Rough Cut – A Moe Gafferson Mystery
Written by Desdmona Edited by Poison Ivan
Chapter 15
Moe was a light sleeper and had been ever since he was old enough to climb out of his crib. Most nights he could be roused by a cat tiptoeing on the roof. So he was surprised to wake up from his cramped position on the divan to find already Mona in the kitchen, all sharped up in her starched whites, fixing breakfast. He watched her from behind unnoticed until he drank his fill of her curvy silhouette. He startled her when he spoke, and flour mushroomed in the air from her dropped spoon.
"If you worked any quieter, doll, a fella would think his ears were on the fritz."
"Goodness, Moe. You scared the bejesus out of me."
"That's what happens to a girl who sneaks around."
"I wasn't sneak ..." She turned around and stopped mid-sentence. Moe hadn't bothered to get dressed. A morning rise hung semi-erect between his legs. The smile Mona tried to hide said she wasn't too appalled. "Your pants are cleaned and pressed. They're hanging over the back of the chair in the living room. I thought you'd see them there."
"I did."
She turned back to the counter, picked up the spoon, and continued to stir the batter she was preparing. "You really are incorrigible, aren't you, Moe?"
Moe refrained from showing her just how depraved he could be by opting not to touch his rod like he'd wanted to when she turned around with flour sprinkled on her face and carrying a flush from head to toe. "I've been trying to tell you that for awhile, baby. You've just had cotton in your ears."
"Get dressed, mister, before the milkman comes by and sees you standing naked in my kitchen."
"Milk? With cream on the top?" Moe deliberately lowered his voice. "I like licking the cream off my fingers."
Mona stopped stirring, but she didn't turn around. A little hiccup escaped from her throat, and a crimson blush crept up the back of her neck. "I'm scheduled to be at the hospital this morning, Moe."
"But what about Danja?"
"She's your responsibility today."
Panic screeched through his body and dealt a deathblow to his promising erection. "Stop right there, doll. Not this Joe," he said.
She turned around and pointed her spoon at Moe. "Get dressed, and we'll talk." Her words tinged with finality
Moe had no choice but to do as she asked. He'd already lost his erection, and he couldn't fight Mona, not this early in the morning, and not without any coffee.
He trudged into the living room where the fire had burned out hours ago. Smoldering ashes worked hard to warm the room. The chill leftover put a damper on the heat of their coupling from the night before. But Moe had no trouble remembering Mona as an equestrian, using her flanks for strength, and riding him by firelight.
Just as Mona had said, his clothes were laid out over the chair, as if by a snooty valet - neat and in order of donning. Her efficiency bordered on scary. He put his socks on first as a way to buck her system. When he finished dressing, he folded the coverlet she'd given him last night and draped it over the divan. Thankfully, she hadn't asked Moe to sleep in her bed. A relationship took on a different meaning the minute a man slipped under a frilly bedspread and got comfortable. It was like giving the okay to check out china patterns. He returned to the kitchen to find Mona laying out the grub.
Moe scraped back a chair and took his seat. Sitting at a breakfast table, eating flapjacks, and drinking coffee with Mona was almost as domestic as a frilly bedspread, but Moe had spotted a set of china already gracing one of the cabinets, so he let himself relax. Besides, he was only there because of Danja.
Mona piled the pancakes high and drizzled syrup over a pat of melting butter. Moe licked his lips, sunk in his fork, and gobbled nearly a quarter of the pile before remembering what they'd been talking about. "Mona, I know from nothing about Clara Barton detail."
Mona spooned apple butter on a slice of toast and sipped at her coffee. "If she turns feverish, or her bleeding turns heavy. She needs help."
"These are not words in my vocabulary, doll." He crammed in another mouthful of flapjack. "Especially at a meal," he added after swallowing.
"Moe, do you know how to use a thermometer?"
"I watched you enough in the hospital. I might be able to do it, but not with any reliability."
"Stick the thermometer in her mouth. Under her tongue. Leave it in for five minutes and if it reads over a hundred degrees, call me. Do that every three hours."
