Cupid

"Asher! You are a fool!" His mother s.n.a.t.c.hed the Ovid Island newspaper from his hands and threw it to the ground. "Fool!"

"Good morning, Mother." Asher didn't even try to pick the paper up. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and returned to his breakfast.

The chef peeked her head in and looked at him. That day, her thick braids were pulled up in a ponytail that showed off her lovely chocolate skin.

"Sir, is everything okay?" the chef asked.

"Yes, Grace" Asher said. "We're fine."

"Tell her to go!" His mother paced back and forth, back and forth. "We need to talk, and right now!"

"Calm down and eat, please." He gestured to the table. "Grace made a lovely a.s.sortment of goodies today. The eggs are sunny side up, bacon crisp, croissants flaky and b.u.t.tery."

"You like your eggs sunny side up. I like them scrambled." His mother pa.s.sed by Grace and stomped over to her side of the table. "And the d.a.m.n woman has forgot to set my place again." His mother hit the empty surface in front of where she always sat and frowned. "More and more she forgets to set my place at the table. We need to replace her."

Asher gazed awkwardly at Grace and shifted in his chair. "We're not replacing anyone."

Grace widened her eyes and opened her mouth, but no words came out.

"Grace, don't listen to my mother." He shook his head. "Please, just make her a place."

"With proper eggs," Mother interrupted.

"Sir?" Grace asked.

"I'm sorry. Mother wants the eggs scrambled." He leaned down and picked up the newspaper.

"You want me to make a place for your mother?" Grace asked.

"See! She's an imbecile!" His mother covered her face. "All night I had to repeat myself. Still, she didn't follow any of my orders. None of the dishes presented were from the menu I gave her. Who does this?"

"Mother!" He hit the table hard, which startled both women. Water shook in his gla.s.s.

"Is everything okay, sir?" Grace asked.

His mother imitated the chef in a whiny voice, "Is everything okay, sir? Can she not hear us arguing about her lack of ability to do her job?"

"Mother, let's move on." Asher did his best to calm her down. "The party has already happened. Let's just get through breakfast this morning. Grace, please make proper eggs for Mother as usual."

"Okay, sir." Grace nodded and turned around.

"And Grace," Asher added.

"Yes, sir." She glanced over her shoulder.

"I don't know what occurred between you and my mother last night, but that is never to happen again. And could you please apologize to my mother?"

Grace looked around the room, not seeing anyone else, but Asher. These moments tended to be the hardest part of her job. She always had to make sure she turned to whatever direction Asher was talking to his dead mother, and then try to address her.

Grace turned to the empty s.p.a.ce at the table, years ago, where his mother would sit for all of her meals. "Mrs. Bishop, I'm so sorry about last night."

Asher checked with his mother. "Is that better?"

The old woman crossed her arms over her chest and pouted. "Fine. Now tell her to leave. I can't deal with Grace today, and do you know why?"

"Why?" Asher sighed.

"Because my son is a fool."

Asher forced himself not to roll his eyes. "Thank you, Grace."

Grace nodded, rushed back into the kitchen, and hoped that she could guess the right dish the ghost would love to eat this morning. Half the time it was luck. Other times she guessed wrong and got a stern look from Mr. Bishop. Yet, she stayed with him for all these years because he paid three times as much as most did for a private chef, mainly due to the confidentiality agreement his lawyer made her sign.

The other reason. . . she felt bad for him. After all, he was only hurting himself. What was left of his poor mother now sat in a private gravesite in Miami.

Meanwhile, in the dining area, Asher Bishop argued with his mother.

"And why am I a fool?" he asked.

"There's a dead man in the newspaper this morning." His mother pointed to the newspaper.

"There are always dead men in the newspaper."

"Not ones that you're responsible for."

Asher raised a blonde eyebrow. "Are you sure about that?"

"Well, apparently, you go off now on your own and do whatever you want. So no, I'm not sure about that. Since when do you kill without my approval?" She held her hands in the air and let them fall to her sides. "No matter how many times I tell you to be careful, think things through, and stop your. . .activities. You keep going."

Asher folded the newspaper up and placed it next to him. "The paper said Neil was found with his mistress. All of the stations are focusing more on the scandal, then who actually did it."

"Oh really?" His mother pointed to the paper. "Read some more."

"I was reading until you rudely took it out of my hand."

She frowned and refused to look away.

