The fifteenth of March was Kathie’s favorite day. She was the reincarnation of the Roman Senator, Marcus Trebonius. The Senator had despised the megalomaniac, Gaius Julius Caesar, who was on the verge of overthrowing the Roman Republic and establishing himself as the first Emperor. Trebonius, out of love for all things truly Roman, led a band of ten Senators to intercept Caesar on the Forum steps. He blocked Caesar’s path, looked down into his eyes, and was the first to stoop to stab the little bastard, who stood barely over four feet. It was amazing how his stature—and height—had increased since his death. Through all thirty-two subsequent reincarnations, Trebonius could vividly recall the contorted mixture of astonishment and pain on Caesar’s face.
To celebrate the anniversary, Kathie began the ides of March with a rich cup of hazelnut coffee, an omelet seasoned with herbs from her garden, and a generous slice of blood sausage. She thought about how the choice of weapons had kept abreast of technology, with occasional hangings and burnings as if for seasoning. At times, Kathie’s soul tired of the killings. Except for the first assassination at the Forum, she had only killed in self-defense. She wished she could lay aside the feud, but it takes two to call a truce, and the spirit of Julius would not release her.
After washing, drying, and putting away the dishes, she moseyed to the front windows to open the drapes, lost in reveries of the mayhem that followed the bully’s murder. Rome had responded quickly and violently. Rabblerousers used the incident to justify a crude but successful grab for power. The assassins had saved the Republic only to see it destroyed by new tyrants. By quick assessment followed by quicker action, the Senator escaped execution. He relocated, ironically, to an estate overlooking the Rhine in Gaul.
Kathie threw open the drapes and immediately regretted her hastiness. There, on the opposite side of the street, standing in the clear light of the Texas morning, her neighbor held an empty cup and gazed toward the sky beyond Kathie’s house. Loraine wore a crimson, oversized, lopsided housecoat. It stretched, on the right side, almost to her bunny slippers, but on the left, it reached only halfway down her shin. Her long auburn hair formed a beehive on top of her head.
Kathie had from the beginning found Loraine unaccountably annoying. They had lived on opposite sides of Oak Street for a year before they moved beyond a polite wave and spoke to one another three months ago. Kathie still resented the obligation to be neighborly. Every time Loraine shared a personal detail about her furniture, her fascination with soap operas, her marital ups and downs, Kathie felt the irritation ratchet closer to hatred. She sensed something familiar but disturbing skulking behind Loraine’s façade.
Loraine bustled across the street while waving a friendly hand. She looked like she was wiping condensation from a mirror. She almost trampled Kathie’s freshly planted petunias and pansies that lined the sidewalk. Kathie gasped as the hem of the housecoat brushed the flowers.
Trying to look cheerful, Kathie answered the knock. At five-foot ten, she was taller than Loraine by thirteen inches. She smiled half-heartedly down at Loraine’s beehive.
“Good morning.”
“So glad to see you’re stirring already,” said Loraine. “What a lovely robe. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before. Of course not, silly me; you’re always so stylish and fastidious, even tending your tulips.”
Kathie had never planted tulips but let the comment pass uncontested.
“I should have known,” Loraine went on, “it would be a floral design. Not that I’ve spent much time, any time really, thinking about you in your robe. Oh, listen to me now just yabbering all over tarnation and Texas. What has gotten into me?”
Kathie gathered her robe’s lapels at her collarbone with her right hand.
“How can I help you this morning, Mrs. Fried?”
“Loraine. Call me Loraine, please; after all, we’re neighbors. I seem to have rattled you with my rambling. My apologies, my sincerest apologies, from the depths.” She held up her cup. “I just came over to borrow a cup of sugar.”
Kathie took the cup. “I think I can spare some.”
Halfway to the kitchen, Kathie realized Loraine was following her. Kathie’s back stiffened, and her shoulders drew back.
“Is that hazelnut coffee I smell? A cup would sure be swell. I’m fresh out, and a morning just doesn’t seem started until I’ve drained a couple cups.”
Kathie let escape a tiny sigh. “I don’t usually make extra.”
Loraine said, “I’d be much obliged.”
“I’ll make you a cup.”
“You’re such a dear.”
Loraine sat. She said, “What a delightful tablecloth. I’d’ve figured you’d go for tulips, but these look like—I don’t know what.”
