The Devil and Danielle Webster Read online

  The Devil and Danielle Webster

  By Cynthia Cross

  Copyright 2014

  To Stella

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 – Regarding Hot Sauce and Contracts

  Chapter 2 – A Night of Passion

  Chapter 3 – A Night of Passion, Take 2

  Chapter 4 – A Night of Passion, Take 3

  Chapter 5 – The Exorcist

  Chapter 6 – Brainstorming

  Chapter 7 – Angel Battle

  Chapter 8 – The Party of No

  Chapter 9 – Satan Unbunched

  Chapter 10 – Evil Eye Evie

  Chapter 11 – A Morning of Passion

  Chapter 12 – Hot Sauce Redux

  Chapter 13 – Breakfast Theater

  Chapter 14 – Red Diamond Redux

  Chapter 15 – Angel Redux

  Chapter 16 – First Class Entertainment

  A note from the author

  Chapter 1 – Regarding Hot Sauce and Contracts

  Blame it on the infernal heat of an Arizona summer night. Blame it on the summer solstice. Blame it on the Sun Devil Motel’s clanking window air conditioner. Blame it on the repellently-named town of Bullhead City. Blame it on insomnia, or blame it on the lack of a bar. Blame it on my boss’s incessant text messaging and her addiction to The Wrong Men. Better yet, blame it on the bottle of hot sauce I found behind the motel desk counter, because the trouble started right there. To be frank, I’ll blame all of these factors before I blame my own bad choices. They combined to make me fair game for a soft-spoken hustler with legendary sales skills.

  I’d driven up from Phoenix to obtain a signature as a favor to Jill, my boss. Jill’s a lawyer specializing in wills, and she has clients who represent Arizona’s “old money” throughout the state. She also handles divorces, which is how I met her six years ago. She handled mine, became a friend, and then more recently, offered me a job as her assistant when I left teaching due to a massive case of special ed burnout. After dealing with high schoolers whose intent was to disrupt class, run to the bathroom and the nurse incessantly, and learn as little as they possibly could while sitting their butts resentfully in resource classes for four years, I found chatting with 90-year-olds who wanted to change their beneficiaries wonderfully refreshing.

  Road construction had slowed my drive so much that a return trip was impossible that day. Not only that, but the car’s AC showed alarming signs of quitting on me.

  I texted Jill to let her know about my delay.

  “still in bc” “traffic bad road construction” “got Foster sig” “ok to stay overnight?”

  Her response was immediate. “can you get back by noon?”

  “will try” “may need ac serviced” “can I put motel rm on company credit card?”

  “ok cheap if possible” was her final text.

  Hah—BC. If only it were British Columbia. I’ll bet they didn’t have triple digit temps going right now.

  “Welcome to the Hotel Bullhead City” I sang as I pulled up to a stucco building glowing pink in the afternoon sun. “Mirrors on the ceiling…your diet Coke on ice…” Sun Devil Motel blinked sporadically on the neon sign.

  I knew better than to text Josh. Before getting the room, I called his house. Of course no one answered. They screen everything with an antiquated 1980’s-era answering machine, which allows you 30 seconds. I tend to explain, justify, and ramble, so the machine was always hanging up on me. But that was in keeping with my annoying ex-husband. Receiving Josh’s terse, “We can’t come to the phone right now. Leave a message after the beep,” I said, “Josh, Leann, I need your help. I’m stuck in Bullhead City, it’s 4 PM, can you keep the kids for the night?”

  Amazingly, Josh picked up. “Danielle, we just can’t do that,” he said repressively.

  “Why not?”

  “Leann and I have plans tonight.”

  “Can’t you include the kids in your plans?”

  “Not really.”

  “Why, what are you doing?”

  “It’s really not your business, but Leann and I are going out to dinner. To a nice restaurant.”

  “Eyerolls are lost on you, Josh, so it’s just as well I’m 250 miles away. Can you get the kids some McDonalds, then, and leave them to babysit themselves?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Danielle.”