Moe felt like a six-year-old afraid to ask his pop for a licorice. "What about ... the other?"
"The other?" Mona mimicked the way Moe had whispered the words and giggled. "Is this the same man who was traipsing around my kitchen in his all-together a bit ago?" She rolled her eyes and then shrugged her shoulders like this was everyday yakking. "Just ask her."
"She'll know?"
Mona nodded. "I think so. She was groggy, but I told her what to look out for. She'll mostly sleep, but you should wake her up to take her temperature. And feed her Moe, she looks like a skeleton. She needs to gain some strength."
"Feed her what?"
Mona glanced around at the table still laden with homemade bread, pancakes, and fruit. "Do you really need step-by-step directions, Moe?"
Moe snatched an apple from the fruit bowl and twirled its stem. "I might baby, if it means you'll stick around a little longer."
"I can't. I have responsibilities. And the hospital is expecting me."
When Mona left to cover her shift at the germ house, it took a healthy dose of courage for Moe not to cling to her leg and beg her to stay. But there were some things a man just couldn't do. Begging topped the list. From the front window, like a child who couldn't go outside to play, he watched Mona get in her car and drive off.
After twenty minutes of toying with the idea, Moe finally decided to check on Danja and made his way up the stairs. At first glance, the bed could have passed for empty. The hen was so small - she barely made a lump in the mountain of linens. Her pale face matched the white of the sheets, but her breathing was steady. Her Aryan hair was braided away from her face, showing off spiky lashes over closed eyes, and her heartbeat fluttered just beneath the parchment skin at the base of her neck. Moe put the back of his hand to her forehead. Her skin was warm, but not hot. He breathed a sigh of relief. So far, so good.
He stole from the room, prowling down the stairs like he was gumshoeing, and made his way to the kitchen. Mona had left a pot of coffee on the stove and the Cincinnati Enquirer on the table. The smell of apple butter and maple syrup lingered in the air. Sitting at the kitchen table with his belly full of vittles, sipping fresh java and pedaling through a morning newspaper, worked on a man's sense of belonging. Careful Gafferson, Moe thought, wincing and glancing back up to the china in the cabinet. There was no denying this place was homier than any place Moe had hung his hat in a very long time.
He stuck his nose back in the newspaper. Reading it was something he did everyday. A small article tucked away on page ten grabbed Moe by the shirt collar and jerked him back to his reality.
Maxwell Singer, prominent business owner of Singer's, was found dead yesterday morning. Apparent cause of death: natural causes.
Singer wasn't a fit man, but the timing of his death beat the door down on coincidence. The piece went on:
Mr. Singer had taken his lunch per his usual routine, according to shop seamstress Lois Pennington. Upon his return, he collapsed.
They were dropping like flies: first Schmidt, then Metzger, and now Singer. The list of suspects was dwindling to one. The way Moe saw it, everything pointed to one man's finger on the trigger of the insecticide tool: Karl Boch.
Moe needed to know more about the councilman, more than just a newspaper headline saying how Boch was leading in the polls for the upcoming election. And he knew just where to get some answers.
He searched through the cabinets for a serving tray, poured steaming coffee into a second cup, slathered apple butter on a slice of homemade bread, and grabbed a banana. It was time for Danja Bittners' breakfast. He didn't relish waking up the chit, but she needed to eat, and Moe wanted a conversation. He hiked up the stairs, balancing the tray, without a care to being quiet.
The mound of linens had shifted, and Danja Bittners was sitting upright. Azure eyes, the color of a clear October sky, peeked over a sheet held up to her chin. There was a flash of innocence in the blue depths, like a little girl waking up for school. But then life rushed in and clouded them with its pain.
Moe set the tray on the night table. "You're not sleeping."
Danja let the sheet drop from around her chin, revealing a floral gown. The extra room in the bustline told him Mona had lent the woman some bedclothes. "I cannot seem to stay awake," she mumbled.
