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Zen and the Art of Murder
Chapter One
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It rained the day I said good-bye to my best
friend; the kind of storm that was packaged in a San
Francisco-like cold front. December in Santa Monica could blow in from the Pacific like
the draft
from a meat locker.
Perfect funeral weather.
Even posh Montana Avenue was dulled. The shops had lost their
hard-fought elegance, and
darkened and drowned by the weather, they melded into the worn sky like so many strip
shopping
malls.
I kept my gaze downward as I stepped out of my Alfa. I was
clutching a dark-red-and-brown
vase--K-Mart Dynasty circa 1994--and trying to stay dry. I was looking for something to
kick. A
small dog, perhaps. A lawyer. I was feeling sorry for myself.
The rain plunked down, rapping a disco beat on the brim of my
baseball cap. Last night's hangover
was still trying to push my eyes out of their sockets from places inside my head I never
knew
existed.
A dark sedan buzzed by suddenly, cutting a tight corner out of
the alley in front of me as if I wasn't
there. Startled, I rocked backward, lost my footing for only a moment, and watched, as if
in a
dream, the pieces of the vase bounce off the pavement in every direction like popcorn in
hot oil.
I stood over the shattered urn, the rain sheeting over the rim of
my cap, and stared at the
jagged-edged clay pieces now congealing with a fine, grayish-brown dust.
It was all that was left of my dead cat.
I watched until the last of his ashes rolled off the pavement
with the rest of the rain water. So inuch
for respect for the dead, I thought as I stood in the rain long enough not to notice it
anymore. I was
mesmerized by the streaks of reddish-brown dye that ran off the cheap pottery, like blood
from a
new wound. I was thinking of bad omens and wondering if I was looking straight down at
one.
The rain was seeping into my skin now and I let it run over me
for a while, catching a glance or two
from the early-morning-omelet-and-cappuccino set that had come out of hiding for the day.
It was still early, the day after Christmas, and the few people
who did look up didn't seemed to be
in any better mood than I was. Maybe Santa had forgotten the Tiffany tea set. I didn't
care.
I felt stupid standing there in the rain, my reflection staring
back at me from the window of the
corner barber shop. I tried to straighten out my kinky hair-gypsy hair, my mom called
it--and
ended up shoving it under my Giants cap; sweeping dust under a rug.
I yanked the hat downward, tugging the brim at a well-bent spot
so it cast a half-moon shadow
over my face, partially hiding my eyes by design. I didn't like the way they could say
more about
rue than I wanted most people to know. My nose stood out, too small and delicate, making
my
good family cheekbones give the impression I hadn't eaten since the Giants left a pile of
broken
hearts and rubble that was once called the Polo Grounds.
The rest of me fit more or less into a gray UCLA sweatshirt--part
of a collection of items left by
former lovers -and a pair of blue jeans which, like everything else, was hanging on to my
skin like a
new marine layer.
I cursed myself for drinking too much, pressing my temples to
stop the throbbing. As if it was going
to make a damn bit of difference. I thought of that bottled-water commercial; something
about
having 365 days a year to change your life.
Tomorrow, I could head up to the psychic bakery for some
mulitgrain bread, a glass of
carrot-pineapple juice with tofu for eggs, and a palm reading, then go home and jog a few
miles. I
could stop feeling sorry for myself and I could go out to the pound and get a new cat.
I looked at my watch, squinted at it, really. Tomorrow was still
a good day away.
I peeked first before stepping back into the alley and circled
behind to the back of Father's Office,
my neighborhood pub.
Copyright (c) Elizabeth M. Cosin Published by St.
Martin's Press, New York, NY
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