing to do with this foreign beauty." She took in another large lung full of air as if to sober herself in a hurry.
“I had to stop taking anxiety pills,” Heather slurred. “Itz because they made me constipated,” She finished her comment with a lopsided and flirtatious grin.
“You have to drink a lot of water to stop that thing,” Sandra said.
"I'm like a human cactus, I don't drink much water," Heather replied, toasting Sandra with her glass of wine, and then taking a sip.
Myra came into the living room from the kitchen and flopped down on a bulky loveseat with yellow flowers and green vines on the warn material. Britney was out on the porch smoking weed and talking on the phone. The door was open, and the jalousie windows were drawing in the night air and bringing the smoke across the living room. It would give Myra a headache if she breathed too much of it. She stood up and gently closed the door. Britney gave her a peculiar glance. In return, Myra smiled and gave Britney a little curtsy.
Back on the soft cushion, she asked, "So what are you girls talking about?"
Sandra said, "Constipation." She pointed her finger at Heather, "She doesn't drink enough water and is a cactus. So, let me ask you, Myra, is she prickly? She got the sharp needles that stick you?"
"Well," Myra answered, holding Heather's eyes as she spoke. "We just moved in together, so we're still in the honeymoon phase, she's yet to pull out her claws."
The porch door flew open, "That was my cousin Ivy," Britney announced. "She's telling me my uncle has the virus and he's in ICU hooked to a ventilator. She said 80% of people hooked to ventilators don't make it. Shit," Britney took a final drag on the joint and dipped her fingers into her wine glass and then crushed the tip. Her long fingers dropped the roach into her top pocket. "That girl is freaking out, and she's crying all over the place."
“Are you close to your uncle?” Heather asked.
"Honestly," she hesitated, her eyes were bloodshot, and she stared at the wall where it meets the ceiling. It looked to Heather like Britney's thoughts had turned slippery and hard to grasp. "He's like," she struggled. "I don't want to say he's creepy, because it's more like he's just crude, but he's inappropriate. Like he tells people things, you know? I can remember being a teenager and him saying, 'Britney, you’ve got a lot of pimples you should stop eating so much pizza,' and then everyone looked at me like I needed that."
Myra said, “I think a lot of people have uncles like that.”
Sandra said, “I’ve got an uncle much worse, he said to me, ‘Sandra I see you’re getting some titta’s, the boys gonna like that, 'and then he smiled like he was checking me out."
"Ugh," Britney looked at Sandra. Then she said, "I don't want him to die, he's my mom's brother, and they're pretty close. He's not that bad."
Suddenly Myra smelled the bread, "Hey, that's the bread," she jumped off the couch and ran into the kitchen. Heather looked at the hardwood floor and the throw rug they'd picked out yesterday. Things were a little jumpy so she sucked in more air trying to sober up. Britney went into the kitchen to see if she could help Myra. Sandra smiled at Heather. The two were sitting on a leather-sectional, it faced the fireplace and a small flat-screen TV temporarily duct-taped to the wall above the mantel with a brick placed in front of it to keep it from toppling over. The end sections of the sofa reclined, the middle was stationary. Sandra scooted over and put her manicured finger on Heather's freckled arm.
They were opposites. Heather had wiry reddish-blonde hair, emerald green eyes, and fair skin covered in freckles. Sandra was darker, she looked Mediterranean, with long thick and straight black shiny hair corralled in a multicolored band. Her blouse hinted at her culture; it was a celebration of flowers with big buttons made of wood. It was a peasant top that Heather would never wear, but seeing it on this lady with her smooth skin made her wonder what she'd be like to live with instead of Myra.
Sandra removed her finger from Heather’s arm and slid it along her jeans, from her knee to her hip. "If things don't work out between you two, let me know."
Heather felt a surge of heat as her face turned red. She smiled and said, "You'll be the first to know," and with that, the two burst into laughter, causing Sandra to spill some of her wine on the sectional. "Oh," she looked at the little puddle, and the two laughed even more.
Myra came into the room, “Dinner’s ready, what are two laughing at?”
“Sandra spilled her wine,” Heather said as she rose.
