Roon & Raud and the Case of the Deadly Derby

Roon & Raud and the Case of the Deadly Derby– Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

A golden beam of September sunlight muscled its way through the bedroom window like an unwelcome guest, spilling across the hardwood floor and climbing the rumpled sheets where Raud lay sprawled alone. It was the kind of light that demanded attention, bright and obnoxious and entirely too cheerful for someone nursing the particular ache of an empty bed.

Raud grumbled into consciousness, her nose twitching with annoyance before her eyes even opened. When they did, she immediately squeezed them shut again and rolled sideways, seeking the warm indent where Roon should have been. Her arm flopped onto cold sheets instead.

“Damn it, Roon,” she muttered, face-first into the pillow that still carried traces of lavender shampoo—the same brand Roon had been using since they’d met at that protest back in ‘68. They’d bonded over tear gas and shared causes, and now, forty-something years later, the bed felt like an ocean without her in it.

Raud let out a grunt that could have stripped paint. After decades of waking up tangled together like a human pretzel, this solo morning business felt wrong. Off-kilter. Like trying to walk with one shoe.

She lay there for a moment, willing Roon to materialize through sheer stubbornness. But the room stayed quiet except for some overachieving birds outside who clearly hadn’t gotten the memo about respecting people’s moods. With a heavy sigh that came from somewhere around her toes, Raud admitted defeat.

“Fine,” she announced to no one, pushing herself up with joints that popped like bubble wrap. She sat on the edge of the bed, feet dangling, and rubbed her eyes hard enough to see stars. The sunlight continued its assault, painting everything golden and warm in a way that seemed specifically designed to mock her foul mood.

Raud hauled herself vertically with all the grace of a three-legged giraffe, bare feet smacking against the cold floor. She shuffled toward the bathroom, mind still foggy with sleep and that particular brand of grumpiness that came from missing your person.

The bathroom was small but functional—a clawfoot tub that had seen better decades, a pedestal sink with more chips than a casino. She’d always meant to fix the place up, but between protests and meetings and life, who had time? The walls were plastered with photos from various rallies and demonstrations, each one a snapshot of their shared history. Every corner whispered memories.

She cranked on the shower, waiting for the ancient pipes to remember their job. The water sputtered to life, and she stepped under the spray, letting it pound some sense into her tired muscles. Her hand brushed against Roon’s coconut shea butter on the shelf—still there, still waiting—and her heart did that stupid clenching thing it had no business doing after all these years unless it meant to kill her.

She finished quickly, not wanting to marinate in memories. Out of the tub, wrapped in a towel that had been washed to transparency, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Short gray hair sticking up like she’d been electrocuted, face mapped with lines from laughter and worry and time.

Back in the bedroom, she yanked on jeans and a flannel shirt worn soft as butter. As she reached for socks, she could practically hear Roon’s voice: “Raud, honey, you forgot your underwear again. We can’t have you chafing now, can we?” That tone—equal parts exasperation and affection—that made even scolding sound like love.

Raud smiled despite herself, then peeled off the jeans to add boxer briefs to the ensemble. Roon would’ve been proud. Well, mildly less disappointed, anyway.

She headed out with her signature foot-slapping gait, entering the living room where Tristan lay draped across the couch like a discarded marionette. The kid—though not really a kid anymore—had shown up on their doorstep less than a month ago, after his parents kicked him out for having the audacity to be himself. The women had found him on the St. Johns Bridge, contemplating a permanent solution to temporary problems. Ice cream and conversation had talked him down, and when things went south with his family, he’d tracked down Roon online and called at 2 AM, desperate.

Now he was theirs, sort of. Like a stray cat that wouldn’t leave.

Raud loomed over him, hands on hips. “Rise and shine, Rip Van Winkle. Time to face the day.”

Tristan stirred, blinking up at her with confusion. “What time is it?”

Raud grinned wickedly. “Oh, I let you sleep in today. It’s already 10 AM.”

The kid bolted upright like he’d been electrocuted. “What? 10 AM? Oh my god, I can’t believe I slept that late! Thank you so much, Raud, I really needed—”

“Just kidding, kid!” Raud barked out a laugh. “It’s 6:15. We’re heading to town at 7:30, so move your ass.”

Tristan groaned and flopped back dramatically. “Ugh, Raud, you’re the worst. I thought I actually got to sleep in for once.”

“Sorry, brat.” She ruffled his hair with rough affection. “No rest for the wicked, as they say.”

She turned to the aquarium dominating one wall, where Erline the betta fish drifted lazily, fins spread like underwater silk. “And speaking of wicked,” she said, voice dripping with mock disdain, “good morning to you too, you little bastard.”

She did a little shimmy in front of the tank, hips swaying to music only she could hear. “I see you’re still alive and kicking, huh? Guess we’ll have to put up with your ugly mug for another day. With any luck, you’ll croak tonight, and we can get someone prettier.”

She sprinkled food into the tank, watching Erline dart up to snatch it. Despite her words, her eyes crinkled with genuine fondness. The fish was family, even if she’d never admit it out loud.

