Skies of Ash Read Online Free PDF

drove away.
    The smoke continued to drift to unsuspecting galaxies, but the fire’s lingering heat still baked away my juicy motivation. Gangsta heat had parched my throat, already scratchy from nibbling ashes all morning. Cinders, dried drops of sweat, and observations from arson experts peppered the pages of my notepad. Now, though, I needed to talk with the other experts: the folks who saw the Chatmans every day.
    At the army-green bungalow across the street, the one with the piano in the window, a slender, brown-haired white lady sat on the porch. She was the type of woman you ignored until it was time for her to do your taxes. Women like that made for great observers.
    She told me her name was Delia Moss and that she’d seen Juliet and the kids on Monday. “It’s unbelievable,” she said, blowing her nose into a tissue. “They’re gone. They’re really gone. And what are we supposed to do now?”
    “Well,” I said, “you can answer a few questions that I have.”
    “ ‘The bad end unhappily, the good unluckily. That is what tragedy means.’ ” She clutched her neck. “I didn’t write that. Tom Stoppard did and it’s rather fitting in this situation, yes?”
    “Yes.” I blinked, then asked, “How was the family yesterday? Anything happen out of the ordinary? Any strange visits or strange people hanging around?”
    “I hate that house,” Delia Moss said—she hadn’t heard a word I’d just asked. “You all must knock it down—that house does not deserve to remain standing. Not after it trapped Jules and the babies. That house must go. You all must put it out of its misery. Haunted piece of shit.”
    “About the Chatman family,” I said. “Who—?”
    “They were a wonderful family,” she said. “A truly special group of people. Their inner light affected everyone they met. Their auras were… indescribable.”
    “They sound perfect,” I said, eyebrow cocked.
    “I wouldn’t want to live if my family were gone. Really: How could I go on after losing
three
loved ones? How many pills would I have to take to dull that kind of pain? What would I do once my friends returned to their own lives? Would I survive the After? Would I eat the end of a gun? What would I do?” She looked up at me with waiting, cried-out eyes.
    “What do you do for a living, Ms. Moss?” I asked.
    “I’m a playwright.”
    I gave Delia Moss my card and turned to leave. “I’ll call you once the shock wears off.”
    “The cops in the uniforms,” she called after me. “They told me to pay attention. To report anyone who looks suspicious, who doesn’t fit in. But what does that
mean
, Detective Norton? It’s Los
Angeles
. And we live between the ghetto, Hollywood, and the airport. Everyone and no one looks suspicious in this city. Suspicious? What does that mean? It means nothing.” And with that, Delia Moss rose from the steps and stumbled into her house.
    And the curtain dropped.
    End scene.
    A middle-aged black woman wearing a silver-sequined sweater and an all-the-way-down-to-there hair weave as glossy as Delia Moss’s baby grand lingered near my Crown Vic. Her eyes bit into me like a hungry hound dog nibbling an uncooked Christmas ham. I would let her have a few bites—but she’d be sick of me before the week ended.
    “Jules
loved, loved, loved
her Barbra Streisand roses,” Nora Galbreath told me, near tears. The air around her was ten degrees warmer—the sequins from her sweater reflected sunlight.
    Galbreath lived in the Frank Sinatra bebop house on the other side of the Chatmans. Her home had suffered singed eaves, a broken kitchen window, a trashed side yard, and destroyed security cameras.
    “Jules balked when Chloe asked to plant sunflowers beside those roses,” she whispered.
    My pen had stopped working. No one used “balked” in everyday conversation. Even a dollar-store Bic knew that.
    “Jules told Chloe ‘no, no, no,’ ” Galbreath continued, “the sunflowers won’t match.’ ”