Chapter 50

Cassandra woke with a start. Something about last night seemed familiar, like a lingering scent or a whisper of images, shuffling as if threaded through a malfunctioning 8mm projector—a picture or two and then on to another frame, out of sync and crooked. The images were golden and amber, fuzzy—like a peach, but the fragrance that poked at the memory in her brain was putrid, not sweet.

She sat there questioning what had flickered before her mind's eye, her head tilted, brows wrinkled as she absentmindedly glided her hands over the fitted silk sheet, the spot that earlier had been vacated by Oswald—the impression his head had made in the pillow still visible.

There was a smell of burnt flesh, an odor of which she was unfortunately familiar, and she panicked. It was not an olfactory hallucination. It was the real thing and all she could imagine was that Oswald was injured.

Scurrying out of bed, she ignored the silver tray and flowers placed on a cart beside the bed, and followed the rancid scent to where it was strongest—the bathroom. Oswald had recently had it repaired with a temporary tub and shower combo, but she saw no indication of what had caused the smell. Nothing at all. Whatever it was had been removed, but its unpleasant perfume remained.

She called Oswald from the phone in the bedroom, twisting the cord around her fingers and hand, and was tentatively reassured when she heard his voice.

"Oswald! Are you all right?" She leaned back too hard onto the corner of the bureau as she slumped in relief. Ouch. That was going to leave a bruise, she thought as she rubbed the underside of her thigh.

She could hear the grin in his voice and imagined his brows knitting together in confusion when he responded, "Yes, of course. Why would you think otherwise?"

"So you have no flesh burns? No crispy skin?" she asked. She heard the quiver in her speech and wondered if he heard it too. Quickly she grabbed her throat believing that would settle the shaking.

"Ah, I see. No, that was not me. I mean that was me in the room—with you, but that stench is not my flesh.I, uh, must have acclimated to the aroma and did not realize it still lingered. I apologize. I can imagine it was not a pleasant way for you to wake up."

"Well, I have survived worse." When he did not answer, she asked another question. "Whose flesh is it?"

She heard his tongue click, and then a snort.

"It was completely accidental," he said.

Here we go.

"I was only trying to kill the rodents in the warehouse," he explained. "As you are full aware, the Russians are known for their graceful ballets, and rightfully so, but truly—have you ever seen them walk? Obviously, I am referring to the male of the species. Terrible klutzes. Just tripped and fell right in the stream of fire." He clucked his tongue a few more times and snickered.

Cassandra sucked in her bottom lip through her teeth, appalled at the grin forming across her face. Oswald could be so entertaining and dangerously charming. "Amazing, that," she said. "All of them—just, down they went . . . ka-plop, ka-plop, ka-plop."

"And ka-plop and ka-plop . . . all at the same time," he stated.

Okay, so now I know there were five of them, she thought. Five blind mice. Not to mentionstupid.

"Incredibly visually-challenged too, it sounds like—not to notice each other as they fell . . ." she offered. "And not very smart."

"You are so correct!"

"So you do business with stupid, clumsy people . . ."

"I am an equal opportunity business man."

She chortled, and Oswald went on.

"In actuality, it seems like someone had decided to throw a surprise party for me—invited a few unexpected guests with tendencies toward, shall we call it—antisocial personalities. I had to use a big match to light the candles, so to speak." He neglected to tell her that they had piled the bodies of the dead men in a heap and doused them with the liquid flame. It had been a lovely night for a bonfire.

"So you needed the flamethrower after all." She placed one hand on her hip. She could actually hear him sucking on his inner cheeks, willing his mouth to stay closed. "Oswald . . ."

He interrupted her. "Why are you calling from the room phone? Have you not had breakfast yet?"

"What?" Cassandra wobbled her head and shrugged to no one as she glanced at the covered silver platters and bouquet of gardenias and daisies. The flowers reclined in a bulbous round blue vase, looking rather cheerful and there was an envelope leaning against them. Cassandra recognized Oswald's graceful handwriting.

"I see a note," she said.

"Oh, don't read that yet. Wait until I hang up."

"Okay," she chirped as she retrieved it and held it to her nose, inhaling his scent to rid herself of the other one, and then opened the flap to remove the message. It read:

"Dearest,

"Please forgive my absence as you wake."

Cassandra looked at the clock, it was noon-thirty.

"Cassandra?"

"I look forward to the day that I can leisurely admire you as you come from that dream state into the light of day, able to stay by your side without threat of sudden departure."

"Cassandra? You are not reading that note right now, are you?" She heard his bashful smile through the phone and imagined him blushing.

"Hmph uh," she hum-grunted, shaking her head. Nope, nope, nope, yep.

"Are you lying?" he asked. Hey, he sounds like me.

"Uh huh." Through my teeth.

"I am meeting with a colleague at present and will return by early evening. Please, I implore you, do not wander Gotham alone."

Oswald sighed. "It is embarrassing, Cassandra. Please stop. I will never get used to this."

"Until my return, I leave you with this: 'Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, thus much let me avow—you are not wrong, who deem that my days have been a dream.'

Oswald"

She came to the end of the letter and grinned dreamily.

"All right, darling, I'll stop."

She smelled the notecard again, holding Oswald's scent in her lungs before exhaling.

"Eat your breakfast," he gently ordered her. She wished he were here with her now. When he spoke to her in hushed tones like that, she tingled all over.

Cassandra's stomach growled and she lifted the polished lid to discover pancakes with maple syrup, link sausages, grits—ohmygosh! He brought me GRITS! Heaven knows it's better than oatmeal—and biscuits with butter, honey, and gravy sides. Piping-hot coffee and chilled orange juice was also on the tray.

She was grateful that the scent of homemade Southern cooking was filling the room, expunging the subtle reek that threatened her gag reflex. If there was one thing she remembered clearly from her childhood before the farm, it was the excursions the circus took to the South—where the people were unabashedly friendly, the air was thick with the fragrance of blooming florae, the night sky twinkled with the collective winks of stars and lightning bugs, and the food was offered up as mouthwatering extensions of someone's soul, lovingly prepared and freely given.

She completely understood the term "comfort food". If she kept eating like this, she was going to develop a "comfort belly" with matching "comfort butt".

There was a noticeable absence of eggs and Cassandra silently chuckled. Extension of one's soul. She did not care that eggs were not on the menu—this looked scrumptious.

Lunch was always better when it was breakfast.

"This looks delicious. You brought me grits. Thank you. I can't wait to eat everything on this tray."

"Well, it would be wise not to eat what is under the smallest silver lid," he said. Cassandra could hear Gabe speaking in the background and Oswald answered him before addressing her again. "We have arrived at Conner's . . ."

"Conner's?" She lifted the lid to find a top-of-the-line smartphone. White with silver accents. She raised her eyebrows and nodded in approval, placing the lid to the side.

That will be fun to play with.

"I'll explain later. I have to go. I'll see you this evening."

Cassandra clutched the linen napkin by its tail and drew it upward to allow the utensils to tumble out. "I can't wait. I miss you," she said as she turned her attention to the food.

"The sentiment is mutual," he responded. "Oh, and Cassandra?"

"Hmmmm?" She had already shoveled a forkful of pancake into her mouth.

"I needed the flamethrower after all," he said before hanging up. Her laugh nearly caused her to choke on the spongy food already in mid-journey down her throat.

The thrill of vindication tastes so good.