“They’re exotic herbs.” Kathie pointed at a plant with purple flowers. “Careful. This one is poisonous.”
“What a bizarre choice for a tablecloth.”
“Monkshood is prettier than oleander.”
“I’ll just keep to this side of the table.”
Kathie refilled the tea kettle and placed it on the stove.
“A teapot,” Loraine said. “I never would’ve guessed you’d be one for instant.”
Kathie asked, “Strong or weak?”
“Medium.”
Kathie added a heaping tablespoon of coffee grounds.
“Black?”
“A spoonful of sugar.”
Kathie was relieved Loraine had not sung. While the water heated, she fetched a bag of sugar from the pantry, filled the cup Loraine had brought, estimated a teaspoonful into a coffee cup, and returned the bag to the pantry.
Loraine said cheerfully, “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen such a device before. How ever does it work?”
“I’ll show you when the water’s ready.”
Kathie tried to sound pleasant and engaged, but her voice was edgy.
The kettle whistled. Kathie, forgetting her promise to demonstrate how to use the funnel, kept her back to Loraine as she poured the hot water over the grounds. She delivered the cup to Loraine.
“The sugar? Can I get a spoon?”
“I already added it for you.”
“I guess I’ll see how that device works with my next cup. Maybe I can do it myself.”
Kathie’s mouth opened in surprise.
Loraine quickly added, “With your supervision, of course. Is it easily broken?”
Kathie’s perfectly lovely morning was being killed by her own kindness. “I’ll be happy to show you. It’s not hard—”
“So easy even I could learn it?” Loraine giggled.
Kathie faked a giggle. “That remains to be seen.”
Loraine guffawed. Kathie jumped a little and her cheeks reddened.
Wishing to remind Loraine that she had a home to go to, Kathie asked, “How’s Mr. Fried this morning? Has he gone to work already?”
“To tell the truth, he’s off on a gallivant. He calls it a fishing trip, but we all know what that really means.”
“That he’s at a lake somewhere?” Kathie sat opposite Loraine and placed her elbow on the image of monkshood.
“A river. He says he’s fly fishing, but he’s never brought home a fly.” Loraine emitted a high-pitched laugh; her mouth contorted into a snarl. “He’s learned to disappear when the ides of March come around.”
Kathie left the table abruptly. “I’ll—I’ll get the water started for that second cup.”
While the water heated, Kathie emptied and rinsed the coffee funnel and replaced the filter.
“I’ll have to get some more grounds from the pantry,” she said.
She took the coffee canister with her. When she returned, she scooped the grounds into the funnel. She tried to appear collected. She watched her hands remain steady, if somewhat stiff in their movements. She returned to the table and reached for Loraine’s cup but stopped before picking it up.
“You wanted to pour your own.”
Kathie retrieved the funnel from the counter, and, as she placed it on Loraine’s cup, she said, trying to sound nonchalant, “Why do the ides make Mr. Fried want to get away?”
“Oh, you see, in fact, you’ve probably guessed by now, I’m psychic. My talent is channeling a wise but playful spirit.”
“From the Pleiades?”
Loraine laughed. “At the psychic fairs, it seems all the entities come from either there or Atlantis. But no. My spirit spent a couple lives there way back when, but he’s never been fond of the place. They’re all advice and no action.”
The kettle whistled. Kathie brought it to Loraine and said, “Just pour in slow circles.”
Loraine said, “Why, it’s as easy as eating pee-can pie at a picnic.”
Once the kettle was safely back on the stove, Kathie asked, “Does your entity—”
“Spirit. He thinks ‘entity’ sounds like some omen-monger from Atlantis. Some quack who wasn’t good enough to foresee his own island was about to sink.”
“Your spirit, then. Does he have a name you can share?”
Loraine smiled placidly. “Julius Ceasar.”
“Gaius Julius Caesar? From Rome?”
“The very one.”
Kathie hesitated before saying, “You’d think it would be difficult to understand him—impossible even. He didn’t speak English.”
“No one did back then. But Julius has kept up with the times. He’s always been a clever lad. He tells me he knows fourteen languages.”
“You believe him?” Kathie asked.
“I can’t swear to it since I know only two: English and Muddled. But I really don’t believe he’d lie to me.”
“Well,” Kathie said, “that’s certainly different from when I—.” Regretting the words as soon as she said them, she tightened her throat. “I mean, of course, from what I’ve read in history books. I like learning about the Roman Republic. What a glorious time it was. Right up until—.” Again, she had said too much.
