Read Online Super in the City by Daphne Uviller - Free Book Online
Authors: Daphne Uviller
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keys.”
Mercedes put her feet down flat and backed away. “I’m not taking any chances. If Denzel could get pulled over by police, then I can, too.”
“You, my friend, are no Denzel Washington. And it wasn’t him, it was some other guy. You should keep your peeps straight.”
“Don’t say ‘peeps,’ cracker. If you don’t start looking around, I’m leaving.”
“Okay, okay! Don’t go!” I decided to check the kitchendrawers first, since in my apartment that was where I kept spare keys, expired coupons, and a protractor that had stayed with me since eighth grade geometry class. I practically tiptoed down the hall.
“Do you see anything?” Mercedes stage- whispered.
“Other than the dead body?”
Annoyed silence.
“No, nothing yet.” I tentatively pulled out a drawer. Flat ware! The next drawer had … a bottle opener! I opened some equally unrevealing cabinets with a growing fear/excitement that I’d be required to look around the rest of the apartment. I now knew that James had only four plates, none of which matched, though he had four shelves loaded with glasses.
I opened his refrigerator. An unremarkable jumble of stained take- out containers, crusty condiments, and a stash of film and batteries took up most of the space. But the bottom shelf made my breath catch. On one side were ten perfectly aligned bottles of Brooklyn Lager while the other held ten equally organized jars of Marmite, that noxious, dun- colored yeast spread, beloved only by Brits and likely the real cause of the Revolutionary War.
Here was my first encounter with a psychopath’s refrigerator. It made me revise my developing theories about who the real James was. After last night, I had assumed that the British accent was the act, or the secondary persona, but now I wondered. What if no psych researcher had ever done a study of multiple personality patients’ refrigerators? Maybe I had before me a crucial diagnostic tool. How many new credits would I need to apply for a doctorate in psychology? I had my dissertation right in front of me. It could be a breakthrough in mental health studies …
“Zeph?” Mercedes sounded nervous.
I quickly shut the refrigerator door.
“Nothing in the kitchen. I’m going to the bedroom.”
“Okaaay.”
“What, you think I shouldn’t?” I hustled back to the front door, where Mercedes was still standing guard.
“No, I think you should hurry up.” She paused. “Did you find anything?”
“Mismatched plates and ten jars of Marmite.”
“What?”
“Marmite!” I was getting antsy and energized. A breeze blew through the apartment, bringing with it the stench of garbage from the holds below, and I realized the window had been left open all night. I went to shut it, kneeling on the comfy window seat James had built for himself. I thought of window seats as furniture for pensive, sedentary people, not psychotic supers. Maybe when he was done caulking the leak in the water heater, the British James took over and read sonnets aloud to himself, looking outside and conjuring up the windblown cliffs of Dover.
James had a small fireplace. On his marble mantel were some girly- looking scented candles that accounted for the spicy smell of the living room, and two framed photographs sitting side by side. An innocuous family reunion photo of old aunts with stale smiles gathered on an anonymous porch? A big- haired, underdressed girlfriend? Some slovenly buddies with cans of beer and a big fish on a dock? Oh, how I wished.
They were two identical photos of James. Just James. Big, smiling, identical portraits of just James grinning out at his apartment. Flanked by candles, like a shrine.
“Euww! Euw, euw. Euwwwwww!” Shivers propelled me back toward the front door.
“What?!” Mercedes poked her head through the tape. “What euw?!”
“Photos.”
“Of… ?” I watched her imagination run wild.
“Himself.”
“Naked?”
“No! But just him, two photos of just him. And
Mercedes put her feet down flat and backed away. “I’m not taking any chances. If Denzel could get pulled over by police, then I can, too.”
“You, my friend, are no Denzel Washington. And it wasn’t him, it was some other guy. You should keep your peeps straight.”
“Don’t say ‘peeps,’ cracker. If you don’t start looking around, I’m leaving.”
“Okay, okay! Don’t go!” I decided to check the kitchendrawers first, since in my apartment that was where I kept spare keys, expired coupons, and a protractor that had stayed with me since eighth grade geometry class. I practically tiptoed down the hall.
“Do you see anything?” Mercedes stage- whispered.
“Other than the dead body?”
Annoyed silence.
“No, nothing yet.” I tentatively pulled out a drawer. Flat ware! The next drawer had … a bottle opener! I opened some equally unrevealing cabinets with a growing fear/excitement that I’d be required to look around the rest of the apartment. I now knew that James had only four plates, none of which matched, though he had four shelves loaded with glasses.
I opened his refrigerator. An unremarkable jumble of stained take- out containers, crusty condiments, and a stash of film and batteries took up most of the space. But the bottom shelf made my breath catch. On one side were ten perfectly aligned bottles of Brooklyn Lager while the other held ten equally organized jars of Marmite, that noxious, dun- colored yeast spread, beloved only by Brits and likely the real cause of the Revolutionary War.
Here was my first encounter with a psychopath’s refrigerator. It made me revise my developing theories about who the real James was. After last night, I had assumed that the British accent was the act, or the secondary persona, but now I wondered. What if no psych researcher had ever done a study of multiple personality patients’ refrigerators? Maybe I had before me a crucial diagnostic tool. How many new credits would I need to apply for a doctorate in psychology? I had my dissertation right in front of me. It could be a breakthrough in mental health studies …
“Zeph?” Mercedes sounded nervous.
I quickly shut the refrigerator door.
“Nothing in the kitchen. I’m going to the bedroom.”
“Okaaay.”
“What, you think I shouldn’t?” I hustled back to the front door, where Mercedes was still standing guard.
“No, I think you should hurry up.” She paused. “Did you find anything?”
“Mismatched plates and ten jars of Marmite.”
“What?”
“Marmite!” I was getting antsy and energized. A breeze blew through the apartment, bringing with it the stench of garbage from the holds below, and I realized the window had been left open all night. I went to shut it, kneeling on the comfy window seat James had built for himself. I thought of window seats as furniture for pensive, sedentary people, not psychotic supers. Maybe when he was done caulking the leak in the water heater, the British James took over and read sonnets aloud to himself, looking outside and conjuring up the windblown cliffs of Dover.
James had a small fireplace. On his marble mantel were some girly- looking scented candles that accounted for the spicy smell of the living room, and two framed photographs sitting side by side. An innocuous family reunion photo of old aunts with stale smiles gathered on an anonymous porch? A big- haired, underdressed girlfriend? Some slovenly buddies with cans of beer and a big fish on a dock? Oh, how I wished.
They were two identical photos of James. Just James. Big, smiling, identical portraits of just James grinning out at his apartment. Flanked by candles, like a shrine.
“Euww! Euw, euw. Euwwwwww!” Shivers propelled me back toward the front door.
“What?!” Mercedes poked her head through the tape. “What euw?!”
“Photos.”
“Of… ?” I watched her imagination run wild.
“Himself.”
“Naked?”
“No! But just him, two photos of just him. And
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