Myra put her hands on her hips and frowned at Sandra, "You need to learn how to act in public senorita," she grinned, and all three snickered as they marched into the dining room. Britney helped Myra bring the dishes to the table, and they put them on Myra's grandmother's tablecloth. It was cross-stitched with a different bird in round circular scenes. Her sister told her to use it, "It doesn't do any good to keep it in a drawer Myra; Gramma wouldn't want you to do that. Use it and have food drop on it."
Myra had heeded her sister's advice, and as the meal proceeded, the girls mentioned the table covering, and Myra took pride in explaining that it was made by her gramma on her father's side. "The white side," Sandra said. Myra looked at her and said, "Yeah, the white side," everyone spontaneously raised their glasses in a toast, "To the white side," they all laughed. The wine was too strong, and Heather switched to water.
When the gathering finally wound down, after watching Saturday Night Live with all the actors speaking from different locations because of the pandemic and social distancing, Myra caught Sandra's hand slide across Heather's breast as they hugged goodbye.
After dumping the dirty dishes in the sink to soak and calling it a night, Myra asked Heather about Sandra's behavior. "I think she was drunk, M.," Heather said. "I wouldn't make a big deal out of it. She could barely walk. You heard her ask Britney to drive."
“She pisses me off, she was on you all night, and I noticed you didn't exactly run from her."
Heather looked at Myra as they were both putting on their pajamas and getting ready for bed. "I'm sorry, M. You're right; I didn't make it clear that I was with you. I was flattered because I was drunk. That wine was kick-ass, and I don't know if you noticed, but
"I saw that. We're new with each other, and I'd like to think we have a certain level of commitment. Sandra's beautiful and exotic, and well, I'm sure a lot of beautiful women would find you exotic too, Heath."
"As they would with you to M., you always look exotic and beautiful to me."
After they kissed, a long lingering wet and sloppy affair, and embraced, taking in the smell of each other's skin, Heather fell immediately asleep. Myra thought about Sandra, and couldn't help but think her Colombian friend may end up causing her trouble. Maybe she needed to have a quiet word with her and let her know where things stood. And if that didn't work, she knew what would.
Chapter Two
Mid-April
The pandemic was in full swing, and social distancing now meant wearing a mask and gloves when people went out in public. Myra worked for a company that was considered an essential business. She managed a phone store on Bryant Street in the Pirate Cove shopping center. Her morning was spent putting tape on the floor to represent a stopping point for the customers. Her boss placed two orange highway cones on the laminate floor to let the customers know something was different, forcing them to stop before reaching the counter.
Myra wore her dark brown hair layered on the sides with waterfall bangs above her brown eyes. As a rule, she used very little makeup, but she knew her boss was coming that morning, so she'd put on a little lipstick and tried to look professional. They talked about gloves and masks. Before the store opened, Lewis went down the street and came back with a large coffee for each of them. Myra appreciated her boss. He was always thinking about his managers and letting them know how important they were, especially his best sellers. Myra was his favorite, quick with a smile and witty. The customers liked her. And it didn't hurt that she was bilingual and had a large following from the Hispanic community. Her sales were always reliable.
Myra's mother was from Nicaragua, a city girl from the capital city of Managua. Once a wedding dress importer, her father met her mom in the house in which her mom was born. It had a partial factory attached in the back. Her mother and grandmother made wedding dresses and colorful outfits for quinceanera when a girl turns fifteen and has a party – "Fiesta de quince anos." Her parents retired while living in Bethesda, Maryland, just outside of Washington, D.C. They sold both the store and house and now lived in Norfolk, Virginia, and that's how Myra ended up in Sandpoint. It had a comfortable southern feel to it. Her older sister, Maria, made the move also. The traffic was a dream compared to the Washington D.C. area. The two sisters talked about the lack of Hispanics in the area and how it made them stand out, and that brought them a little extra attention from both the boys and the girls. It didn't hurt that people of mixed race in the year 2020 were in vogue. Her sister was as straight as a steel beam, while Myra had experienced a conflicted pull her entire life. She'd eventually leaned strongest toward the fairer sex. She didn't know how potent that attraction was until she'd experienced a female relationship.
Heather, Myra's newest and most in-depth relationship worked for the Department of Motor Vehicles and was on furlough. Myra was thrilled to come home to a clean house with a homemade dinner and a well-rested roommate. They were both surprised at how well it was working out. After a few weeks, it was still feeling right. The two were in the discovery stage, physically speaking. Heather was a bit wild, and Myra thought maybe there might be something to the rumors about the heat of a red-headed woman.