  “Well, I’m four hours away, so try to think positive. You know Mike is old enough now to babysit.”

  “A kid of thirteen with a girlfriend is not a reliable babysitter.”

  “Well, what do you suggest?”

  “Can’t they stay at your mom’s?”

  “We’ve had this discussion. Children are not allowed overnight at her senior home. You know that.”

  “She could babysit them at your house, couldn’t she?”

  “Josh, you know Evie by now. She is not going to agree to that for more than an hour or two. It puts too much of a cramp in her social life. Besides, you’d have to drive her over.”

  That shut him up fast. Mom’s ability to tell people off is legendary, and she had a special grievance against Josh, whom she blamed for the divorce, no matter how many times I told her I was the one who had called it quits. When Evie was in Josh’s company, she chewed on him like a dog chews on a rawhide stick.

  It took some argument and arm-twisting, but finally I gained his grudging consent to keep Mike, Emmy and Carter until I could get back into town.

  Mom was next on the list to call. She declined to text, saying that if anyone wanted to reach her they would have to give her their undivided attention. Texting was for multitaskers, and Mom felt multitasking was inherently dishonest.

  “Pshaw,” was her reaction. “It’ll do Josh good to take care of his own kids for once. Leann might even lift a finger, though I doubt she will. She’s never had kids of her own, so she’s lazy.”

  “Mom,” I protested, laughing, “Careful. Don’t say that around Patty. She hasn’t had kids, and she’s one of the hardest-working people I know.”

  “You be careful yourself. Anything can happen in a place named Bullfrog City. I have a bad feeling about this. What is Jill thinking, sending you up there?”

  “It’s Bullhead City, Mom.” Mom had a good grasp of geography, but she was a recent transplant from Chicago to Phoenix, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to stay, especially now that the summer was here. Mom had tried scolding the hot climate into better behavior, but so far it hadn’t worked.

  “Jill’s client could have faxed his signature,” I admitted, “but I really just wanted to get out of town for the day.”

  “I can understand that. It’s still 107 degrees!” she said indignantly.

  “It isn’t much better up here,” I reported. “Last I checked, my car was registering 103.”

  “Next time,” she said crisply, “volunteer to drive someplace cool.”

  “Like Schaumburg?” I suggested.

  Mom had moved here from Schaumburg, Illinois, mainly because living in California, where Patty lived, was too expensive. She had tried scolding California into less sinful prices, but that hadn’t worked, either. Mom had stopped wasting her breath trying to bully either Patty or me into moving back to the Midwest, contenting herself with guilt trips and tears whenever we visited. As the meeker of the two daughters, I had suggested that she move to Arizona.

  My reward was to see Evie Webster triumphantly leading the bridge group at Friendship Town, the senior apartments where she now lived, and going out on dates with nice gentlemen regularly, a far busier social life than I could claim.

  She was also a frequent flyer at Northern Lights Lutheran Church, as well, which (thank heaven) w
as only a few blocks away from Friendship Town. The prayer chain met two mornings a week, and luckily, Mom got rides from Sonja, a member of the group. Mom called her “the weakest link” behind her back, because Sonja had once been charismatic, and still talked self-importantly about her foray into speaking in tongues, something Mom didn’t hold with at all. “Glossolalia,” she said contemptuously, “can’t be anything decent. It sounds obscene.” That, to Evie, was a clinching argument.

  Jill lived fairly close, and was good-natured enough to ferry Mom to and from choir practice most Wednesdays. Mom thought Jill was a dear, and prayed for Jill’s redemption from her wicked ways nightly. That was sufficient recompense; it did not occur to Mom to offer gas money. Jill laughed it off, saying, “You and Patty are lucky to have Evie.” Maybe.

  Speaking of Jill, though she didn’t like talking on the phone, I was going to call her anyway. Her excuse was that she did too much phone-calling as part of her workday. She wanted to enjoy her evenings without interruptions. She didn’t consider men who were clearly Bad News interruptions. Same went for texts. Well, too bad. I was already feeling lonely, and it was her damned client who was responsible for my being stuck here. I called Jill. It went through to her voicemail. “Damn you,” I said conversationally. “I’ll send you a text.”