Loraine smiled, leaned her head and shoulders slightly forward, and winked. “Thought you might be Cassius Longinus.”
Kathie stood silent.
“Or maybe Marcus Trebonius.”
Kathie turned away, grabbed the kettle from the stove, and went to the sink to refill it.
“He was right again, I see,” said Loraine. “You ran off to Transalpine Gaul, deserted your partners and left them to die. Tsk. Tsk. Julius never abandoned his—”
“It’s just a figure of speech. I know him from history books, the same as everyone else. And just so you know my opinion, history paints him way more important than he ever was.”
Loraine’s jaw dropped open. “Conquering Gaul? Was that inconsequential? It gave you a safe place to cower.”
Kathie felt like spitting. “Trying to overthrow the Republic? Did he think no one would object?” She clenched her fists at having said too much again.
Loraine said, “Hah. Trivialities.”
“I see he thought he’d get away with treason,” Kathie said.
“I see you thought you got away with murder.”
Kathie laughed lightly and briefly. In a sing-song voice she said, “So silly we’ve become. Shall I make another couple cups of coffee for us? I’m dying of thirst for some reason.” She crossed to the stove, put the tea kettle on the burner, and started the fire.
“None for me, thanks. A third cup makes me jittery and rash. Besides, I haven’t finished my second.”
Kathie turned off the fire under the kettle then immediately turned it back on. With her back to Loraine, she sidestepped to the utensil drawer and eased it open.
“Ah. Well. Then perhaps I’ll have some tea.”
Her hand found the butcher knife.
“The problem with kitchen knives,” said Loraine, “is that they aren’t really weapons. In spite of what you may have read in mystery novels, they can be as dangerous to the assailant as they are to the victim.”
Kathie gripped the butcher knife and raised it to her shoulder. “That’s not entirely true” she whirled to face Loraine “if you know how to use it.”
Loraine, in her left hand, held her coffee cup, and, in her right, her revolver. “And I know how to use this.” She smiled demurely at Kathie.
Kathie lowered the butcher knife. “Look, let’s be honest for once. You’re not really channeling Julius; you’re his reincarnation. How many times are we going to go through this charade?”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“Obfuscator. Befogger. Strategist, if you prefer.”
“It was his best life ever. He was going to rule the world. You stole it all.”
“I don’t blame him for being upset. It must have been painful to be knifed to death and embarrassing as all hell to be left on the stairs like a sack of garbage for the slaves to cart away.”
Loraine’s face reddened, and Kathie quickly shifted to a more placating tone.
“But, really now,” Kathie said, “after all, we’ve been going back and forth on this for a long time. We—I mean, Julius and me—we’ve killed each other, what, 20 times or so. Isn’t that enough?”
“The exact score is (and you know it perfectly well so don’t play dumb with me) twenty-one to twenty. You’re still ahead.” Loraine drank half the coffee in one gulp. “That’s enough small talk. Thanks for the hospitality. The coffee was to die for.”
She gulped the last of the coffee and threw the cup on the floor at Kathie’s feet. It bounced but did not break.
Kathie said, “You’ve been failing ever since we killed you, and you have yet to take responsibility for it!”
“Two thousand years of feuding,” Loraine said, “and you think I should let it go, just like that. Snap, and the air is clear. All is forgiven.”
Kathie pointed the knife at Loraine. “It would’ve been clear if you hadn’t kept trying to push someone else to kill me. Learn to accept responsibility.”
“This time,” Loraine said, “I’m doing the deed myself and taking the consequences like the Patrician I am.”
She shot Kathie in the right shoulder. Kathie twisted, dropped the knife, and bent to pick it up with her left hand, but Loraine fired another shot into her thigh. Kathie felt her leg give way. She collapsed to the floor with her back against the oven door.
Loraine stood up, walked almost casually to the knife, and kicked it across the kitchen floor out of Kathie’s reach. She sneered down at Kathie.
Loraine said, slurring her words, “Shall we shay dish makesh ush efen?” Loraine touched her throat and furrowed her brow. Her eyes seemed puzzled.
She trained the revolver on the center of Kathie’s chest. Her hand was trembling.
Kathie laughed quietly. “Not yet. Your coffee was poisoned.”
Loraine added one to her score.