“Alright, kid,” she said, turning back to Tristan. “Here’s the plan. We’re bringing breakfast to Roon, but first, I need coffee. Can’t function without it.”

Tristan nodded knowingly. Raud’s relationship with caffeine was legendary.

In the kitchen, her prized espresso machine gleamed on the counter like a chrome altar. She’d saved for months to buy the thing, and it was worth every penny. She set to work with precision, grinding beans and tamping grounds like a barista with a PhD.

As coffee aroma filled the air, Tristan wandered in, stomach growling audibly. “Hey, Raud? Are we eating first and then bringing Roon food?”

“Nah.” She kept her eyes on the machine as hot water met grounds in caffeinated matrimony. “We can eat together at a park. Made overnight oatmeal last night—it’s in the fridge.”

Tristan’s face lit up. Raud’s oatmeal was legendary, especially compared to that Christmas disaster when his sister thought eggnog would make a festive substitute for water. He opened the fridge eagerly, spotting the container of creamy oats studded with raisins and nuts.

“Put that back, dumbass. We aren’t ready yet.”

Raud finished her iced Americano, the coffee hissing over ice like a tiny waterfall. She took a long pull, eyes closing in bliss. “Ah, that’s the stuff.”

She turned to find Tristan already spooning oatmeal into bowls. “Jesus H. Christ! Did you not hear what I just said? You think we can take that in open bowls?”

“Oh, uh, sorry I thought—”

“You’re getting more and more like a boy every day.” She winked. “That’s not a compliment. If you start smelling like one, we’re sending you to the basement.”

Tristan smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You might have figured out I’m not good at them. Compliments, not basements.” She snorted. “You know I tolerate you, don’t you?”

“I know you love me,” Tristan said, sticking his head in the fridge just in time to muffle his words. He grabbed orange juice and joined her at the table.

They sat in comfortable silence, sipping their drinks. Eventually, Tristan cleared his throat. “Hey, Raud? How come you didn’t go with Roon to the LCCC AIDS Die-In last night?”

Raud’s grip tightened on her mug. She took a breath that seemed to come from somewhere deep. “Tristan, Roon and I… we’ve lost so many people to AIDS. Still happening, you know? Guys who’ve had it for decades are finally dying. Late last year, we lost Lindon.”

Tristan nodded, seeing pain etched in every line of her face.

Raud stood abruptly, chair scraping. “Come on, squirt. Better get going if we want to catch Roon before she gets mad enough to call.” Tristan stood close, trying to tower over her. It was comical.

At the sink, washing her cup, Raud glanced back. “You know, we’ve lost a lot of people over the years. Not just friends. Roon lost two cousins, Essex and Bonnie, to AIDS.”

Tristan looked up, surprised. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“Roon raises money at the Die-In every year, especially for them.” She set the cup in the rack. “It’s how she honors their memory.”

She turned, expression serious. “Listen, sweetie, I know you’re at that age where you’re probably starting to experiment with sex and all that. But you better be practicing safe sex, you hear me?”

Tristan flushed but nodded, unable to meet her eyes.

She walked over, placed a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder. “We don’t want to have to bury you too.” Her voice cracked slightly.

Tristan swallowed hard, fighting tears. He knew her words came from love, but they still stung.

She squeezed his shoulder once more before heading toward the garage. At the door, she looked back. “Come on, kid. Let’s go see Roon.”

They gathered their things and headed out into the cool morning. In the car, Raud honked and flipped off Nicole Biquor-Buht, their pain-in-the-ass neighbor who lived to make trouble. Tristan stuck out his tongue as they passed—slightly more reserved, but equally pointed.

As she drove, Raud’s mind wandered to those dark days. She started listing names, voice loud in the small space. “We lost, geez, so many people to HIV and AIDS. Like there was, let me think, Lindon Barrett, Christopher Paul, Curtis Lawrence, Otis Graham, John Faucette.” She held up fingers, counting. “Stephen Carter, Robert Allen, Jerome Dickey, Corey Hodges, Essex Hemphill, Joyce Hansen, Henry Hampton, Bonnie Greer, Marita Golden, Sharon Flake.”

Tristan listened silently, heart growing heavier with each name. “I don’t know anyone who died. Of anything.”

“Grandparents?” Raud asked hopefully.

“Nope, both sets still alive.”

“Well, maybe Roon will be the first.”

“Raud!”

“What? You want me to die first? Brat.” She swatted at him playfully.

“No, I meant—”

“I know what you meant. Tristan, it’s a joke.” She honked at a slower driver. “I’d have thought by now you’d have learned my humor.”

“Oh, I know your humor.” He stared at his lap. “I just don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it. It’s okay to call me out on anything you don’t like, and I’ll do the same. Just like this. No anger, no yelling, no disrespect. Right?”

Tristan nodded and played with his hoodie hem, the morning sun painting everything golden through the windshield as they drove toward Roon.

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