  A few hours later, the heat had barely lessened, though the sun was setting. My room had a cute little balcony with chairs, but with temperatures still hovering near triple digits, I wasn’t tempted. The deserted pool looked badly in need of a cleaning. Cable options were limited. I dozed over Emmy’s paperback copy of The Hunger Games until I startled myself awake with my own snores. Dinner, a western burger made with limp bacon from the diner across the street, rested fitfully in my stomach.

  Well, the bed looked fairly comfortable. But even sleep provided no respite from boredom. I battle insomnia even under the best of circumstances, which these weren’t.

  And so, after a fruitless struggle to remain asleep, I found myself in the deserted motel lobby at 1 AM, sporting a stained teeshirt and ancient cutoffs, flipping through brochures for tourist destinations I would never visit. As I stared at a photo of Ham the Space Chimp, whose grave could be visited in Alamogordo, New Mexico, I absently nibbled the rubbery cold remains of a large order of fries. Ham the Space Chimp looked suitably mournful.

  “I wonder if there’s any ketchup,” I said, barely noticing I’d said it aloud and shoveling another fry into my mouth. I studied the front desk. Maybe a few stray packets of ketchup could be found somewhere behind that counter? I got up and ambled behind the desk. Wow. No ketchup packets, but sitting prominently in the corner was a large bottle of hot sauce.

  Doug used to put hot sauce on his French fries. Like many of his habits, I now found this deplorable. How long had it been since I’d seen my old boyfriend? Two decades? That, and more. We’d had little in common beyond a mutual enjoyment of my urgent desire for him. I had found Doug Morris irresistible; I’d stumbled through five years on legs wobbly with lust, but I’d called it love.

  In retrospect, it was easy to feel contempt for him. He never brushed his teeth that I could detect. His idea of humor was to repeat his favorite lines from Saturday Night Live, followed by hearty laughter. I knew he could read; I caught him scanning “Field & Stream” once. He once bought a three-piece suit made entirely of denim. Worse, his best friend had bought the identical suit. They wore their matching suits for years, for every blasted wedding we attended while all our friends were getting married. Everyone got married.

  Except for us.

  While we were together, I could not disdain him. That came later, a “fox and grapes” reflex. No, I was the one always on probation, acceptable, but barely, always wondering when he would move on to a thinner girl, a prettier girl, a girl who would make heads turn and inspire his friends’ envy. Doug Morris could have upgraded to a flashier model at any time.

  In my eyes, he was a Norse god. His hair was blond, his eyes were green, his frame was muscled from fishing, hunting, and working on cars. His only blemish was a paunch that attested to his affection for beers and prime rib. I didn’t mind that; it proved he wasn’t perfect and therefore attainable, maybe; maybe even by me.

  The breakup, though I’d always expected it, traumatized me for years. It caused me to jump at my first proposal and rush into an ill-conceived marriage, which ended in divorce six years ago. But now, I had kids, pets, a decent job, a paid-off house, and a sense of gratitude for being left alone. I was over men. Most of the time.

  That included Doug Morris, despite my continuing to brood about him late at night. I had taken to nursing my grievances about him when I couldn’t sleep. At least it kept me from thinking about Josh and the divorce. Late nights had been the times I’d attracted Doug Morris most successfully.

  At this moment, in a boring godforsaken motel, I looked down at Ham the Space Chimp, but my mind was on Doug. My voice echoed in the tiny motel lobby and I realized I’d said aloud: “Geez, I wish I had Doug Morris here with me for just one night of passion.”

  What happened next truly happened, surreal as it seems.

  I must have picked up the hot sauce, as it was in my hand. I must have unscrewed the lid. Fumes rose up, making my eyes water so badly that I couldn’t see for a moment. The smell seemed off to me, reminding me not of Mexican food, but of…what? Sulfur? This had to be the new “Seventh Circle of Hell” hot sauce.

  I heard a POP. As the smoke cleared I wiped my eyes and became aware that I was no longer alone in the room.