"Fine. I'll read some more." For the rest of the breakfast, he checked out the front-page story that continued on page nine and took up the whole section in the back. The detail of the arrow wound had been concealed, which meant that the police probably had connected Neil's death to the other men he'd killed last year.

"If you are going to murder again, at least use a knife or gun," his mother suggested.

Asher noticed Grace walking back in with his mother's plate.

"Quiet, please," Asher said.

"Me, sir?" Grace asked.

"No, I'm talking to Mother."

"Okay." Grace offered him a weak smile, held the plate, and looked around the table. "And Mrs. Bishop, where would you like to eat your food?"

"Right where I'm sitting," she snapped.

Grace stared at Asher as if pleading with him for something.

He shrugged.

Maybe, she's afraid of Mother. Most are.

"Umm." He stood up and grabbed the plate. "Thank you so much, Grace. I'll take it over to her."

Grace's face brightened. "Oh thank you so much! Not many people that I've worked for with your status would get up and serve the plate."

"Well, I wasn't always rich. I'm not one from money." Asher winked at her and took his Mother her breakfast. "Mother and I have been very lucky."

"I see." Grace checked the table and took away his empty bowl where he'd been munching on fresh strawberries and yogurt.

"Yes, Mother married very well. . .a few times." He sat back down.

Sighing, his mother picked up her fork. "Why you must converse with these people as if they're on our level, boggles me. These eggs look runny."

"The eggs look fine." He forced a smile.

Grace stared at the untouched plate in front of the empty seat. "Does she not like the eggs, sir?"

"Mother doesn't really like anything this morning." He took a sip of his orange juice. "You're excused, Grace."

"Thank you, sir."

Asher returned to the paper. Although the details on the front seemed like the normal things-mystery behind the murder, dim-witted speculation, and broad details. The continuance of the story caught his attention. Out of no where, the news article shifted into an editorial commentary, and Asher didn't at all like the reporter's observations.

Asher reread the pa.s.sage again.

. . .there is something going on in Auden City, something that we, the citizens of this area, are blind to. This is the third affluent man that has been found on the island and mysteriously killed.

Thomas Nickelson, owner of Lenwood Oil, was discovered by his wife with a gaping hole in his chest. His head was also face down at the foot of his daughter's bed. His daughter claimed to not see anything that happened that evening due to being asleep.

Jackson Mirabelli, son of leading entrepreneur Richard Mirabelli was found two days ago in his first floor apartment with a similar hole in his chest. The concierge told police that he'd arrived with a woman. However, the ident.i.ty of that woman still has not been discovered.

Although, the police have not confirmed if Neil Carson died with a hole in his chest, any logical citizen can surmise that if the wound is similar to the other two murdered, wealthy men, then Ovid Island has a serial killer among us.

Asher stiffened in his chair. "Interesting."

"You're getting lazy." His mother pushed her plate away as if she didn't see anything on there that she'd enjoy eating. "You're leaving the bodies out in the open now. You've never done that before."

"It's more fun that way." He grabbed a strawberry from his bowl and plopped it in his mouth. "I like to let the people in their lives know what they've done."

"Or do you want everyone to know what you've done?"

"Meaning?"

"You want some notoriety for ridding the world of sc.u.m."

"You're wrong." He flipped the page around to check out the name of the reporter who wrote the article. "Very interesting, indeed."

"What?"

"Diane Carson wrote the article. If I remember correctly, that's Neil's wife. I hadn't realized she was a reporter."

"Didn't you do your investigation before the kill?"

"I previewed Neil's history, but-"

"Fool!" His mother hit the table.

"I needed one more kill before the end of the year."

"You killed the druggie guy three days ago. Was that not enough?"

"His name was Jackson and yes. . .that wasn't a fulfilling hunt." He pulled out his phone and did a search of Diane Carson.

In a few seconds, her picture came up on his screen. The fragrance of roses seemed to radiate from the phone.

That's her. It has to be.

Like he guessed, she was a black woman with a lush color of skin, more rich earth than copper. Her skin looked soft. Asher's fingers itched to touch it. In the picture, long black hair ran past her shoulders.

He scanned through more results for a full body picture. A few came up. She'd been photographed with Neil at a few charity events. No matter what dress or gown she wore, those lush curves peaked out under expensive fabric.

"Why are you staring at your phone like that?" His mother interrupted his search.

"I'm wondering what type of woman does a news article on her dead husband hours after he'd been discovered murdered."

"Maybe she's crazy."

"Or obsessed," he muttered.

"Obsessed with what?"

"The story. The mystery of it all."