“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No. Nothing. What did—” A smoke alarm interrupted the interrogation. “Hold that thought.”
I bought this building six months before I “died.” The front faced the busy main street. Six apartments on three floors. The back of the building had another set of six apartments looking over a parking lot to the cross street. All the apartments on the top floors were mine.
The smoke alarm came from the front building, the sound growing as I descended the stairs. Second floor, parking-lot side, resided the worst cook in the 202 area code. I pounded on the heavy door. “MaryAnn, it’s Diamond.” Not waiting for an invitation, I entered the bypass code that was part of my security upgrade. The lock slid open. I burst in and sprinted through the living and dining room to the kitchen.
“Stop that noise!” An irritated woman snapped a towel up at the blaring device.
The alarm mounted seven feet above the floor did not comply. Nor should it have.
“MaryAnn, your stove is on fire.”
“Of course, it is,” she shouted over the noise. “I’m making blackened chicken just like those Cajun chefs.”
MaryAnn was a cooking channel enthusiast. Two months ago, I had fire extinguishers installed in all the kitchens after a marathon of barbecue episodes had the fire department here three times in one day. I set the gun I still carried by the sink, far away from the fire, pulled the extinguisher from its cradle, and snuffed the flames heading for the wall. Next, I opened her back door and retrieved the ladder stored in her common hallway for just this reason.
My eyeballs pulsed with the incessant noise. Hoping they wouldn’t start bleeding, I set the ladder up, climbed, and all but ripped the fucker off the wall.
Silence was an ice cream cone after a late night at a rock concert.
“I don’t know what happened.” MaryAnn held a small butane torch in hand. “I was blackening the chicken when that damn thing went off. I did everything right, and it looks like I made charcoal. How do they make it look so easy?”
“They have a whole team.” My Interruption had followed me down and was making herself useful by clearing the hot zone. “You only see one person in front of the camera, but three or four or more people actually figured out the recipe, doing all the practice runs without the film running.”
“Is that how everything stays so clean? That’s cheating. I’m MaryAnn McNamara.”
“Hanna Lang,” the woman formerly known as My Interruption said. “They use all kinds of tricks to make cooking look easy and appealing. It’s their business.”
MaryAnn pouted as she considered. “The lyin’ dogs. Did any of my chicken survive?”
“Maybe this—”
I shook my head emphatically, clearing my throat to get Hanna’s attention.
“—I’m sorry, no.” Hanna got points for catching on. “It’s a complete loss.”
“Do you have any of the chef packaged meals?” I asked. “You like those, and no open fire is required.”
“Yes, I guess I could have one of those for dinner. It will give me time to make this recipe I found for dessert. Bananas Foster.”
“No!” If I shouted, it wasn’t unwarranted.
“Let’s make dinner together,” Hanna said, soothing MaryAnn. “It will be fun.”
I scowled, my plans for a quick exit going up in smoke. I couldn’t drag Hanna Lang out of the apartment without being subject to the McNamara Inquisition for the next week—wait. I didn’t have a next week. “We were in the middle of a conversation. Hanna, the clock is still ticking.”
“Of course. It was nice—” Hanna took a step to exit but was thwarted by a hand on her arm.
“You girls these days,” MaryAnn said, pulling Hanna to the refrigerator. “Always in a hurry. No time for the niceties in life. When my Angus was with me…” MaryAnn talked about her dearly departed as she handed Hanna a packaged meal in a cute little bag. Next, MaryAnn went to the sink. I got a sponge, soap, and a bucket.
Hanna looked between me—the woman she was trying to hire—and an old woman with a proclivity for open flames.
Guess who lost.
Click here to learn more about Suicide Squeeze by TG Wolff.
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