  A nondescript man was standing behind the front desk, looking damp. As I watched in fascination, steam rose from him. I could see, as if in time-lapse photography, liquid evaporate from his head and clothing in an instant.

  He looked up, caught me in the act of staring, stretched hugely, and said with great politeness, “Thanks for that.”

  “For what?” I said, confused.

  “For opening that bottle. I’ve been stuck there for a good three weeks.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you’re some kind of genie?” I asked, skeptically.

  “Some people call me that. Some call me other names.” He smiled self-mockingly and I realized that a smile could make a nondescript person extremely attractive.

  “I thought guys like you were found in brass lamps, not hot sauce bottles. And you’re supposed to fill the room when you come out, aren’t you?”

  “Well,” he said, gesturing to the far corners of the room, “it did get a bit steamy for a moment or two.”

  “That was weird,” I agreed. “But you’re looking businesslike now, in that suit and tie. Are you sure you’re not the night clerk?”

  He acted as if I’d given him a compliment, smiling and shrugging. “I’m actually a pretty good master of disguise, and I have been a concierge before at five star hotels, but never at a dive like this. As far as my current look goes, you know how images change over time. Think of ‘I Dream of Jeannie.’ Think Disney’s ‘Aladdin.’ You could even think ‘Pippin,’ if you’re into Broadway musicals.”

  “I’m too young for ‘I Dream of Jeannie.’ I barely remember it.”

  “No, you’re not. It will live on in Syndication Hell, forever.”

  I grimaced. “Now I’ve got the theme song in my head. Thanks a lot.”

  “Ah, well,” he said unrepentantly, “try to replace it with ’A Whole New World.’ It’s a much better song.” Suddenly, his manner became crisp and down-to-business. “You made a wish just now.” He retrieved a notebook, flipped to a page, and read precisely, “’I wish I had Doug Morris here with me for just one night of passion.’” He coughed discreetly as I turned a fiery shade of red. “Just between us, I can make that happen.”

  The smell of that hot sauce drifted in the air. “What’s the catch?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Oh, there’s a fee involved,” he said soothingly. “You can put it on your credit card, pay later. I wouldn’t worry about it at all right now.”<
br />
  “You seriously take VISA?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How much?”

  “Well, it’s not actually in cash.”

  “What’s your currency, then?”

  “I get your soul.”

  “Oh my god. You’re not—you must be—wait a minute, a genie is not the same thing as the Devil.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “The genie in Aladdin was nice. The genie in I Dream of Jeannie was nice.”

  “I’m nice,” he said, looking hurt. “By the way, that was well spotted, for an atheist. And as an atheist, since you don’t feel that souls exist, you may as well consider this to be free of charge.”

  “Who told you I’m an atheist?”

  “I’ve checked on you. And I’ve had conversations with a member of your church. You haven’t set foot there except at Christmas for two years.”

  “You’ve been talking to my mother,” I accused him. “Leave it to her to get me in trouble with Satan. I’ll tell you what I tell her. I need my Sundays to catch up on sleep.”

  “You’re a lapsed Lutheran.”

  “No, I’m an agnostic Lutheran deist.”

  “Same difference.”

  “Besides, according to Lutheran beliefs, once you’re saved, you’re saved. No one can take my salvation away from me.”

  “Well, there you have it,” the nondescript man said cheerfully. “To you, it’s like getting your night of passion free of charge.”

  I thought of the sleepless night ahead. A vision of Doug and me, beguiling the earliest morning hours, rose before me, and I plead temporary insanity for what happened next.

  “Deal.”

  The man whipped out a contract. The ink seemed barely dry, and something about the document seemed to be irritating my eyes. I blinked and could make out these words: “A night of passion with Douglas Robert Morris for Danielle Joy Webster, to be delivered by Prince of Darkness Enterprises, in exchange for the soul of Ms. Webster, payment date to be determined later.” That was the large print. There were a couple paragraphs of really small print, but my eyes were watering so badly I couldn’t read much of it.