Page 112 of Throwing Shade
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I draggedmy butt into the house, my head drooping and my eyelids heavy. I intended to wake myself up with a cold shower but when I tripped twice on my way upstairs, I veered into my bedroom and collapsed on my mattress. I stayed awake long enough to type an email to Shirley, saying that I’d developed a fever and would be off until Monday, but I hesitated before sending it, because I’d never played hooky before, not even from school, since that would have meant drawing unwanted attention to me.
Work could wait. Jude couldn’t. I hit send.
Comforting myself that Kirk couldn’t get into my house without an invitation and Sadie was safe during the day, I was asleep in seconds and didn’t wake up until late afternoon. Between the sleep and a long shower, I felt vaguely human again. I wrapped my hair in a bright orange towel, slipped on a fuzzy bathrobe and my favorite slippers, made myself a hair-raisingly strong coffee and a toasted sesame seed bagel, and phoned Daisy, our firm’s private investigator.
Tatiana remained my best shot at quickly finding another Banim Shovavim to tell me how to get the dybbuk out of Jude, but forewarned was forearmed. She’d gotten the jump on me at our first meeting, and that wouldn’t happen again.
According to Daisy’s intel, the eighty-year-old had lived a colorful life. Born in New York to Jewish immigrants who’d fled the Nazis, her parents found slow but steady success in the diamond district. Their increasing wealth went hand-in-hand with more extreme religious views until the family was firmly ensconced in the Hasidic community.
Tatiana rejected an arranged marriage and fled to Paris to pursue her art. Eventually she met Samuel Cassin, originally from Vancouver, who was working in one of the banks there. They lived in Paris for decades as Tatiana’s art career took off, globe-trotting all over the world to her openings, before they moved back to Vancouver about fifteen years ago. Samuel passed away several years later, but Tatiana stayed.
This woman had defied religious and societal expectation to make a name and a space for herself. She was an inspiration and yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was dangerous to me. Even Laurent didn’t trust her.
I topped up my coffee. Not that he was the best judge of character.
Daisy offered to send me the large document of all Tatiana’s professional achievements. It was incredible that the artist was such a public persona and yet even as skilled an investigator as Daisy hadn’t unearthed her being an Ohrist.
Unless Daisy was one herself and didn’t think I’d believe her.
“Was there anything else? No matter how unbelievable?” I said, stirring sugar into my mug. “I can handle it. I’m no Sap.”
Daisy laughed. “You sound like you’re hoping for something specific.”
“I guess not.” I thanked her and said I’d send the cookie recipe she’d asked for as soon as we hung up. I even included the special tip about freezing the dough and then grating it into the greased pan, snickering at the memory of my ex-sister-in-law Genevieve making this recipe without it, and the resulting bricks that her guests had tried to gnaw their way through.
Tempting as it was to throw on yet another pair of sweats, I went for a more polished look with tailored pants that made my ass look amazing and a sleek black wrap top with white French cuffs. I twisted my hair into a chignon and put on a light coat of foundation, a swipe of pale shadow, and a thick coat of mascara, finishing it up with my favorite red lipstick.
Tatiana might want to meet and I was determined to present myself as professional and capable. If for some reason I ran into Laurent when I checked on Jude later, he could damn well see me the same way.
Daisy had provided me with Tatiana’s contact information, and while the artist was surprised to hear from me, she greeted me warmly.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your call, bubeleh?” Her cigarette-infused, New Yorker accent rasped the sentence, turning the word “call” into “cawl.”
“I’ve got a family emergency and I need to speak with an experienced Banim Shovavim.”
“And you came to me. I’m flattered.” She sounded much like the devil would if I’d been looking to trade away my soul. Like we both knew there was no real other option, but we could be civilized and pretend otherwise.
I had another sip of coffee, but even with all the sugar, it tasted bitter. I got up and dumped the contents down the drain. “You’re well connected and this really is urgent.”
“Don’t be coy. What are your specific requirements?”
My stomach rumbled and I opened the fridge looking for something healthy to eat. “It’s kind of personal.”
“I’d hate to steer you wrong,” she said. “Given the urgency.”
Sighing, I grabbed some mocha-flavored yogurt and dumped it in a bowl. I’d hoped to avoid the particulars, but the one unsuccessful attempt I’d made with Rupert had hurt him, and this time I needed a home run. I required guidance and if letting Tatiana in on the particulars was a necessary evil to achieve that, so be it. “I need to get a dybbuk out of someone who’s enthralled.”
There was a pause. “Did Laurent put you up to this?”
“He has no idea I’m calling you.”
Tatiana laughed throatily. “Oh, to be a fly on the wall when you tell him.”
I sucked some yogurt off the spoon. What was the deal between the two of them? I’d swear they really liked each other, but why did she disapprove of his livelihood so much? She didn’t strike me as a traditionalist who’d push for him to follow in his father’s footsteps.
“Can you help me?” I said. “Or do you know how to do it?”