In mid-April, Myra rounded her street, at the end of a long day, and caught a glimpse of Sandra getting into her car and driving away. It caused her to immediately pull to the curb behind a random pick-up truck. She was in a mild state of shock. Sandra had looked disheveled; her straight hair was caught by the wind and looked wild as she climbed into her car. Myra worked on her breathing to calm down. What a fool she'd been. She was the one that introduced Sandra to Heather and now look at the way that was playing out.
Her mother, never one to practice political correctness had a whole pecking order of Central American countries and something to say about each and every one of them. And just for good measure, she had an opinion of Mexicans, which she referred to as witches and gangsters. The Cubans, she labeled as stuck up from the policy of wet foot dry foot. All the while, her mother skillfully skirted the fact that Nicaragua was the poorest of them all. Like India, it had an entire society of people born and raised in the city dumps and living off trash trucks.
Her mother's homeland had recently experienced unrest, which involved a cut to the pensions for the elderly. A spontaneous protest was led by college students. That ended in torture, including the castration and public execution of doctors that had treated the student's wounds. All of which her mother deplored, while at the same time, claiming they had no drug problems or any of the virus. Myra had her doubts. She'd traveled with her parents across Nicaragua and believed it to be one of the most beautiful places on earth. But, it was ripe with poverty and corruption. All these dictators draped in socialist flags were appalling as far as she was concerned.
But, she couldn’t help but hear her mother’s voice in her head. The Columbian women will steal your man and leave their babies to do it. “Mom, you are so racist,” she’d said at the time. “No, Amor, this is not racist, this is the truth, and everyone knows this. What is wrong with you, eh?”
"If this woman thinks she's going to steal Heather from me, she's got another thing coming," Myra said this out loud as she pulled onto the road and quickly accelerated to be a few car lengths behind Sandra as she merged onto Route 64. The traffic was nothing because of the pandemic. Sandra took the exit toward her apartment, and Myra was one car length behind her at the light. When Sandra parked, Myra did so too. She confronted Sandra as she stood at her door maneuvering the key.
"Hey, Sandra, what are you doing coming out of my house while I'm at work?"
“Jesus, you scared me, Myra," Sandra clutched a handful of her blouse.
Chapter Three
A postal worker notified the apartment management that the mailbox for building C number 1A was full. The receptionist got on her radio and called Sylvester Clayborn to do a curtesy check on the apartment. Twenty minutes later, the distraught maintenance man was on the radio yelling for the office to notify the police. "Call them right away, this girl's been killed bad, this is horrible."
Detective Carl Hanson was eating a steak and cheese sub in the parking lot of Firehouse Subs. During his lunch, he wasn't thinking about a dead girl displayed like a sex doll on the couch with her decapitated head in her lap. His mind was musing on the incident that happened Saturday night at the retirement party for Captain Alex Casper. He and Karen, his best friend and wife of twenty-nine years, enjoyed all the amusing anecdotal stories about Alex. Then, out of the corner of his eye, both Karen and Carl saw Van Lancaster approaching the table. Karen whispered to Carl, "Ut, oh, you're in trouble."
Van and Carl once shared a patrol car years ago. Carl picked up Van at his house once too often because Van, his partner, was still buzzed from a night of booze. And seeing his wife, with makeup hiding another black eye, caused Carl to mention this to Sharon Wise, of internal affairs. "Maybe somebody should visit Anne Lancaster and ask how she's doing."
That started a war between the two men, and Lancaster was ordered to take classes on anger management as well as having daily urine checks and ordered to attend Alcoholic Anonyms meetings. That was over twelve years ago. Van nodded to Karen and asked Carl if he could have a word with him. Carl gave Karen a, "This won't be pleasant look," and followed Van to a quiet hall in the hotel.
Next to a planter filled with fake flowers, Van told Carl that he wanted to thank him. "You know that Anne and I ended up divorced. I blamed you for that."
Carl started to speak, and Van raised his hand to stop him, "I blamed everyone for my behavior. It took me a long time to accept I can't drink and even longer to get my head straightened out. Looking back, I could see where you were in a corner and that I pushed you there. You may have saved my life, maybe Anne's too. There are a few of us at the AA club I attend, guys like me, fresh out of the military, law enforcement a perfect fit, same family, different uniform, and lots of booze with my new friends.
