Page 22 of A Breath of Life
The new office for Shadowy Solutions was located on the second floor of a squat building a few blocks from St. Lawrence Market. On nice days, I strolled there for lunch, taking advantage of the various stalls ofdelectables. Diem never complained when I brought back tasty treats from the bakery. On occasion, he ventured there in the early mornings and showed up at the records department with a bag of warm peanut butter cookies and specialty coffees.
I decided that these random acts of kindness from my surly boyfriend were his unspoken means of reminding me that he loved me. He might not say it often, but there were signs.
The new office had a moderate lobby we used as a reception area, a bathroom off the main room, and a separate office down a short hall that was barely big enough for Diem’s new desk. It wasn’t luxurious, but we made it work. It was a huge upgrade from the old office.
The painting and decorating were solely my doing. I’d repurposed some gently used furniture from a secondhand store and used the generous payment from a past client to furnish the rest. Plants, wall hangings, and functional area rugs helped give it a welcoming vibe that the old office had sorely lacked.
If I had left decorating up to Diem, we would have been steeped in misery like before—orange plastic waiting chairs included. Those suckers had gone into a dumpster. I would have none of it. Not if I was a partner. Not if I had to spend two days a week working at the office. I might not be able to live the classy lifestyle I dreamed of, but I was good at faking it, and the new space was pleasant and inviting.
Our client retention had improved, the two- and three-star ratings had diminished, and things were getting better. We weren’t making a killing, but the business was no longer drowning. Investigating cheating husbands and wives kept us in the green.
We didn’t have a receptionist—that job fell to me most days—so when I entered shortly before six, and a chime announced my arrival, Diem shouted from down the hall. “Give me a minute. Have a seat.”
“It’s me.”
He grunted in acknowledgment as I flopped into a semi-luxurious faux leather chair and hiked my feet onto the desk, dragging my phone from a pocket to resume the ongoing text conversation I’d been having with Memphis.
We’d chatted about Jeweler Joshua most of the day, and as much as Memphis had tried bleeding me for details about my need for the appraiser and the elusivepiece, I’d dodged his questions, redirecting to his renewed infatuation with the guy, suffering through details I wanted no part of. Sacrifices.
Memphis was a bit of a slut. If it wasn’t Antoine at the shoe store warming his bed, it was Phoenix or Ralph or Donny or Calvin or whoever else held the title of Flavor of the Month. Joshua was a recurring fling. He came and went like the tide, like Memphis’s mood. I wasn’t sure my best friend would ever settle down.
Diem appeared with Echo obediently at his side and tossed a printout at my feet. “Any luck?”
I set my phone aside. “Nope. No one within the Greater Toronto Area has reported a missing trophy card or whatever the fuck you want to call it. It’s been days, D. Can we agree the likelihood of it being stolen is slim?”
He made a noncommittal noise and gestured to the paper he’d tossed on the desk. I snapped it up and skimmed it. “What is this?”
“I did research surrounding the card in general to see if there might be an underlying message or meaning. Playing cards date back as far as the ninth century, originating in China during the Tang Dynasty. They didn’t show up in Europe until the thirteenth or fourteenth century. It wasn’t until the sixteenth century that the fifty-two-card deck was presented. The suits themselves seemed to differ, depending on the region, but it was the French who simplified it to what we know today as hearts, clubs, spades, and diamonds.”
“I’m growing bored. Get to the point.” I stared from the printed form to Diem and back. He’d typed up a concise list of the same information, breaking down a detailed history of the playing card. Halfway down the page, his research zeroed in on symbolism, breaking down the suits and what they have been known to represent.
I didn’t have to read it since Diem continued with his lesson. “Some say the suits represent the phases of the moon. The four seasons. The four elements. Human energies. Others claim they denote classes of society. The spade can symbolize all kinds of things. It’s often paired with nobility, military, warrior status, conflict, power, intellect, or action.”
I waved the paper between us. “What does any of this matter?”
Diem removed the leather pouch from his pocket and tugged the card from within. He held it up, showing me. “Ace of spades is significant in and of itself.”
“How?” I didn’t bother referencing the form.
“It represents death. Sometimes referred to as Spadille or Old Frizzle.” He moved the card so it caught the light, refracting the engraved image on the platinum spade in the center. “And what has been embossed in the metal?”
“A skull.”
“And where did we get the card?”
“From a guy who was dying in an alley.”
“A guy who had been attacked. I suspect with the intent to kill. And what was the man’s biggest concern as he suffocated from a swollen throat and with a knife lodged in his stomach?”
“Getting rid of the card.” I set the paper down. “So, what do you make of all this?”
“I have no fucking idea. All I know is I don’t want anything to do with it. Since we can’t find its owner, I say we either hand it over tothe police or toss it in a fucking dumpster like I wanted to do five days ago. Take your pick.”
“But it’s worth—”
“Tallus, I don’t fucking care what it’s worth.” Echo whined and nuzzled Diem’s leg, peering up at his charge with concern. Diem automatically moderated his temper and volume. “Something tells me that trying to sell it would somehow come back and bite us in the ass. Therefore—”
“I don’t agree. I think whatever we do with it should be a mutual decision, and I don’t like either of your options.”
